As cigars were lit and bottles passed round, Capone turned to the Doctor.
"How'd I do, Doc?"
"You did fine," said the Doctor, quite sincerely. "You'd have made a great diplomat, Mr. Capone. Congratulations. Now, if you'll excuse me?"
"You ain't coming to the Napoli?" Capone sounded quite hurt.
"Better not. I'm still an outsider here really, and this is your big day, not mine. I'll just slip away"
Quite apart from avoiding the dubious pleasure of a boozy lunch with a bunch of drunken gangsters, thought the Doctor, it wouldn't do to start looking too much like the power behind the throne. It would get in the way of his real mission.
He made his way down to the lobby and found Ace deep in discussion with Frankie Rio, over mugs of coffee with a strong aroma of rye whisky.
"Sure, speed and accuracy's important," Rio was saying, "but you gotta have stopping power too. You get some big strong guy coming at you, you can put two or three of those itty-bitty slugs in him and he won't hardly notice it. Okay, so he'll keel over and die later on, but not till he's put you down as well. I don't say you gotta use one of those .45 calibre cannons your friend Dekker lugs around, but anything smaller than a .38 and you're wasting your time."
Ace shook her head. "It's not the size of your pistol that counts, Frankie, it's what you do with it."
"I hate to interrupt a professional discussion," murmured the Doctor, "but I think it's time we were on our way."
Rio jerked his head upwards. "How'd it go, Doc?"
"Surprisingly well. If everyone keeps the agreement, you two will soon be out of a job."
Frank Rio smiled. "Is that so? Well, I won't start worrying yet."
Ace and the Doctor headed for the door, and Rio watched them move away.
Dingbat O'Berta, one of Solis's boys, elbowed him in the ribs. "Some dame, hey Frankie? I think she likes you."
"Yeah? Well, lemme tell you Dingbat, I've got a little rule. I never make a pass at no dame who can shoot faster than me."
Dingbat O'Berta was impressed. "She's that good?"
"So they say. Maybe I'll get the chance to find out someday."
In the car going back to Doc's Place, the Doctor was telling Ace about the peace conference.
"He handled them brilliantly Ace. Just the right mixture of threat, charm and sweet reason."
"I don't think we ought to trust Capone," said Ace suddenly. "They say he'll swallow up all the independents once he's on top. Maybe we ought to-"
"Ought to what?"
Ace looked wonderingly at him. "I was going to say maybe we should rub him out before he rubs us out. But we don't do that sort of thing, do we?"
"We most certainly do not. I don't think we ought to stay here too much longer, Ace, you're beginning to go native. Who told you Capone couldn't be trusted?"
"Just someone I was talking to. I can't really remember now. Do you think this peace treaty will hold up?"
"It ought to, it makes good business sense. But we're not dealing with sensible businessmen."
"So what do you think will happen?"
"I'm not sure ... But if my theory's correct, the peace treaty will hold for a while."
"And then?"
"Then someone won't be able to stand it - so they'll start giving things a bit of a push."
"And that's what we're waiting for?"
"Yes," said the Doctor. "That's what we're waiting for."
For the next few weeks peace reigned over Chicago. Nobody was bustled into a car for one last ride, no one died in a hail of machine-gun bullets, not a single bar was blasted by a pineapple.
Naturally, Mayor Thompson took all the credit.
"See?" he told District Attorney McSwiggin. "I told those mob guys things had to quiet down and they knew I meant business."
"Absolutely, your Honour," said McSwiggin. He knew it was Al Capone, not Big Bill Thompson who was keeping the peace, but there was no point in saying so.
McSwiggin decided to go out for a few drinks, make a round of the speakeasies, check things out with some of his underworld connections. Something about the new peace made him uneasy.
In the newsroom of the Chicago Tribune Jake Lingle slammed down the phone.
"Nothing!" he said disgustedly. "I called every damn precinct house in Chicago and they're all sitting there polishing their nightsticks. These days this burg's quieter than a Quaker prayer-meeting."
Bob Lee, the lanky red-haired city editor, shrugged. "It won't last, Jake. Does it ever? One of those mugs'll crack wise about some other mug and the lead'll start flying again - just like the good old days."
Lingle stood up. "Yeah? Well, till it does I'm wasting my time here. It's a nice day and they're running at Washington Park. I think I'll go to the races. See you Bob!"
"Yeah, see you," said Bob Lee sourly. He watched Lingle's elegant figure stroll away between the rows of desks. Some nerve the guy had, just taking off like that. No other reporter could have got away with it, but Jake Lingle was special. He was the Trib's top crime reporter and the Colonel's blue-eyed boy. Jake Lingle had connections.
He also had dough. That grey suit he was wearing must have set him back a few hundred bucks, and Bob Lee happened to know that Jake Lingle was pulling down just sixty-five bucks a week. The story was that Jake had inherited money from some rich uncle. Lee thought Jake's money came straight from his Uncle Al.
Jake Lingle's connected all right, thought Lee cynically. He's in the rackets, right up to his neck. It'll catch up with him some day.
Picking up a sheaf of papers, Bob Lee went back to his current task: trying to extract some sense from the windy eloquence of Big Bill's latest speech.
In the back room of a North-side speakeasy, Bugs Moran, Pete Gusenberg and Hymie Weiss were dividing a stack of greasy dollar bills.
"You gotta admit it's working," said Gusenberg, stowing away his share. "The booze flows out, the dollars flow in."
"Yeah, just like running a five-and-dime store," snarled Moran. Money alone wasn't enough for him. He craved the excitement that came with violence. Capone's peace was getting him down.
Hymie Weiss checked methodically through his pile of dollars.
"I still don't buy it," he said moodily. "Suppose Al's setting us up? He keeps things quiet till we're off guard - then he moves in and takes over. That's what some guy was saying after the conference."
"What guy?" asked Moran.
"Just some guy you see around. Tall thin fellow..."
Weiss stood up. "I gotta meet my lawyer over at the courthouse. It's jury selection for Joe's trial today."
Just before the truce, Polack Joe Saltis had knocked off a rival beer pusher. Typically, he'd committed the murder in public, forcing his victim's car to the kerb and blasting him with a shotgun in broad daylight. With so many witnesses even the Chicago police were forced to take notice, and Joe was arrested. Now he was about to stand trial.
"How come you're involved?" asked Moran.
Weiss shrugged. "Joe asked me for help. The Polack's dumb but he's tough and he's got some good boys. If I'm right about Al's plans, Joe could be useful."
"What you gonna do?"
"My mouthpiece has got a contact at the courthouse. If we can get hold of the final jury list, we can maybe influence them a little."
They were talking about the truce at Doc's place over a late breakfast, down in the bar. Dekker had dropped in, something he'd been doing quite often lately. He would wander in at odd hours, have a few drinks, chat to the Doctor, exchange a few wisecracks with Ace. The quiet times had meant less to do for both of them. One night Ace had taken an evening off and she and Dekker had gone on the town together, returning noisily in the small hours.
Despite all this, their conversation still seemed to consist of swapping insults. The Doctor supposed he was witnessing some sort of courtship ritual. Humans were peculiar, he thought.
Dekker reached out and grabbed the coffee-pot, snaffling the last cup of coffe
e from under Ace's nose. He added cream and sugar, stirred, and drained his mug noisily.
"Great java, Doc."
"Sure you're okay?" asked Ace, "You've only had six cups. Ever think of buying your own?"
"Can't afford it," said Dekker sadly. "Peace is breaking out all over. It's not just that these punks have stopped drilling each other. Guys have stopped cheating on their wives, dime-store clerks have stopped dipping in the cash register. A poor private eye could starve to death around here."
"I hear illegal liquor is still being widely sold," said the Doctor. "You could try doing something about that."
"Then I'd have to come and take you in, Doc. And Ace here would shoot my ears off."
"I'd shoot something off," said Ace. She waved the empty pot at Luigi, who took it from her, replacing it immediately with a full one. Ace looked surprised.
"I always put on a fresh pot every time I see Mr. Dekker come," explained Luigi.
"Besides," Dekker went on, "my pal Eliot's going to put an end to the illegal booze business."
Ace poured herself more coffee. "Eliot?"
"Eliot Ness - also known as Eliot Press, because he's so fond of publicity. Nice young fellow, keen as mustard. Head of a special team of Prohibition Agents. They've got this new secret weapon - they're all supposed to be incorruptibly honest, untouchable by bribery."
Ace raised an eyebrow and the Doctor explained. "In Chicago, Ace, Prohibition Agents rate even lower than the regular police."
"That's right," said Dekker. "After all, there are supposed to be some honest cops. Now we've got Eliot and his boy scouts as well." He laughed. "Hell, Eliot's even got an accountant on his staff, looking into the Big Fellow's income tax returns. How about that? The top bootlegger in Chicago, responsible for a string of murders, some of them in person, and they want to nail him for tax evasion!"
"It's a crazy scheme," said the Doctor. "But you never know, it just might work."
Dekker yawned and stood up. "Guess I better go out and drum up some work. Maybe I can catch someone stealing five cents from a blind newsie."
"Keep in touch," said the Doctor. "I might have something for you pretty soon."
"Something gonna break, Doc?"
"Could be."
"But it's so quiet," said Ace.
"It's too quiet," said the Doctor. "I don't like it."
Chicago's fragile peace snapped like an over-stretched violin string.
It began with Jake Lingle, happily making his way to the race-track. Tilting his new straw hat to a jaunty angle, he strolled along Michigan Avenue. He bought a racing paper from the news-stand outside the Public Library and then headed down the busy pedestrian tunnel that led to Illinois Central station.
He was about half-way along the tunnel, studying the day's odds in the paper, when he heard footsteps coming up close behind him. He turned and saw a tall thin fellow striding towards him, wearing a straw skimmer much like his own. The guy looked vaguely familiar and Jake half nodded over his shoulder.
The tall man said, "Hi Jake!"
He took out a snub-nosed .38 calibre Colt revolver and shot Jake Lingle once in the back of the head. The bullet smashed Lingle to the ground. He fell forward, face-down on the tunnel floor. Knocked from his head by the impact, the new skimmer rolled away.
The tall man turned and ran back down the tunnel, watched by a handful of astonished spectators. Two of them were brave enough to run after him, yelling, "Stop him! Stop that man!"
Outside the tunnel a passing policeman joined in the hunt. Scattering pedestrians, the tall man ran west along Randolph and then ducked down a narrow alley. Seconds later the policeman, revolver in hand, reached the mouth of the alley.
Raising his gun the policeman yelled, "Stop! Police-" then broke off in astonishment. The alley was empty. The tall man had vanished.
Anna Rotariu felt she'd been lucky in getting a tenant for the second-floor front room in her North Street boarding house so quickly. To be honest it wasn't much of a room.
The new tenant seemed happy enough though, and he'd been particularly impressed with the view. The room looked out onto North Street, with a good view of the front of Schofield's flower shop, just next door, and of the Holy Name Cathedral on the other side.
The new tenant's name was Lundin, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man. He explained that he was a musician, a violinist. He'd be keeping irregular hours, but he promised to enter and leave quietly.
On what was to be the last afternoon of his stay, Mrs. Rotariu met her new tenant coming up the stairs. He greeted her with his usual politeness and went on up to his room, clutching his battered black violin case.
Once in the room, the tenant put the violin case down on the bed and went over to the window, pulling aside the grubby lace curtain. He checked the view of North Street, looked at his watch and smiled. He opened the bottom half of the window to its full extent. Then he went over to the bed and opened the violin case, lifting out its contents with loving care.
As Hymie Weiss's car drove along North Street on his way back from court, he was thinking sentimentally about old times.
Schofield's flower shop on North Street, opposite the Holy Name Cathedral, was a sacred spot in gangland history. It had been used by Dion O'Bannion, "Deany", as a headquarters and a cover for his other activities.
Schofield's became the official gangland florist, selling thousands of dollars worth of blooms when any gangster of note passed away - and they'd been passing away pretty regularly in Chicago for quite a while.
One sad day Deany O'Bannion became his own best customer, shot down by three killers in his own flower shop. Inevitably the killers were never caught, but it was widely believed that two Sicilians called Scalise and Anselmi were responsible. The third man was thought to have been Al Capone.
Hymie Weiss and the others had never forgotten O'Bannion and Hymie, at least, had never forgiven Capone. They'd kept the flower shop HQ as a kind of memorial to their lost leader.
As he got out of the car, Hymie Weiss was thinking that at least the trip to the courthouse had gone well. His lawyer's source, a bribed court official, had come up with the goods. Hymie Weiss had a list of the names and addresses of the Saltis jury in his pocket right now. Pretty soon those jurors would be subjected to a mixture of bribes and threats, persuading them that a "not guilty" verdict would be a lot better for their collective health.
Followed by his bodyguard, Pat Murray, and his lawyer, O'Brien, Weiss got out of the car and headed for the shop. Neither of them noticed that a second-floor window was open a little further up the street.
Suddenly the stuttering blast of machine-gun fire came from the open window. Murray, the bodyguard, fell dead in the gutter with seven slugs shattering his head and body.
Hymie Weiss staggered a few steps onto the sidewalk, then collapsed with ten bullets in him.
The lawyer, O'Brien, hit four times in the arm and belly, crawled into a basement stairwell for shelter.
He was lucky. He didn't die.
Coming out of her room to see what was happening in the street, Mrs. Rotariu saw her new tenant leaving his room, violin case in hand. She followed him out of the house and saw him jump into a black Cadillac parked just outside and drive away. She heard groans, turned, and saw dead and dying men lying in their blood outside Schofield's flower shop.
District Attorney McSwiggin was having a night on the town. He was riding in a green Lincoln with Miles O'Donnell, one of the three brothers who ran the O'Donnell mob. The car was driven by a police captain called Duffy. They were all on their way to a joint called the Pony Inn, where the beer was said to be particularly good.
The inn stood on an otherwise vacant lot on Roosevelt. As first Duffy then McSwiggin got out of the car, a black Cadillac drew up. Duffy assumed it was a fellow patron until he saw the machine-gun projecting from the Cadillac's front window. He grabbed for his gun. There was a staccato roar as the Cadillac driver opened fire. Red Duffy dropped immediate
ly, his body riddled with bullets. McSwiggin staggered to the Pony Inn and fell dead on its doorstep.
14 TRACKDOWN
I'd been out of town all day on a wandering daughter job.
She was a good-looking kid and kinda wild. The good-looking ones usually are, the plain Janes don't get the opportunity. Apparently she'd been keeping bad company.
Her folks ran a Mom-and-Pop grocery store a few blocks away and they were convinced she'd been grabbed by one of these white-slave operations you read about in the yellow press.
I'd found the girl all right, and her parents were at least half right. The kid was working in a high-class cat-house, one of Joe Saltis's joints. She was there of her own free will, making good money and had no intention of going back behind the counter of the store.
The madam of the joint had said, "Kidnapped? That's a laugh! Why go to the trouble? In these hard times they're standing in line to get in."
As I trudged up the stairs to my office, I was wondering what to tell Mr. and Mrs. Schultz. I decided to tell them I'd had no success in finding their daughter. I also decided to offer to return their twenty-five bucks - with any luck they'd refuse to take it.
As I reached this decision I saw the light was on in my office and the door was ajar. I pulled the .45, kicked open the door and went in. I found myself looking at Ace. She was sitting in the chair on the other side of my desk, wearing the same black outfit she'd worn last time I'd seen her.
She looked up at me from under the brim of her hat as I stowed away the rod. "You keep late hours, Dekker."
"I work for a living, lady."
"Not very successfully, judging by the front you put up."
"You don't get rich in this business - not if you're honest."
"And are you?"
"Reasonably."
I slumped down in my desk chair, got out the office bottle and glass and poured a slug of bourbon. I offered it to Ace, she shook her head, so I swallowed it and poured myself another one.
Doctor Who - [New Adventure 29] - [Vampire Trilogy 2] - Blood Harvest Page 11
