TWO MEN sat facing each other in a luxurious penthouse atop one of the Boulevard’s newer apartment houses. One was pale and nervous. His face twitched as he puffed his cigar with great rapidity. His companion was a sharp contrast. Short, chubby-faced, and calm, he bore the air of a man who seldom became perturbed.
The roar of Chicago’s night traffic seemed far away, yet it disturbed the nervous man. He threw his cigar in an ash stand, and walked to the window. He drew the curtains aside with caution and stared toward the twinkling lights of the Loop. Then he turned to face his companion.
“I’m through with it, Fellows,” he said, “I’m through. I want to get out — if I can. But there’s no getting out of this — “
He swept his hand toward the window, to indicate the city below. His eyes were pleading as he stared at the quiet-faced man in the chair.
Fellows was thoughtful for a few moments; then he spoke with deliberation.
“How soon do you expect trouble, Prescott?” he asked.
“Soon,” was the reply. “Very soon!”
“Tonight?”
“No. I think I can count on a few days of grace. But after that — “
Prescott began to pound one palm with the fist of his other hand. His haggard face showed signs of long, uninterrupted strain. He was nearing the breaking point. With an effort, he regained control of himself and sat down on the edge of a chair.
“Fellows,” he said, “I’ve talked too much. I did it to cover up. I thought that if I acted wise, as though I’d been checking up on gang stuff as a hobby, no one would ever suspect that Horace Prescott was in the racket, himself.
“It worked all right until I became foolish. It was when I began to play with rival gangs that they figured I was giving them the double cross.
“Now I’m slated to be put on the spot. On the spot, Fellows! You know what that means!”
The other man interrupted.
“Outside of Chicago — ” he began.
“It’s all the same,” replied Prescott. “They’ll follow me anywhere. They’ll get me!”
“Outside of Chicago,” repeated Fellows insistently, “you will be safe. I promised you that you would be protected, once you were clear of this city.
“You have done your part. You have given me the information I needed. You have had contact with both Pete Varona and Mike Larrigan.”
“Yes,” agreed Prescott, “I know how those gangs work. I’ve seen too much of them” — there was bitterness in his voice — “and when I said that the big shot, Nick Savoli, can be reached through Pete Varona, I meant it. Pete’s in with the big shot, all right.”
“You are right when you say that you talked too much,” resumed Fellows quietly. “At the same time, your future safety lies in that very fact.
“I represent a man, Prescott, who is more powerful than any of these gangsters!”
“Not in Chicago,” objected Prescott.
“Not in Chicago,” agreed Fellows. “Not here, at present. But later” — his voice was prophetic — “the situation may be different.”
HORACE PRESCOTT seemed somewhat reassured by the quiet manner of his visitor. He looked at Fellows inquiringly, hoping that the man would tell him more.
“The man I mentioned,” said Fellows, “has been planning a most astonishing campaign. Even I, his agent, do not know its details.
“I know only that it concerns the present situation here in Chicago; that gangdom is about to learn the power of this man. I came here as a confidential investigator. I learned of you through Clyde Johnston.”
“He knows a lot about me,” observed Prescott. “Johnston is a good friend of mine.
“I’ve told you my racket — selling booze to society and to exclusive clubs. The cops never bothered me. I was a society man, with a good income that came from an inheritance. That’s partly correct. Only, I’ve been making lots more by running bootleg liquor than I have from clipping coupons.”
“My instructions,” Fellows spoke again, “were to make contact with a man of your type.
“I am an insurance broker by profession. My clients are men of means. It was easy for me to learn who was active in selling liquor to wealthy customers. In talking with Johnston, I discovered that you had admitted to him that you were in difficulties.”
Prescott nodded.
“Johnston doesn’t buy liquor,” he said. “He gave me plenty of advice when he found out that I was in the racket. Old friend, you know. Thinking of my welfare. Told me to get out of the dirty game. I told him that I couldn’t.”
“Yes,” said Fellows, “he was very apprehensive about you. He told me all he knew about you when I suggested that I might find some way of helping you. He called you on the telephone when I was in his office. Hence our interview tonight.”
“I’ve played square, haven’t I?” asked Prescott pleadingly. “I told you everything, didn’t I? If you want me to write down all the details — “
“There’s no need for it,” said Fellows dryly. “I have an excellent memory. I shall make out my report later.
“The real task now is to get you clear of Chicago. In New York, you will be safe.”
“In New York!” exclaimed Prescott, in sudden alarm. “Why, there’s gangsters there who work hand in glove with these Chicago mobs — “
“That is true,” interposed Fellows, “but the man whose instructions I follow is also in New York. He will see that you are free from harm.
“You are willing to quit the racket. You have told all you know. In return, you will be sent to safety.”
The chubby-faced man drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Horace Prescott.
“This envelope contains a ticket to New York,” he said, “with reservations on the eleven-thirty train, Michigan Central. You leave tonight.
“In New York, register, under my name — Claude H. Fellows — at the Metrolite Hotel. You will receive immediate instructions from my patron.”
“Are you going with me?”
“No. I have a ticket for Omaha, Nebraska. I have certain business there.
“Remember, Prescott, that I am an insurance broker. I travel considerably. I brought my bag with me tonight. You will accompany me as though you were simply going to the station. But our routes will be in opposite directions.
“Those who follow me will be on a false trail. Yet after you have dropped off at the Michigan Central station, there will be no clew other than myself.”
A look of satisfaction appeared upon Horace Prescott’s face. He had trusted this man because he was in an uncomfortable situation. He believed everything that Fellows had told him.
Now he felt assured that tonight would be his opportunity to elude the threats that hung above him.
PRESCOTT pushed a button on the wall. A Japanese servant entered. Prescott was about to speak to him when a sound came from the street. It was the loud back-fire of a motor.
Prescott leaped to his feet and was halfway across the room before he could restrain himself. He regained his composure with effort. Traces of alarm still remained upon his face. He had mistaken the noise for a revolver shot.
“Togo,” he said to the servant, “Mr. Fellows is leaving in ten minutes I shall drive to the station with him. Tell Louie to have the car ready immediately.”
The servant left to telephone the garage. Prescott looked at his watch. He lighted a panatella and puffed nervously, then threw the cigar away.
“I’m trusting you, Fellows,” he blurted suddenly. “I know your proposition is on the level. If these rats wanted to put me out of the way, they wouldn’t use any complicated plan to do it.
“I thought, for a few minutes, that your proposition was phony; but that would be ridiculous. I’m out of the racket now. I’m going to play straight. I don’t know who your boss is; but you have plenty of confidence in him. I’m glad I was on the level with you.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Louie ought to be here by now,” he said. “You go downstairs first, with your bag. Get in the car. If you see any one prowling around, come back as though you forgot something.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come along in a few minutes. Leave the door of the car half open.”
Fellows nodded. He picked up his bag and left the penthouse. When he reached the street, the insurance broker saw Prescott’s limousine standing in front of the building. The chauffeur was in the front seat.
Prescott had sent the car to bring Fellows to his home; hence the observant insurance broker recognized the car immediately.
Fellows opened the back door and entered. He closed the door and peered through the window, up and down the street. He saw no one. Then, to his surprise, the car began to move.
It started suddenly and Fellows lurched back into the seat. His outstretched hand struck a human form. There, beside him, was a man, trussed with rope and gagged.
THE car stopped around the corner, just as Fellows turned on the light in the rear. So intent was the insurance broker that he did not realize the car was no longer in motion.
For the light had revealed the features of the bound man, and Fellows looked upon Louie, Prescott’s chauffeur!
“What’s the big idea?”
The voice came from the front seat. Fellows looked into the face of the man who had taken the chauffeur’s place. The speaker had the ugly countenance of a professional thug.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded, still glaring angrily at Fellows.
Before the insurance broker could reply, he was startled by a volley of revolver shots.
The sound came from around the corner, back at the entrance where the car had been standing.
“Come on!” ordered the driver. “Scram out of this car before — “
Fellows needed no urging. He knew instinctively that murder was under way. He leaped to the street and dashed back around the corner.
A car was pulling away from the curb. A body was lying on the sidewalk.
Fellows ran toward the fallen man. Shots hit the paving beside him. The men in the fleeing car had seen his action, and had fired as their car turned the corner.
Fellows ducked into the entrance; then, realizing that the danger had passed, he hurried toward the man who lay on the sidewalk.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, as he lifted the man’s shoulders. The form was limp and lifeless.
The head dropped back as Fellows raised the body. The light from the front of the building fell directly on the face. A gasp of horror came from the lips of the insurance broker.
The murdered man was Horace Prescott!
A SMALL group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott’s body lay. Three uniformed policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to draw a crowd — even in Chicago.
A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.
The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.
One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The others were Togo and Louie.
The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was returning to the elevator.
Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been abandoned.
A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of gangsters.
The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the killing had reached there.
Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.
“They got Prescott, all right,” he said. “He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the racket — but I didn’t think he was in deep enough for this.”
HIGGINS began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.
The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.
“These two was witnesses,” explained a detective. “This one” — he pointed to Fellows — “was upstairs with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told him to scram.”
Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.
“This man” — the detective indicated Louie — “was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car.”
“Landed on me the minute I arrived,” volunteered Louie.
“What did they look like?” questioned Higgins.
“Dunno,” answered Louie promptly. “Couldn’t see ‘em in the dark.”
Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to study Togo.
“Jap servant,” he was informed by the detective. “Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off — “
“Bring them down to headquarters,” ordered Higgins. “No — wait a minute.”
He looked at Claude Fellows.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claude H. Fellows,” came the response.
“Business?”
“Insurance broker from New York.”
“Did you see the shooting?”
“No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner.”
“What did he look like?”
“About medium height, I should judge,” replied Fellows thoughtfully. “Dark complexion, and an ugly face. He looked like a gunman.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
Higgins studied Fellows carefully.
“What do you know about Prescott?” he questioned suddenly.
Fellows was ready with an answer.
“I knew that he was expecting this,” returned Fellows calmly. “I met him through a friend and found that he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why.”
“Because?”
“Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them.”
Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.
“Come along with me,” said the detective commissioner. “You can tell me your story when we get to headquarters.”
Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however, what use they would make of any information that he might give them.
Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott’s connections. Yet Fellows was sure that he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.
A YOUNG man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn, reporter for a Chicago daily.
“Hello, Barney,” said the reporter. “What’s the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations, when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?”