by Jack Martin
“Then we set a trap to catch him?” asked Bates.
“No. Then we kill him.” He lit another cigarette and started walking back to his Plymouth. He did not notice a burly man with dark features watching him intently from behind the small group of early morning onlookers.
Frank Nitti and his two bodyguards occupied a table far back from the restaurant’s front window, the bodyguards facing the door. Nitti poked disconsolately at his food, then put down his fork, took the cold glass of milk and sipped at it as if it were medicine. His attention was taken from his ulcer by his bodyguards’ quick movements, jamming their right hands under their coats, more slowly removing them. Nitti looked up to see one of his capos walking through the door. The man approached Nitti’s table, removed his hat, and waited respectfully to be addressed.
“I assume it is important for you to interrupt my meal,” grumbled Nitti. “Take the last chair.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nitti,” the bulky man replied as he sat down. “I would not disturb you, except you said it was important to give you news of killers not part of the familia. Lester Gilles, the one they call Baby Face Nelson, has been found dead. He killed two Feds, but not before they filled him with lead.”
“I wonder if this is the gunman who so interests the Bureau of Investigation,” muttered Nitti to himself. In a louder voice, he asked, “Have the Feds called off the manhunt they’ve had going on for the last few days?”
“Doesn’t seem so, Mr. Nitti. Word downtown is that they’re looking for Nelson’s wife, and for Dillinger.”
A thought occurred to Nitti. He could dismiss Mrs. Gillis. She often strung along with her husband, but never seemed to be involved with the shooting. But Dillinger … Dillinger … was a killer as well, but not a rabid, mad-dog killer like Nelson. Dillinger tried to avoid killing as much as possible, unless there was gain in it. So, he knew no one in their right mind would try to hire Nelson to do a high profile assassination. But Dillinger … that was another matter. Nitti addressed his capo.
“I remember hearing that when he’s in Chicago, Dillinger stays in one or two preferred whorehouses. Find out which ones. Bring him to me, or if he’s gone, bring the madam running the cathouse. In either case, alive and uninjured.”
The capo nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mr. Nitti. Without another word, he stood up and strode out of the restaurant.
A stab of pain shot through Nitti’s stomach, which he rubbed gingerly.
Harry Bierce sat alone at a table in a rather dreary restaurant, not far from the Loop, reading the Chicago Tribune. His meal was only half-finished, but he had eaten as much as he could tolerate of the rather greasy viands. And the meat, which he preferred rare, so rare that blood would spurt out as he chewed, was so overdone, he couldn’t stomach another bite. He sipped at his glass of strong tea as he read, having never acquired a taste for coffee. When his eye caught something on the page—the glass hovered motionlessly for nearly a minute. Then with exaggerated care, he placed the glass on the table and slowly stood up.
No one was watching him, but if someone had, they would have been shocked to see what little color Bierce’s face held. At that moment, he resembled a living statue of marble. He threw a dollar bill on the table, then walked over to the empty telephone booth by the checker’s counter. Closing the door firmly behind him, he inserted some change into the slot. After much delay and argument with trunk operators, a connection was made.
“Bierce, what the hell are you doing calling me at this time of night,” said the tinny, far-away voice of John Edgar Hoover.
“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know about what I just read in the newspaper,” replied Bierce in a voice filled with sorely concealed rage.
“You mean the president coming to Chicago in eight days to make a speech to the labor convention,” stated Hoover. Although it may have been the static over the long distance line, Bierce thought Hoover’s voice sounded dejected, almost defeated.
“Yes sir, that is what I mean. Why didn’t you stop him? Didn’t you tell him of the risk to his life?”
“I most certainly did. Talked to him for over an hour. It did no good. No good at all.”
“Despite what happened in Florida eighteen months ago?”
“Especially because of what happened. He says he trusts the Secret Service to protect him. Has some idea of proving his courage.” The Director did not add his suspicion that FDR’s buckling in to Hoover’s blackmail over his mistress had filled the President with a desire to prove he was not a physical coward.
Hoover literally ground his teeth in frustration. He despised the President, not only for his politics, but for his weaknesses. And yet, to his own surprise, he found himself deeply concerned about the man’s safety. He turned his attention back to the waiting Bierce.
“The president is coming to Chicago. Flat out, that’s a given. Bierce, you have to stop that torpedo. You’ve got eight days.”
Unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, Bierce replied, “Didn’t you think to alert me to this before I read about it in the newspaper?”
“Bierce, I know you. You have only one speed. Full throttle. I know you are doing everything you can. There was no point in giving you some distracting news. Anyway, I’ve instructed the Chicago office to give you any help that you request. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day, and I need some rest. Goodnight, Agent Bierce.”
Bierce heard a click, followed by a dial tone. Still gripping the receiver in his hand, he fought the temptation to rip it out by the cord and destroy the booth.
Dillinger was a very light sleeper. Cumpanas’ building was after all a brothel, and there were comings and goings at all times of the day and night. Those sounds he managed to ignore. However, the creaking of floorboards made by big men quietly moving in, did disturb him.
Instantly, Dillinger was fully awake. Dumping the still sleeping Cumpanas onto the floor, he threw on his clothes with lighting speed, grabbed his gun and valise, and vaulted out the fire escape just as the door to the room crashed open. Nitti’s capo moved into the room warily, large automatic held out in front of him, followed by one of his men. BANG! A shot boomed from outside the window. Swearing in Italian, the capo rushed over to the window, screaming “Luigi! I told you the boss wants him alive!”
The man was halfway out the window when he froze, catching site of the man he had stationed on the fire escape to catch anyone fleeing. It was clear Luigi had not fired the shot, unless, that is, he had shot himself through the forehead. The capo frantically scanned the alley in both directions, but saw no one. He re-entered the room, where his man was holding onto the naked, dazed Cumpanas.
“Puta!” he snarled as he slapped her across the face with his meaty open hand. “Your boyfriend has killed my sister’s boy! What shall I be telling my sister, about how Luigi is never coming home again? Now, where did that bastard go? Speak!”
Cumpanas was confused, and in truth did not know where Dillinger had gone. After a few moments of her silence, the capo struck her again, this time with a closed fist. As Cumpanas gasped for breath through a bloody mouth, the huge gangster pointed the Colt .45 between her eyes. Before he could pull the trigger, his minion hurriedly said, “Remember how the boss feels about killing kids and dames. We should talk this over with him before doing anything that can’t be undone.”
The capo thought for a moment, then slowly, he lowered the hammer of his automatic, his face contorted with hate. “Get dressed, bitch. We’re going for a little ride. Oh, and just give me a reason. Any reason. Please.”
Some fourteen hours later, Harry Bierce trudged into his dingy hotel, frustrated and tired from a wasted day of trying to track down leads from the corrupt and inefficient Chicago police.
Before he could ask the desk clerk for the key, the untidy young man with bulging eyes said, “Telephone message for you, Mr. Bierce,” and threw a folded piece of paper across the counter.
Bierce picked it up, rapidly scanned the contents, a
nd sighed. It had taken him a quarter of an hour to find a parking spot for his hired Hudson convertible, and now it appeared he would have to be taking to the streets again. Without saying a word to the clerk, Bierce turned on his heel and hurried out of the hotel, taking the two blocks to his car with surprising speed for someone so tired.
A short drive brought him to the downtown hotel. Surprisingly, very few cars were parked along the street, and he was able to find a place for his Hudson virtually at the front entrance. A small, thin man with crazy eyes, hands buried in the deep pockets of his overcoat, walked up to Bierce as he locked the car. Not removing his hands from his coat pockets, the small man said, “You the G-man?”
Calmly Bierce replied, “I am indeed.”
“Come with me. Boss said to bring you right up. Room 2322.”
The two entered the lobby side-by-side. The clerk at the reception desk glanced up from the copy of the Chicago Tribune he was reading, frowned, and hurriedly returned his attention to his newspaper. They rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor in silence, then proceeded along the corridor. The crazy-eyed man opened the door to a suite and gestured for Bierce to go in. Bierce entered, but instead of following Bierce into the room, the small man remained in the hallway, pulling the door closed.
To the right of the entry, Bierce saw three people sitting in the suite’s living room. Bierce walked into the room to find Frank Nitti lounging on a sofa, left hand massaging his stomach through his vest, while in his right hand, he held a drink that looked surprisingly like milk. A woman sat huddled in a padded chair, and from behind a bruised face stared at the newcomer with fear-filled eyes. The enormous capo stood to the right of his master’s sofa, huge hands clenching and unclenching as he glared at Bierce.
“Good evening, Mr. Nitti,” said Bierce, making a slight bow to the man on the sofa.
“Evening, Captain Bierce,” responded Nitti brusquely, draining his glass in several large gulps, then setting it on a small table beside his sofa.
“Mr. Nitti, I don’t see the good of this,” uttered the capo in a strained voice. “Word gets out you’re talking to a G-man, some of the boys will get strange ideas.”
“The boys don’t need to know nothing. Only us in this room, and Carlo outside guarding the door, know this meeting’s taking place. I’d be very unhappy were that to change, understand?”
The large man visibly paled, but nodded once. Nitti turned his attention back to Bierce.
“Captain, as a personal favor to you, I’ve had my boys out looking to find a freelance torpedo who might undertake a … high-profile killing. Ain’t certain, but I think my boys have come up trumps. That bitch in the chair is Ana Cumpanas, runs a high-end whorehouse. Word on the street is she sometimes shacks up with John Dillinger. Normally, I don’t care about those hayseeds who spray bullets, whether needed or not. Chicago bulls ain’t smart, but they’re smart enough to round up hicks like them. But I thought it over a bit, and it seemed Dillinger was a cut above, and just might take the kind of job you were talking about. So, I send three of my boys over to Cumpanas’ place to invite Dillinger over for a little talk. Bastard was as quick as a lizard, and deadly as a rattlesnake. Made a clean break after blowing the brains out of one of my men.”
“It was my sister’s boy,” interrupted the capo, still clenching and unclenching his enormous fists.
Nitti grimaced. “As I told you before, I like things quiet on the streets. This is different—blood requires blood. Normally, we’d handle this within the family, but I made you a promise. Now can you promise me this bastard is going to die? No deals, no plea bargains?”
“I can make that promise. I might need to keep him alive to testify at the trial of another, but after that he will pay for all he has done.”
Eyes blazing with rage, the capo started toward Bierce. Nitti held up his hand, and despite his anger, the gangster stopped. He had worked for Al Capone.
“You’re the only G-man whose word I’d take.”
“So, do you know where I can find Dillinger?”
“Not exactly. But I know how he can be found.” Nitti gestured at Cumpanas. “This bitch knows more about his hideouts than anyone else. She wasn’t inclined to share her information at first, but we persuaded her in the end. Hey, whore,” he turned to Cumpanas, “tell the nice G-man where Dillinger hangs out.”
Cumpanas did not look at Bierce. Gingerly touching the large bruise under her eye, she began speaking in a low monotone. “Johnnie likes to go to Cub games. Doesn’t matter if the heat’s on, he won’t miss one. There’s also a whorehouse a few blocks from Wrigley Field, he goes to ground there when he has to. Used to have a thing with the madam. That’s all over, but they’re still pals. And movies, he likes to go to the movies at night when it’s hot, like it is now.”
“How did you come to be involved with such a mad-dog killer?” Bierce asked Cumpanas softly.
The beaten woman managed a smile. “Johnnie’s good company. Always has good stories, can make you laugh no matter what. Like the way he can walk on his hands all over the room. Funniest thing you ever saw….”
Cumpanas didn’t notice Bierce go absolutely rigid for a few moments, adjusting to the idea that Dillinger, without a doubt, was the man about whom the dying Bonnie Parker had raved.
“I’ve paid my debt to you, Captain Bierce. Now we’re square,” said Nitti.
“What will you do with her?” asked Bierce, gesturing toward the battered woman.
“Not your concern, Captain,” replied Nitti, glancing over to his capo.
“I disagree. I may need her to lure Dillinger out of hiding. I will take her with me.”
The woman and the capo looked at Bierce—one with faint hope, the other with barely suppressed rage. Nitti was silent, and the issue hung in the balance. Then Nitti rubbed his ulcer, sighed, and said, “All right, you can have the whore.” He then looked up at his furious capo. “She didn’t plug your sister’s boy. Dillinger dropped the hammer on him. The important thing is to get him.” He then shifted his attention to Bierce. “Captain, I think it’s in both of our interests if we don’t meet again. Close the door on your way out.”
Bierce nodded slightly to Nitti, then walked over to the chair and took the woman’s arm, pulling her into a standing position. He guided her to the door, opened it, nodded to the crazy-eyed gunman who had been standing sentry, and guided her down the hallway to the elevator. Only when the elevator had started its descent did she begin to speak.
“Why did you take me out of there? They were going to kill me. I am nothing to you.”
Bierce looked at her, and his set features softened somewhat. “I rather disapprove of the murder of women, even those in your line of work. Besides, you remind me of someone I knew many years ago.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my hotel room. Tomorrow, I’ll get you some respectable clothes, then you will help me catch your boyfriend, the man who left you to the tender mercies of the Nitti gang.”
“And what happens to me after that?” she asked in a small voice.
Bierce made no reply.
At 11:00 the following morning, Bierce maneuvered his Hudson into the nearest parking spot, a mere three blocks away, to Wrigley Field. He vaulted easily out of the driver’s seat, went around to the passenger side and held the door open for Cumpanas. Gingerly, she stepped out of the low-slung convertible, smoothed the wrinkles out of her brand-new orange dress, and adjusted her cloche hat to a rakish angle. Bierce cast an appreciative eye over her.
“Mrs. Cumpanas, you are to be congratulated. I feared the dress would not fit you well, but the last-minute alterations you made are splendid. It now fits you like a glove.”
As they began walking toward the stadium, she replied, “I once supported myself as seamstress, back in Roumania. I liked it, but it paid pennies. As soon as I could, I got away from it and started catering to the lusts of men. It paid much better.”
Bierce looked as if he were
going to reply, but in the end said nothing. They covered the remaining distance to Wrigley Field in silence.
When they arrived, a large crowd was already jostling through the gates, even though it was nearly two hours to the start of the game. Many in the crowd were obviously among the unemployed, their ragged, shabby clothing testifying to that fact. However, unlike their usual appearance, there was a cheerful, festive air about them. For a few hours they could forget their problems, thanks to America’s pastime.
To the left of the main entrance, Bierce spotted four men standing around in neat but inexpensive suits, the uniform of a Federal agent. Bierce led Cumpanas over to the men, and shook the hand of the smallest of them.
“Mrs. Cumpanas, allow me to introduce Special Agent Melvin Purvis, one of the Bureau’s best.” He did not bother to introduce the other three, nor did they bother to introduce themselves.
“Well, Bierce, when I got your call late last night, I have to admit it seemed a screwball idea. Dillinger, the man being sought in three states, going to a daytime baseball game? Still, I’m running out of ideas, and I’ll grasp at any old straw. This the woman you talked about?”
“Yes. Mrs. Cumpanas knows Dillinger very well. I know we’ve all seen pictures of him, but photos are never as good as an eyewitness.”
“Don’t need a woman to finger him for me,” muttered the gloomy Purvis. “I see that bastard’s face in my dreams.”
“I agree,” replied Bierce. “Still, it’s better to be doubly sure.”
“So, Bierce, should we split up?”
Bierce shook his head, and gestured to the thickening stream of baseball fans before him. “That’s the only way in, a true bottleneck. Besides, I must have him alive.”
“He murdered two of my best men,” replied Purvis in a low, hatred-charged voice. “He must die for that.”
