Bernice knocked him down again.
"Professor Bernice Summerfield. You can call me Benny."
They shook hands.
12 CONFERENCE
The word was out all over Chicago. They talked about it in high-class hotels and in low- down drinking dives, in speakeasies and in precinct houses.
There was going to be a top level sit-down, a meeting of all the bigshots. The Big Fellow himself had ordered it. There were going to be treaties, agreements, territories laid down and profits fairly divided. No more rub-outs and shoot-ups. Nobody taken for a one-way ride. No more exploding pineapples tossed into saloons and polling stations.
It was all going to be different from now on. Chicago was going to be a city of peace and brotherly love.
That's what they said.
District Attorney McSwiggin said so, on the telephone to His Honour the Mayor.
"I got it from the Big Fellow himself, your honour. He's as tired of all this violence as you are. He's determined to put a stop to it, one way or another."
"Well, he'd damn well better," boomed Big Bill Thompson. "Because if he doesn't, I will."
McSwiggin put down the phone with a puzzled frown. "I don't know what's got into the old goat these days," he told the Assistant D.A. "If he actually starts trying to run things we'll all be in trouble."
Captain Reilly discussed it down at the precinct house with his crony Sergeant O'Hanrahan. As they talked, O'Hanrahan was checking the contents of the weekly brown envelope, just delivered by the mob's usual bagman.
"Make the most of it, Patrick, me boy," said Reilly. "After today there'll be so much sweetness and light flying around Chicago they won't need any police at all. We'll both be out of a job."
O'Hanrahan's thick fingers checked through the sheaf of greenbacks with the skill of long practice. "Do you say so, Dennis?"
Reilly chuckled wheezily, "To be honest I don't - and I don't much care. As long as the booze keeps flowing and the dollars with it, who cares? After all, they only kill each other."
"Meself, I'd be happy to have a few less bullets flying about," said O'Hanrahan. "A feller could get hurt out there." He finished his count, peeled off a wad of notes and handed them to Reilly, who tucked them absentmindedly into his pocket.
As Captain, Reilly had the right to the biggest share. The rest of the money would be divided amongst lieutenants, sergeants and detectives, the amount determined strictly by rank, with the odd few bucks left over for the lowly harness-bulls on the street.
"That reminds me," said Reilly. "Pete's boys are taking a booze shipment out of one of their warehouses tonight and there's been talk of a possible hijacking. Fix the convoy up with a police escort, will you Patrick? Tell the lads there'll be a few extra bucks in it."
The forthcoming peace conference was being discussed in Doc's place as well. Ace was in an argumentative mood.
"I mean, what's the point?" she said, unconsciously echoing Captain Reilly. "Who cares if these creeps keep knocking each other off?"
It was mid-morning, Doc's place was closed, and they were in the big sitting-room at the top of the house. It was an old-fashioned room with red velvet curtains, lots of solid, overstuffed furniture, a faded Turkish carpet and an excessive supply of china ornaments, elaborate lamps and occasional tables.
The Doctor, elegant in a grey-striped suit, adjusted the angle of his fedora before the big mirror over the fireplace.
"How do I look?"
"Fine. You'll probably win the award for best-dressed mobster."
"You look very nice too," said the Doctor politely.
Ace was wearing a tailored black costume with a black silk blouse and a broad-brimmed black hat. She came and stood behind the Doctor, admiring her reflection. She did look pretty good, she thought - and realized she was being distracted.
"Doctor!"
"What is it?"
"Just why are you so keen on Capone holding this peace conference?"
"Peace is always a good thing, Ace, even in Chicago."
"But it'll never work. These people don't trust each other, they won't keep their word."
"It's difficult," agreed the Doctor. "But it shouldn't be impossible. This peace treaty ought to work, Ace - it's actually in everyone's best interests. But I agree with you - it probably won't."
"So what are you after, Doc?"
"Someone who wants to make a bad time worse," said the Doctor enigmatically.
"But this bit of history's not being interfered with, is it? Not like that Nazi-occupied Britain business. I mean, all this really happened. Prohibition, Al Capone, gangsters with tommy-guns... I saw it in all those old movies."
"It's not being totally twisted, but suppose it's being boosted a little? Just a bit more blood and bullets than is really natural?"
"Why would anyone do that?"
"Fun?"
The hoot of a horn sounded from outside and the Doctor went over to the window. "There's Happy with the car. Come on Ace, we've got a peace conference to attend."
The manager of the Sherman Hotel was having the worst day of his distinguished career. His one hope now was that he'd live to see the end of it.
The nightmare had started yesterday with an innocent-sounding phone call. A Mr. Brown had booked the hotel's conference room for a meeting of the Chicago Suppliers Institute. No quibbling about cost, money no object.
Earlier this morning, Mr. Brown's representative, a dark, soft-spoken gentleman called Mr. Rio, had called round to check on the arrangements. Everything was to be the best, food and refreshments to be of the highest standard. Asked discreetly about liquor - the hotel had an excellent bootlegger - Mr. Rio seemed amused and said Mr. Brown could probably manage to take care of that himself. The hotel could provide glasses, mixers and ice.
The manager had been a little taken aback when Mr. Rio had produced an enormous roll of bills and settled all charges in advance in cash, but no doubt these high- powered businessmen had their own way of doing things.
Then Mr. Brown had arrived. The manager took one look at the bulky, scar-faced figure and realized that he'd rented his conference room to Al Capone.
Mr. Brown had swept up to the suite, accompanied by an entourage of swarthy-faced men carrying cases of liquor - in broad daylight! There was even a cop holding up traffic while more cases were unloaded from waiting cars.
The swarthy men had come down from the suite and arranged themselves around the lobby, while Mr. Rio waited by the lifts.
More delegates arrived. The procedure was always the same. A car drew up and a group of tough-looking, expensively dressed men got out and marched towards the lifts. Mr. Rio met them, there were a few words of low-voiced discussion. Then one or at most two of the group would get into the lift while the others joined the hard-faced characters hanging around the lobby.
Hovering about by the reception desk, doing his best not to be noticed, the manager shuddered. That the Sherman, of all places, should play host to a gangland convention.
And here were two more of them. A small man in dark suit and fedora and an attractive young woman in a well-tailored costume. The small man was a vicious-looking brute, thought the manager. Every inch a killer. No doubt the girl was his gun-moll.
The manager watched helplessly as Mr. Rio came forward to meet the newcomers.
"The lady stays down here, Doc. Principals only, no guns, no muscle, no bodyguards."
The young woman's hand slid into her shoulder-bag. "Who are you calling muscle, creep?" Mr. Rio's eyes narrowed and his hand moved towards the bulge in his armpit. The manager prepared to duck.
"Ace, please," said the man called Doc sharply. To Mr. Rio he said, "Miss Ace is a full partner in my business."
"Sorry, Doc. For the purposes of this conference she's a gun. That ain't no powder-puff she's about to pull on me."
He turned to the girl. "Honest, lady, I'm staying down here in the lobby myself."
"Do you mind, Ace?" said Doc.
"Mind what?"
"Waiting for me down here. Just keep your eyes open. If you get too bored, have Happy take you home. If I don't see you here I'll see you back there."
The girl nodded and stalked towards an armchair.
Doc got into the lift and disappeared upwards.
The manager mopped his brow.
The conference room at the Sherman Hotel was a large and splendid room, graced with deep carpets, velvet drapes and a crystal chandelier. Its central feature was a long oval table in polished mahogany, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Before each chair was a leather-bound blotter and a big crystal ashtray.
Capone sat at the head of the table, the Doctor to his right. All around the table were ranged the heads of Chicago gangland. They were tough, hard-looking men, expensively dressed, loaded down with flashy and expensive jewellery. They had cigars, they had drinks, and they were ready to listen.
The Doctor had made it his business to get to know Chicago's gang leaders. He looked around the table, mentally ticking off the list.
There was Hymie Weiss, Pete Gusenberg and Bugs Moran, the uneasy trio that had inherited Dion O'Bannion's Northside mob. There was Ralph Sheldon and Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzick, both loyal Capone allies. Jack Zuta and Potatoes Kauffman were closer to the Northsiders.
Klondike O'Donnell and his young brother Miles were both neutral, not daring to challenge Capone. Spike, the senior O'Donnell, didn't care for Capone and had refused to attend the conference. Polish Joe Saltis, a great shambling white-faced lump of a man, was an independent bootlegger and brothel-keeper, too stupid and too violent to have allies. There was Ed Vogel out of Cicero, a loyal Capone man. And there was a sprinkling of minor independents, Marty Guilfoyle, Billy Skidmore, Barney Bertsche ...
The Doctor heard Capone's voice rumbling in his ear.
"You wanna get things started, Doc? This is all your idea."
The Doctor would sooner have stayed in the background, but there was no getting out of it now. He raised his voice, cutting through the low-voiced chatter around the table.
"If I could have your attention, gentlemen?"
There was a surprised silence round the table, and the Doctor became the focus of the hard-eyed stares of his audience.
"I'm a newcomer to Chicago," the Doctor went on. "You don't know me and there's no reason why you should. I don't operate in your league. I run one saloon called Doc's Place, and that's it. A while back I went for a quiet lunch with Mr. Capone here and found myself in a Chicago replay of the Big War."
A little chuckle went around the table and the Doctor went on, "Now, that strikes me as a pretty dumb way to run things and I know Mr. Capone feels the same. So I ask you to listen to him now." The Doctor put an edge of menace in his voice. "In your own best interests."
Al Capone looked round the table, fixing each gangster in turn with the Look - the bulging-eyed stare that meant business. In a harsh, rasping voice he said, "You guys know what we're doing? We're turning a great business into a shooting gallery. This is hard and dangerous work, apart from any hate at all. When a guy works hard, he wants to be able to relax and forget about work between times. He don't want to be afraid to sit with his back to a door -or a restaurant window. So I'm telling you now, all this monkey business has got to stop. Because if it don't, I'll stop it."
"Like you stopped Dion O'Bannion?" said Hymie Weiss bitterly.
The Doctor knew that Weiss and the others had never forgiven Capone for the death of their much-loved leader.
Capone's fist slammed down on the table. "If I have to, yes! Deany O'Bannion was a great guy, but he was a madman too, a danger to himself and everyone else. So he had to go - but it don't haveta be like that. There's plenty for everyone. Now lissen..."
Ace sat back in her armchair, glancing round the hotel lobby. It was crowded with hard-eyed tough-looking men, gangster bodyguards excluded, like her, from the top-level discussion upstairs. They tended to bunch together in little groups, each group keeping a wary eye on the others.
There was a coffee shop just off the lobby and people drifted in and out with mugs in their hands. Ace had a feeling that not all the mugs held coffee.
She became aware that someone was moving from group to group, listening for a while then joining in. A tall man, elegantly dressed, with a long, thin, aristocratic face. A rather unusual type to find in a place like this.
Ace noticed that after a minute or two the tall man seemed to be dominating each conversation, talking urgently while the others listened, frowning. Then he would move away to another group, repeating the pattern there.
Suddenly he was standing beside her.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" His voice was soft and attractive. Ace hadn't noticed the vacant chair, but there seemed to be one beside her now.
"Why not?" she said.
The tall man dropped into the chair.
"Looks like a mobster's convention, doesn't it? The hotel manager is sweating blood, expecting a shoot-out any minute."
He pointed to a bald-headed and bespectacled man by the desk. He was sweating profusely, mopping at his bald head with a silk handkerchief.
"Are you here on business?" asked the tall man.
"Just waiting for a friend."
"Of course, you're Doc's girl Ace - the Lady in Black."
"I'm sorry?"
"That's what they're calling you. Didn't you know? They say you took out Morelli with one shot, that you'd have got Pete Gusenberg at the Hawthorne if someone hadn't stopped you."
"Seems a lot of fuss about one hit and one miss. You'd think no one ever got shot in Chicago."
"I guess it's because you're an attractive young woman. All these cheap crooks have got romantic imaginations." He paused. "Is your friend Doc going along with this peace talk of Al's?"
"He seems to be."
He leaned forward confidentially, lowering his voice. "I'd tell him to be careful if I were you. As soon as he's ready, Al's going to gobble up the independents like Doc, put them all out of business. Al's greedy, wants it all for himself."
Suddenly Ace became absolutely convinced that he was right, that she ought to warn Doc not to trust Capone. She felt a surge of anger at Capone's treachery.
"Thanks, I'll tell him," she said. But the tall man was gone. Ace looked round the room. He was nowhere in sight.
She got up and went over to Frank Rio who was talking to a group of Capone's men. He looked warily at her, and she gave him her most dazzling smile.
"Hi, doll," he said, but he still looked cautious.
"You were talking to a tall man just a little while ago."
"I was? Yeah, that's right. He was saying Al oughtta be careful about these independents, they were planning to gang up on him."
"Do you know who he was?"
"Just a guy you see around. Nice feller. I think he's with one of the other outfits."
"Would anyone else know?"
"I guess so." He called across to someone in a nearby group. "Hey Charlie, that tall guy you were shooting the breeze with, know who he was?"
"I thought he was one of your boys."
"Can you remember what he was saying?" asked Ace.
Charlie frowned. "Something how about if Hymie Weiss got too friendly with Zuta and Kauffman they could take over our territory ..."
For some reason Ace felt it was important to find out more about the tall man. She tried asking some of the other groups but she didn't get any further. Everyone seemed to know him but everyone seemed to think he was part of some other outfit. Some people said he was a journalist on the Tribune, others that he worked for the Mayor's office. But they all remembered him warning them about someone.
It was odd, thought Ace. Maybe she ought to tell the Doctor about it. Then again, maybe it wasn't worth bothering with.
The memory of the tall man was already fading from her mind. But she remembered that she had to warn the Doctor about Al Capone. She was quite clear about that.
13 DEATH TRAIL
Hands on the table, Capone leaned forward, sweeping the conference table with the Look.
"First of all, territory. Hymie Weiss, Gusenberg, Drucci, Moran, you share everything north of Madison, east of the river. Sheldon operates north-east of the stockyards. Saltis, you keep back of the Yards, like always." He turned to the two O'Donnell's. "Miles, Klondyke, you take the west side."
"And what about you, Al?" said Hymie Weiss. "You ain't leaving yourself out, are you?"
"I look after the whole of the south side," said Capone flatly.
"What about Cicero and the rest of the suburbs?"
"Them too."
As everyone round the table knew, the ring of suburbs around Chicago were prime territory for bars and brothels. They offered trouble-free operation too, with police forces and city administrations small enough to be bribed and terrorized.
"It's a big slice of the cake, Al," said Bugs Moran. From his place at Capone's side, the Doctor saw the hands on the table turn into massive fists. Capone drew a deep breath.
"Maybe so," he said mildly. "But I got people to take care of. Jake Zuta here, Marty, Billy, Barney, they all operate outta my territory. So, is that agreed?"
There were nods of acceptance around the table.
"Okay! From now on everybody sticks to their own territory, no muscling in. That'll cut out most of the trouble right there.
"Next, we start out fresh with a clean sheet. No matter who beat up who, who took who for a ride in the past, we gotta put it all behind us. No settling grudges or paying off old scores. We're a bunch of saps, killing each other off, handing the cops a laugh. One of my guys gets outta line you don't whack him, you tell me and 1 take care of him. Same goes for everyone, right?"
Nods and murmurs of agreement from all around the table.
"Right," said AL Capone. "That concludes our business, gents. Everyone have another drink, and we'll move on to the Bella Napoli. I'm taking over the whole joint for a celebration. All the Italian food you can eat, enough booze to float a battleship and it's all on me."
Doctor Who - [New Adventure 29] - [Vampire Trilogy 2] - Blood Harvest Page 10
