by Otto Penzler
“I’ve heard that too. But I don’t know if I fully believe it.”
“Well—fully believe it now. For if you don’t, you too may be caught in—. But, there—I can count on you.”
“Yes.” I tossed my cigarette out in the street, for we stood on the steps of the house now. “But just how do you fit?”
“That—. Well—it might break a confidence. But be sure that I hold the interests of the people, the honest public officials; the citizens who would wish to see their own forces—their own elected officials, their own law and order clean out the menace before outsiders are brought in.”
“Why not come down to cases?” I looked at him under the brim of the slouch hat I jerked onto my head.
“Yes, yes.” He seemed to think a moment. And then suddenly gripping my hand, “Deliver this message. Then I’ll see if you still feel—feel that I have a right to ask you to work with me, since they will suspect—yes, know—that you have taken sides with the enemy.”
I grinned at that one. But I saw his point, even if it did sound silly.
“All right,” I said simply. “You want to see if I still have the stomach for it. You’ve been reading your Hawthorne again. THE GORGON’S HEAD. To look a Gorgon in the face is to die! And it would be useless for you to come to terms with a man who is about to do that. Yep—you can’t make a deal with a dead man.”
And before he could find an answer to that one I was down the steps, after flinging my final line.
“Joe Gorgon will get your message—and it’s the easiest thousand dollars I ever earned.”
And I was gone. Swinging down the street— breathing deeply of the cool summer air.
When I finally found a taxi I looked again at the message I still held in my hand, stamping the words into my mind.
“THE DEVIL IS UNCHAINED,” read the message. And I wondered. Was the devil the little sick old man, Giovoni, we had left at Elrod’s Private Sanitarium? And if so, would he throw fear into the heart of a Gorgon—the city’s biggest racketeer? Joe Gorgon. Absurd? Maybe. But I remembered once, when the accusing words of a ten year old child sent a shrewd, intelligent man to the chair for murder. “Out of the mouths of babes and old men come—” And though it don’t seem to be quoted just right, it might make a deal of sense at that.
CHAPTER VII
A BIT OF MURDER
But I didn’t drive straight to the Golden Dog, for I had plenty of time to put on my act for Joe Gorgon and still meet The Flame. I went smack to the Morning Globe office. I knew the man who’d be on the desk at that hour and I’d done a bit of thinking.
They work fast in newspaper offices. They have to. I was turned loose in the morgue, with a man who knew his pictures. Ten minutes later I was staring into the face of the man known as the Colonel. That set chin and those determined eyes stood out in that photo. There was quite a bit to read about him. His war record; his marriage; and his wonderful accomplishments in the army intelligence department.
His full name was Charles Halsey McBride, and he had graduated from college with a deputy Police Commissioner of the city of New York. A commissioner who was taking his job seriously and raising hell all up and down the line, for he was a wealthy man who had the money to do it with and even the backing of the Commissioner—at least, that was the rumor.
“Sure,” said the newsman, chewing what he must have thought was a cigarette. “McBride’s done some good work, though he blew up in the Chicago investigation. Too much notoriety, I guess, though he never made a squawk. There was talk of the government sending him into New York, but on account of his friendship with the Deputy Commissioner it might make hard feelings. At present, I think he’s got a leave of absence, though there’s a rumor he’s working secretly for Washington on the Power Trust. It’s unconfirmed though, and we don’t know where he is. But city rackets are out of his line. Trusts—big business—mergers—and oil investigations are his meat. He’s got a brain in his head, but you can’t sit down in a courtroom behind locked doors and hang murders on lads who have witnesses kidnaped or killed—intimidate witness, who won’t dare talk—and hire others to do their killing; others, who don’t know for sure who really paid them to do—” The phone rang. “But McBride isn’t the lad for that kind of job. It doesn’t call for sharp questions from behind a desk.”
“No,” I said, “it doesn’t.” But I was rather thoughtful at that, as I left the chap to his phone and departed.
Colonel McBride! Here was a lad who didn’t intend to sit behind his desk and listen to big guys explain their positions through the mouths of clever and high paid lawyers. This lad had guts—and sense, I thought, when he took me on. But it was a cinch he hadn’t come on orders from Washington. If he had, it would have been in the papers. Then, who was behind him? Certainly he wasn’t doing this on his own initiative— besides, Detective Sergeant O’Rourke was taking orders from him—and what’s more, Colonel McBride had authority. But—he had said that he wished to clean up the city—the Gorgon brothers—before outside authority stepped in. It might be possible that he was working for the Commissioner himself—privately and secretly, until the time to strike came—building up an evidence that would stand the gaff of a jury trial.
And I didn’t feel that I had broken a confidence by looking him up. He knew who he was hiring. I had a right to know for whom I was working. A lad in my position can’t tell what might be put over on him. I wouldn’t even put it past certain officials to try and frame me. But— I had other things to think of. Jerry, the boy who worked for me, would have to be reached and be outside the Golden Dog to tail Joe Gorgon.
After giving Jerry a jingle at my apartment, I drove up town and entered the Golden Dog at exactly seven minutes after twelve o’clock.
Rudolph Myer had something under the table that wasn’t ginger ale. He was pounding nervously on the table, but bobbed up straight as I entered the room.
And at the next table was Joe Gorgon with four other men. His great bulk was shoved far back in the chair, his knees crossed, his thumbs stuck in the armholes of his vest, and a cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth. The other four men I knew. One was a ward leader, called Jamison, and beside him my little playmate, Eddie Gorgon. The other two guys’ faces were familiar. One, a fairly well known lawyer—and the other, well—just a face. I couldn’t place the name of either.
Joe Gorgon didn’t see me. His mind was suddenly occupied by the entrance of Billy Riley, one of the three biggest political leaders in the city.
I heard Gorgon call to Riley as he passed the table, and what’s more, Riley was nearer to Gorgon than to me. It was a cinch that Riley heard him. It was a cinch too that Riley didn’t want to hear him. Like most of us, Riley liked to claim the acquaintance of well-known men—influential men. But Joe Gorgon was getting himself just a bit too well known. Yet Riley didn’t have the stomach to turn him down flat. Money flowed from Joe Gorgon’s pocket like from the United States mint—and Riley had a fondness for money.
Jamison, the ward leader, looked up quickly— questioningly, from Joe Gorgon to Billy Riley. I read, just as well as Joe Gorgon did, what was in his mind. Perhaps Jamison didn’t word it as the book of etiquette might, but in his own way Jamison sensed that Joe Gorgon was getting “the cut” direct.
“Riley! Riley!” And Joe Gorgon was on his feet with a rapidity that was astounding in one of his size. Two steps he took, and clutched Riley by the arm. Riley turned, and his smile of greeting was nervous—strained.
“Join us for a few minutes.” Joe Gorgon made no effort to keep the conversation private. But there was nothing in his voice but hearty good fellowship.
“Can’t, Joe.” And Riley nearly choked over the name. A moment’s hesitation, and when Joe Gorgon still held his arm but said nothing, Riley stammered, “Got a party waiting—” and then something low.
“Nonsense. Everybody’s got time for Joe Gorgon.” And Joe clapped a great hand down on Riley’s shoulder. “Friends of mine always h
ave time to join me.” A moment’s pause, and again, “Always—while they’re friends.” And the last just reached me as I passed to the next table and flopped down beside Rudolph Myer. But I did see that Billy Riley wasn’t so big but that he took the chair Joe Gorgon pushed out for him.
Eddie Gorgon looked around and saw me. His sullen eyes flashed into life—his left hand gripped the table cloth—his right hand slipped beneath his armpit. There was a cut on the side of his mouth. I liked that. I smiled over at him. The hot blood went to his head. He came suddenly to his feet and stood so.
An outside influence had come between Eddie Gorgon and me. The head waiter called out. A heavy-set waiter laid down a tray and hurried to the table of Joe Gorgon. But the running, shabby little form was there before him. An emaciated, wild-eyed man, twitching, gripping fingers that stretched quickly out as he fell to his knees and clutched Joe Gorgon by the coat. Joe Gorgon looked from the crouching figure to his brother, Eddie. Eddie nodded, turned quickly and disappeared toward the bar.
The kneeling man cried out.
“Don’t let them kill me! Don’t let them kill me! Don’t have me—”
And Joe Gorgon was on his feet. His two hands stretched out and gripped the kneeling man by the collar. Seemingly without effort he jerked him to his feet, held him so—tightly, and stared into that drawn, unshaven face.
I knew the lad. A harmless, half crazy little snowbird in the underworld. Just “Toney” they called him. If he had any other name I hadn’t heard it. But he spoke no more. Whether the grip on his collar was so tight as to cut off his speech, or whether the glaring, staring narrow eyes of Joe Gorgon cowed him I couldn’t judge. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Joe Gorgon thrust the man roughly into the hands of two waiters, with the single statement:
“Some bum, I guess. I don’t know him.” But his eyes followed the whining, crouching, helpless body as the two waiters half carried, half dragged him from the room. And, somehow I wondered if the fantastic newspaper story of the Gorgon myth had—had—. But Joe Gorgon was seated now, and Rudolph Myer was talking— saying the thing that was on my mind.
“Did you see him stare at that man? Did you see the glare in his eyes? A superstitious lot, these warm-blooded people. I tell you, Race, Joe Gorgon was marking that poor unfortunate for death. Not consciously, perhaps—just that he half believes in his own power. Did you hear what the man said? His final words? ‘Don’t have me—killed’ was what he would have said. I saw it in his eyes, before fear kept the words from his lips. And Joe Gorgon. He’s a man, Race—a brute without pity—without fear— without nerves. See him now. No emotion of any kind.”
“Well—” I came to my feet, grinning at Myer. “We’ll see if we can’t knock a bit of emotion into him.”
“You’re not—not now!” Myer half leaned forward to clutch at my coat, thought better of it and watched me cross to the other table. I made a hit too as I approached. Billy Riley smiled uncertainly. Jamison gulped his drink. Joe Gorgon turned and looked lazily up at me.
“You—Gorgon!” I flipped a finger against Joe’s chest. “I want a word with you.”
“And you are—?” He pretended not to know me.
“Williams—Race Williams.” I fell into his humor. I didn’t intend to cross him or rile him. I wanted him in an open, happy mood. I wanted the emotions, if any, that came from my message to start from scratch.
“Williams?” He seemed to think, then grinned at the others. “Not the boy detective?”
“Exactly. It’s nice, Mr. Gorgon, to think that you remember me. I’m flattered indeed.” And I grinned like a school boy who has gulped his cake in one swallow and not burst before the horrified gaze of the principal.
Joe Gorgon frowned slightly. I wasn’t one to take anybody’s lip, and Joe Gorgon knew it. Or if he didn’t know it, Eddie must have told him. Then I guess his own conceit got the better of him, and he figured out that he and Eddie were two different people and that I’d think twice before I tried that game on him. For his frown disappeared and he smiled, his huge head bobbing up and down.
“Well—” he looked around to see that the others appreciated his high class humor, “let us hear what you have to say. Surely I shouldn’t mind. Already one of your breed—at least, one who sells his information to the highest bidder— has—. But, come—don’t stand there grinning like an ape.”
“I’ve got a message for you.” And I leaned down suddenly, twisted my lips slightly, and shot the words at him like any gangster, with deep secret meaning behind them.
“Joe Gorgon,” I said. “The Devil is Unchained.”
Now, there didn’t seem to me much sense in the words, or much for a man to get gaga over. But they paid a grand to deliver and therefore must carry some weight. And they did. If ever a lad got a thousand dollars’ worth out of a message, that lad was my client. Those words wiped the smile off Joe Gorgon’s face like you’d run a vacuum cleaner over it. There was a sudden quick flash of bright red to his heavy jowls, that gave place almost at once to a dull white. His right hand stretched out and gripped at the table. He half came to his feet, and sank back again— reached for his untasted cup of coffee, slopped it over his vest, set it down again, and gave the sickest smile that ever a gangster pulled off.
“All right, Mr. Joe Gorgon.” I guess there was elation in my voice. “Laugh that one off—or play the look of death, and—” I stopped dead and jerked erect. From outside on the street came a shot; another—half a dozen in quick succession, with the rapidity of machine gun action. People jumped to their feet. I stepped back from the table. Billy Riley had taken Joe Gorgon by the arm. People were going toward the door. The head waiter was trying to tell the customers in a high pitched voice that a tire had exploded, and urging them to keep their seats or they’d give the place a bad name. A bad name for the Golden Dog! Not bad comedy, that.
Some one pushed the head waiter in the stomach and walked out the door. Others hesitated. The music broke into life, and I stepped out on the street. A few buildings down the block a tiny crowd had gathered. They were standing around something on the sidewalk. A harness bull was ordering them back. Another was running up the street, and a man in his shirt sleeves stood in a doorway, wildly blowing a police whistle.
From the small private entrance to the Golden Dog came two men. Joe Gorgon walked by himself, though the man beside him—Billy Riley—held his arm. I saw Gorgon wave him aside as he climbed into a taxi, but I saw something else with a grin of satisfaction. Another taxi pulled suddenly from the curb down the street. Through the back window a hand waved to me. Like his namesake in the papers, my boy—Jerry—was also on the job.
I moved toward the ever thickening crowd, pushed my way by a couple of people, grunted as the back of a man half blocked my vision, ran smack into a policeman, and got a look at the dead man on the sidewalk.
It was Toney, the little sleigh rider who had sought Joe Gorgon’s protection a short fifteen minutes before. And now—well—he had more holes in him than a sieve. He must have had his back to the gun, and spun when he fell. For plainly in the bright light from the jeweler’s window his face stood out. There was no doubt of his identity.
CHAPTER VIII
FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS
Well—that was that. A man had looked a Gorgon in the face and died—or a Gorgon had looked a man in the face and the man had died. Take it any way you wish. Not much loss to the community certainly. Toney had been a shrewd, clever little gangster. A sure shot to gay-cat a job or listen to conversations, or get his nose in wastepaper baskets before the city wagons carted them away. Now—I shrugged my shoulders. It was a cinch that Toney had outlived his usefulness to Joe Gorgon, and his weakening mind and body had become a danger. Anyway, it don’t take much reasoning to say that he was dead. No one would deny that.
I pushed back through the crowd, walked up the street, paused before a United Cigar store and snapped my fingers. What had Joe Gorgon said to me there in the Golden D
og? Words that hadn’t seemed to make sense at the time. He had said, “Let us hear what you have to say. Surely I shouldn’t mind. Already one of your breed, at least one who sells his information to the highest bidder, has—” And then he broke off. What did he mean? Toney—Toney was selling information to some one—and Eddie Gorgon had left the restaurant to—. Well—Toney had died within a very few minutes. Toney, who had begged Joe Gorgon not to kill him. Toney, a drug addict who—
I shrugged my shoulders. There are times when I don’t need a brick building to fall on my head to wise me up to things. And if my thought wasn’t true, there was no harm in it. But—I went straight into the cigar store, stepped into a pay telephone booth, and parting with a nickel called the number Colonel McBride had given me.
He answered almost at once. I told him how well his money was spent, and of the tumble Joe Gorgon had taken out of his message.
“By the way,” I said casually, “the man—the one that dropped out of your bedroom window tonight. He didn’t happen to be a shabby little Italian, not too young, a worn blue suit, yellow brown shoes, a gray flannel shirt none too clean, no tie—and answering to the name ‘Toney?’ “
“I—why do you ask?” But the answer to my question was in the tone of his voice.
“Because,” I said, “you were right about his fearing death. He was killed tonight. Less than five minutes ago, half a block from the Golden Dog.” And I told him about Toney coming to the table.
“He was mad—drug crazed—to go to Joe Gorgon. You think—”
“You can’t get a jury to convict on a thought,” I told him. “But Eddie Gorgon left his brother’s table a few minutes before the murder occurred.”
“Good God! that is terrible—terrible.”
“This old man—Giovoni. How important is he to you?”
“He means, perhaps everything—at least, at present. I have a man in Italy investigating the—” and he bit that off. “But Giovoni is safe. Let me know as soon as you can where Joe Gorgon went when he received that message.”
