THE DARK CITY (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

  That didn't bother Cullitan. He wasn't looking to prosecute anybody. Pulling in these private eyes as his personal army of deputies could get his case tossed out anyway, not that judges in the pockets of the Mayfield Road gang needed any legitimate excuse. The point of the exercise was to close these clubs down. And in the case of the Thomas Club, Cullitan noted with satisfaction—watching his raiders dismantle and seize the equipment, loading it and the handcuffed employees into the moving van for the first of two trips—that objective had been met.

  He left the mop-up to his assistants and took his car over to the Harvard Club to see how that raid had come off.

  Only it hadn't yet.

  He found McAndrew's raiding party huddled in front of and inside a Sohio gas station across the street from the Harvard Club, which was sheltered on either side by a wooded area.

  "What the hell is going on?" Cullitan demanded.

  McAndrew told him.

  "Machine guns," Cullitan said, rubbing his chin.

  "Nobody's left yet. The patrons are still in there. Maybe they're hostages."

  "I doubt that."

  "It's a Mexican standoff. I decided to wait for you."

  "Damn. We need more men."

  "What about yours?"

  "They're already headed downtown with a vanload of gambling gear and arrests."

  "Do you want to try the sheriff?"

  "He wouldn't give us the time of day."

  "What about your friend Ness?"

  "We aren't in Cleveland."

  "But this whole damn thing was his idea."

  "Not really." Cullitan liked to think it was his own idea, but Ness certainly had been there rooting him on.

  "Call him. What harm can it do?"

  Cullitan looked across at the Harvard Club. "Why's it so dark?"

  "Patton turned off the parking lot lights. That's why I moved my men across the street. Standing in the dark like that, waiting for the shooting to start was playing hell with everybody's nerves."

  "Give me a nickel."

  "What?"

  "Give me a nickel," Cullitan said.

  Time to call Ness.

  CHAPTER 11

  Eliot Ness sat in the gallery of the City Council Chambers—a vast, ornate assembly hall of dark wood paneling where even the dolts among the council could hear their pronouncements resonate—and fought sleep. All evening he'd been subjected to floor fights on procedural matters, stemming from the fact that Monday night's turbulent meeting had resulted in multiple roll-call votes. The final one, which took place just before dawn, was disputed, leaving two claimants to the council presidency. Mayor Burton had ties to Sonny D'Maioribus, the Republican who seemed to have won the presidency. But Democrat William Reed also believed himself the rightful winner and on Wednesday had filed suit in the Court of Appeals.

  Tonight a president pro tern was being elected, to preside till the courts sorted it all out. But the heated battle of Monday night had deteriorated into bickering as Friday evening eroded.

  Ness had been here Monday and had seen the whole fracas. He'd gotten into it, inadvertently. The onlookers in the gallery had seemed on the verge of rioting—pushing each other around physically, reflecting the verbal war on the chamber floor—so he'd sent for a riot squad to expel all the spectators. When the squad arrived, a big uniformed cop immediately grabbed Ness by the collar and ejected him first.

  He almost wished that something that interesting would happen tonight. The council chambers were just across from his office, and Ness was thinking about slipping over there. His administrative assistant, political appointee John Flynt was working on a summary of crime statistics that Ness was anxious to go over.

  And, too, he really ought to get home. He'd promised Eva he'd be in no later than ten for a late supper. He'd been trying to be nice to her lately, because she'd been so disappointed when they couldn't get back to Chicago for a family Christmas. Also, Eva didn't seem too happy about their new apartment, nice as it was.

  She also didn't seem to understand that his job included some duties beyond the work itself. Like attending city council meetings, for the next few weeks anyway, because Mayor Burton had asked him to. Budget hearings were coming up, after all. The mayor wanted his new, apolitical safety director's physical presence in those council chambers, wanted him to become a familiar face at meetings. The young cop who'd failed to recognize his safety director boss was emblematic of the need for newcomer Ness to make himself known.

  The budgets Chiefs Matowitz and Grainger had come up with for their respective departments added up to a staggering three million-plus dollars. The mayor's budget clock was ticking, and this was the second week of January, but Eliot Ness had spent most of his time thus far at his desk, in public hearings, and in city council meetings. Not in the field, where he belonged. Not cracking down on the policy banks; not sniffing out the "outside chief." Sitting, like tonight. His frustration was chewing at him, just as he was chewing at his own thumbnail, his most noticeable nervous habit.

  What had eaten up his time most, as Sam Wild had predicted, were the public hearings over the dismissal of the two intoxicated-on-duty cops. Each cop, one a ten-year and the other a sixteen-year veteran, got a separate hearing, and both had worked up some public sympathy. Outside City Hall, school children paraded with placards pleading for their "big pals." Character witnesses lauded the patrolmen as "upright men who merely strayed" and should be given a second chance.

  At the hearings, Ness had cut through the bullshit with facts: both men had past records of drunkenness on duty, but had previously been no more than censured by the department.

  "I won't put up with that," Ness had told the civilian review board. "In testimony, their fellow officers admit the first thing they did when handling these men was to disarm them. In London, where police aren't armed, drunkenness on duty is sufficient cause for immediate dismissal. Here, in this country, in this city, a drunken cop is a menace because he has a gun on his hip."

  It had played well in the press, which noted that dismissals of this sort were a "notable departure" from the actions of previous safety directors, arid Burton had been pleased. But at the same time, the mayor pointed out that a powerful enemy had been made of Councilman Fink. He was a small, natty, rodent-like man who scowled at Ness when their eyes met in council chambers, and he was also the brother-in-law of one of the busted cops.

  Ness was just nodding off when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced up and realized that his assistant, Flynt, was leaning in from the row behind him.

  John C. Flynt, a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer whose bearing and appearance were slightly military, apologized for the interruption.

  "But," he whispered, with a lift of one eyebrow, and a twitch of his tiny waxed mustache, "Mr. Cullitan is on the phone. He says it's urgent."

  Ness, embracing the interruption, slid out of the pew and followed the dark-haired, dapper Flynt across the hall into the office.

  He sat at his desk and picked up the phone. "What is it, Frank?"

  "Eliot, we need your help. This Harvard Club raid is turning into a disaster. I need at least twenty men for backup before I dare make another move."

  Ness had a lot of respect for Cullitan. The hardnosed prosecutor was a Democrat, but was no more political than Ness, conducting his election campaigns without Democratic party funds or contributions from lawyers or anybody else who might have an ulterior motive. He was an ally.

  "I'd like to help," Ness said. "I realize I got you into this."

  "I'm not saying you did. I have to shoulder the responsibility on this one."

  "Well, you are out of my jurisdiction. I don't have to tell you I hold no authority past the city limits."

  "I know," Cullitan sighed. "But what in hell can I do? Just tuck my tail between my legs and go?"

  "What exactly is the situation there?"

  Cullitan told Ness.

  "Machine guns," Ness repeated coldly, standing.

  "McAn
drew only saw two, but I'd wager that's just a hint of their firepower. It's a big place. They'll have a big staff."

  "Let me see what I can do for you."

  "Thanks, Eliot."

  "Give me the number of the phone you're calling from and stay right by it."

  Cullitan gave him the number, and they hung up.

  Ness sat again and called Sheriff Sultzman's office at the county jail.

  "Let me speak to the sheriff," Ness said after identifying himself.

  "Sheriff Sultzman's not in his office," a bored male voice replied.

  "Where is he?"

  "Home sick with the croup."

  "I see. Who am I speaking to?"

  "The chief jailer."

  "Does the chief jailer have a name?"

  "Sure. Edward Murray. This is Edward Murray."

  "Mr. Murray, Prosecutor Cullitan is at the Harvard Club with several of his staff and their lives are endangered. As a private citizen, I'm calling on you to send deputies out there to protect the prosecutor."

  "Sorry, but we can't send men out there without a call from the mayor of Newburgh."

  "The mayor can't be reached." Ness hadn't tried to, of course, but what good would it have done? The Harvard Club had operated wide open in Newburgh Heights for over five years.

  "Well, I don't know," the jailer whined. "The sheriff has his home-rule policy, you know."

  "Will you go out or won't you?"

  "I'll have to call the sheriff and call you right back."

  "To hell with that. Have you got another line?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll stay on this one while you call him. I'll wait on the phone."

  "Okay."

  Several minutes crawled by. Ness gritted his teeth, pounded a fist on his desk, listening to silence.

  The jailer returned. "No, we won't go out there."

  Ness slammed the receiver into the hook, then quickly dialed again.

  "Frank," he said into the phone, "I've exhausted all legal means."

  "Yes? And?"

  "And I'll be there as soon as I can."

  Cullitan sighed his relief. "Thank you, Eliot."

  "Just do me one favor."

  "Yes?"

  "Try not to start without me."

  Flynt, who'd been standing by hearing only Ness' half of these conversations, seemed a bit puzzled.

  Ness said, "Get your topcoat and pistol and wait for me here."

  Flynt's eyes went wide for a moment. "If I understand what you're up to, the legal ground is shaky."

  Ness just looked at him.

  Then Flynt was off to his own office for his coat and gun.

  Ness returned to the Council Chambers, walked up to Mayor Burton's chair, and leaned in and, sotto voce, told His Honor the tale.

  "This doesn't sound like our business, Eliot," Burton said reluctantly.

  "These sons of bitches are parading around in public with machine guns," Ness whispered harshly, "making the law a laughingstock. Am I supposed to put up with that?"

  Burton's broad brow creased. "You can't step in officially,"

  "How about unofficially?"

  Burton shrugged, smiled faintly. "There's nothing stopping you from going out there as a private citizen."

  Ness grinned. "Thanks."

  "Eliot." The Mayor raised a cautionary finger. "Watch your step. This will attract publicity. Make sure it's the kind we're looking for."

  Ness nodded and went out in the hall and down to the next door, which said PRESS. Inside he found Sam Wild, Clayton Fritchey, and half a dozen others, most of whom were sitting at a table playing poker, money openly on the table.

  "Gambling's illegal in this town, fellas," Ness said.

  Wild smirked. "Prove it."

  "Meet me at the Harvard Club in half an hour or less," he told them, "and I will."

  He shut the door on the startled faces and strode back down the hall and into his office, where Flynt waited in his topcoat, pistol in hand.

  "Put that in your pocket or something," Ness said, irritably. He went to his desk and unlocked and opened the bottom drawer. He withdrew a shoulder holster which held his .38 Police Special. He got out of his suitcoat and was unbuttoning his vest when he thought better of it.

  "No guns for us," Ness said, putting the .38 and harness back, rebuttoning the vest buttons, and slipping on the coat.

  Flynt was puzzled again. "Why not?"

  "That shaky legal ground you mentioned. We're going out as private citizens. Actually, you don't have to go at all."

  Ness explained the situation.

  "Well, of course, I'll go," Flynt said, without much enthusiasm. "But shouldn't we have some firepower?"

  "I think we'll be able to scrounge some up. Let's go."

  Ness drove directly to the Central Police Station. It was just after ten o'clock and the shift was changing. He walked down the tunnel-like first-floor corridor, with Flynt following along, into the locker room. Cops, some still completely in uniform, others in various stages of undress and putting on their civvies, froze, conversations trailing off, as the presence of the safety director was felt.

  Ness stood there in his fedora and camel-hair topcoat, his gold "City of Cleveland—Director of Public Safety" badge on his lapel catching the light, hands in his pockets.

  "I need some volunteers," he said. "I only want those who are going off duty to consider this."

  He explained the situation at the Harvard Club.

  "The press will be there covering what we do," he said. "I mention that, because this department has a reputation for being on the take. I thought some of you might like to demonstrate you're not part of that."

  As men began to step forward, Ness spoke more loudly than was his usual style, saying, "Understand this: the city's responsibility for you ends when you cross the city limits. If you're killed, it won't be considered in the line of duty. Your families might wind up off the pension rolls."

  That sobered the volunteers, and Ness added, "I won't hold it against any of you if you don't go."

  But without exception they all did, twenty-nine patrolmen, ten motorcycle cops, and four plainclothes dicks. Sirens screamed as the five squad cars Ness had ordered went speeding down Harvard Avenue with his own black Ford sedan in the lead.

  The sidewalks were filled with hundreds of gawkers, some from nearby residential sections, but many from the casino itself, patrons who'd moved to their cars and then stuck around to watch the raid.

  Ness pulled into the Sohio station where Cullitan and his stalled wrecking crew waited. The sirens of the squad cars wound down as they too pulled into the gas station, their cargoes of cops staying aboard. The motorcycle cops remained mounted, engines rumbling.

  Ness climbed out of his sedan and shook Cullitan's hand.

  The prosecutor smiled. "The cavalry arrives at last."

  "Any action?"

  "I had a little shouting match with Shimmy Patton. I told him it was my job to close the club, and he suggested I quit my 'goddamn job.' He repeated his quaint threat to blow the head off anybody who steps foot inside. 'You got your goddamn homes to protect, and I got my goddamn business to protect.' "

  "Mr. Patton is nothing if not colorful. So the state of siege remains?"

  He shrugged. "Well, the patrons are out. Must've been a thousand of 'em. We didn't try to stop them—we didn't want to stop them. Unfortunately, some of the equipment from inside, and of course money, may've been carried out under bulky overcoats. Trucks were pulling out of that parking lot along with the cars. We couldn't really monitor who was leaving. Besides, my warrants don't cover seizure of property outside the club itself."

  The crowd of onlookers was encroaching upon the gas station command post, and Ness put several cops in charge of moving them back. When that was done, he got back in the Ford and drove slowly across the street into the now largely empty parking lot before the sprawling barnlike Harvard Club. The squad cars and motorcycles followed, and Cullitan and his men t
railed on foot.

  All of the cars and the motorcycles lined up in front of the casino, the headlights cutting at angles through the darkness of the cinder lot, hitting the building like small prison searchlights looking for escaping cons.

  "Leave your lights on!" Ness ordered, as he walked from his Ford up the steps of the Harvard Club.

  Behind him, uniformed cops were piling out of the squad cars, falling in with Cullitan's private-eye constables. Ness was unarmed, but his cops were armed to the teeth: sawed-off shotguns, tear-gas launchers, riot guns, revolvers and nightsticks.

  Ness knocked on the door.

  Eyes appeared in the speakeasy peephole.

  Ness said, "I have a search warrant. Open up."

  The peephole slid abruptly shut.

  "If that's how you want it," Ness said, and raised his foot and, with his heel, kicked.

  The sound, a splintering crunch, was strangely satisfying to Ness, as was the feel of the physical effort of punching his foot into the wood, the pull of the muscles in his leg.

  He did it again.

  And again, and that kick was the one that tore off the lock, springing the door, but a safety chain caught it. He kicked once more and the door flew open.

  Ness stepped inside onto whorehouse-red carpeting and a big guy in a tux, no gun apparent but with hands open, came at him with a look that was supposed to be mean but seemed to Ness more on the order of constipated. He flipped the guy.

  Now two more men approached, even bigger than the thug he'd given the jujitsu treatment to. They were wearing tuxedos and Thompson sub-machine guns. These two, Ness would later learn, were Shimmy Patton's body-guards, the ones who'd threatened McAndrew earlier.

  Ness just stood there, his hands empty. He said, "I'm Eliot Ness. I'm unarmed. I've got a warrant. Killing me would be about the surest ticket to the hot seat I can think of. You guys ambitious to burn?"

  They apparently weren't.

  Because they looked at each other, and, helping up the guy Ness had thrown, retreated quickly into the casino room.

  Ness stepped outside into the headlight-streaked darkness and called out to Cullitan.