CHAPTER XXVI
Money will accomplish miracles anywhere, especially in the underworld, and within twenty minutes from the time of Rosie Guarino's departure from Tony's private office, Jane Conley's hired spy had telephoned the information to her. He hadn't been able to give her full details of what had transpired but he could testify that Tony had offered this girl money—which she had refused.
Knowing Tony, Jane felt able to fill in the gaps herself. And it all left her gasping with fury. The fact that she was entirely mistaken in her conclusions made her rage none the less violent. She'd show him that he couldn't two-time her and get away with it.
She was fed up with Tony, anyway. Of late, she had felt an almost irresistible longing for the reckless doings and excitement of her former activities as a gun girl. But Tony wouldn't permit it. As long as she was his moll, she had to stay at home and behave herself. And home life, even in the luxurious abode he provided, had become wearisome.
She had been friendly with only one man. She had always had the retinue of admiring males that surround every beautiful woman, and she missed them now. She felt that she had become entirely submerged to Tony, just another of his many expensive possessions. His supposed philandering was merely the match that set off the powder.
For more than two hours she brooded over it all, then she made up her mind. First she telephoned Captain Ben Guarino, and had a pleasant chat with him. It seemed reasonable to suppose that having the chief of detectives for a boy friend would be a valuable asset to a girl like her. And then she telephoned Tony at his office.
"I've been very busy to-night," he said defensively the moment he heard her voice.
"I'm sure you have," she assented, and he missed the edge in her tone.
"And say, baby, Moran had an accident."
"Really? Were you there?"
"Yeah. Just got back."
"That's splendid. Listen, Tony, I got a real piece of dope for you. That New York outfit have called a big meeting at Jake's place for midnight to-night. Those big shots from the East are figuring on organizing all the local guys that don't like you—it'll save them the trouble of bringing out a lot of their own muggs from New York."
"Jeez! Baby, where'd you hear that?"
"Never mind! You don't doubt it, do you? Didn't they try to bump you off—"
"Yeah, sure," asserted Tony eagerly. "And they're all goin' to be at Jake's Place to-night?"
"Yes. The New York crowd will be in dark blue Cadillacs—three or four carloads of 'em—and they'll prob'ly have the side curtains up. It's only about eleven-thirty now," she continued smoothly. "If you hurry, you might be able to meet 'em on the way out."
"Much obliged, baby. I'll sure do it."
Jane hung up slowly, a grim smile playing about her rather hard lips. If things went right, there'd be a nice story in the morning papers. If it didn't, she'd probably wake up with a lily in her hand. Well, what the hell—a girl only lived once and she might as well get all the kick she could out of life.
Tony's headquarters was humming with activity. Quickly he assembled four carloads of gunmen, gave them strict orders, then climbed in with the group in his personal sedan and the calvacade raced away.
Jake's Place was a large saloon and gambling establishment catering largely to underworld customers. It was frowsy, sordid and dangerous. Located in a remote, still undeveloped neighborhood almost at the city limits, it was an ideal setting for gangland deviltry. And it had been the scene of plenty.
Tony halted his crew a block away while he took stock of the situation. There were a number of cars parked around the large, frame building but nothing unusual. And he could see no dark blue Cadillacs, either with or without drawn side curtains. Perhaps the boys hadn't arrived yet; midnight was still ten minutes away.
Ah! There they were, a line of cars approaching along the other road that led from the city. In the darkness they looked black but they might be dark blue and they were Cadillacs, all right. There could be no doubt of that. On they came, close together, four of them.
Tony felt his heart leap and his grasp on the machine-gun resting in his lap tightened. This would be the biggest coup of his whole career, proving to the world at large that his domain was his, and his alone, not to be invaded by others, no matter how strong they might be in their own regions.
He snapped out orders in a low, tense tone and sent a man to relay them to the other cars. Four on each side. One each! His plan was simple and direct. His column would move forward, swing into the road beside the other, then rake the enemy with a terrific fire, annihilating them before they could recover from their surprise at the sudden attack. Each of his cars was to confine its murderous attention to one of the others, the one nearest.
Rapidly his column moved forward and swung into the other road. Tony lifted his machine gun and squeezed the trigger. The vicious rat-tat-tat deafened him but he could hear the same stuttering sound coming from his other cars. Then from the cars of the supposed enemy, clear and sharp above the firing, came the Clang! Clang! Clang! of gongs.
"Jeez!" groaned Tony. "It's cops!"
Instead of gangsters, those four cars contained squads of detectives from the bureau. What a horrible mistake! Not that he hated shooting cops, but because of the consequences that were bound to fall upon himself and his men. Unless—
Pandemonium reigned. Every one of the eight cars was flaming with gun-fire. The banging roar was terrific. Tony tried to keep his head in the bedlam. His forces were in a panic; killing officers was far different than killing enemy gansters. But there was no backing out now. It was a fight to the death.
His chauffeur, too busy to fight and mindful of his own safety as well as his employer's, tried to run for it. The big car leaped ahead, slewed around the first gang car and shot ahead. But one of the squad cars leaped after, like a spurred horse.
For more than a mile the chase lasted. The cars swayed, swerved, bounced. Spurts of fire leaped from gun muzzles in both cars. Two of Tony's men were unconscious from wounds and another, blood-covered, was raving incoherently, trying to climb out of the racing machine. Tony finally lifted a clenched fist and knocked him cold. He himself miraculously had not been hit. Nor had the chauffeur, apparently. But that squad car was hanging doggedly to their trail. Gaining a little, too.
Beside himself with fury, Tony smashed out the back window and cut loose with his machine gun, the acrid smoke filling his nose and mouth and making his eyes smart until he could hardly see. The jolting and high speed made an accurate aim impossible but he knew that some of his shots landed. And nothing happened. They must have a bullet-proof windshield. Well, their tires weren't bullet-proof. He depressed the hot, blazing muzzle of the machine-gun, aiming for the tires.
One of them blew out with a bang that sounded above the firing. The heavy car slewed around and toppled over into the ditch. Tony gave a hoarse, savage grunt of triumph. But it was short-lived. For at that moment his own car turned over. The chauffeur had misjudged a turn.
Tony was still conscious when the big car plowed to a stop, resting on its side. But there was no sound from the chauffeur. Tony vindictively hoped the fool was dead.
His head whirling, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps that did not suffice, Tony untangled himself from among the heap of dead and wounded.
Abruptly he stepped back behind the shelter of the car and rested the machine-gun muzzle on a fender. Two men had climbed out of the squad car and were walking cautiously toward him, revolvers glinting in their right hands. His teeth gritted, Tony squeezed the trigger. But nothing happened; ’twas empty. He drew his automatic, so long his main bodyguard.
Taking careful aim, he fired. One of the men dropped. The other, warned by the shot, threw up his head and lifted his revolver. But Tony only stared; fascinated, while his nervous fingers refused to obey the command that his numbed mind was trying to send. For the man was his brother. Captain Ben Guarino, the new chief of detectives.
Tony saw the revolver flash, then his head snapped back from the impact of the bullet. Anyway, he had always faced it.
Two hours later, Captain Guarino sat in his office at the detective bureau receiving the admiring congratulations of his colleagues and telling them the details of the furious battle which had accomplished the finish of the notorious Tony Camonte.
"Tony's old moll gimme the tip," he said complacently. "S'pose they'd had a fuss and she wanted to get back at him. She ain't a bad-lookin' dame, either; I met her at Tony's trial. Bet she got a wad of dough and jewelry outa him, too. Anyhow, she gimme a buzz 'bout 'leven-thirty to-night and said Tony and his mob was goin' to pull off a big killin' out at Jake's Place at midnight. And that was my chance to get him with the goods.
"I could see that myself so I got some of the boys and went out. But you know, I can't see what made Tony and his mob start after us the minute they seen us—But God! wasn't it lucky his gun jammed? He was a dead shot, that guy; for a minute I thought sure I was goin' to wake up with a wreath on my chest. But you never can tell about an automatic."
But even an automatic can't jam when the trigger hasn't been pulled.
The end