Doctor Who - [New Adventure 29] - [Vampire Trilogy 2] - Blood Harvest

by Terrance Dicks

  "Any other tricks I should know about?"

  "Well, he's trans-dimensional: he can move through time and space pretty much as he likes. Vanish from one planet, reappear on another. Makes him hard to catch."

  "So how do we? Catch him, I mean?"

  "We use his one weakness - his vanity. He knows I'm here and he knows I'm hunting him. He can't resist a challenge. He's already tried to strike at me through you. No doubt he'll try to kill us both in some frightfully amusing way, and he'll want to be there to enjoy it. That's when we'll get him."

  "So we're using ourselves as bait? If we do catch him, can we kill him?"

  "He can't be killed but he can be confined, in this." The Doctor held out the sphere. "This is a sensosphere with a built-in force-field. As you saw, it holds a record of the suffering Agonal's caused. He'll find it irresistibly attractive. Once he touches it, it will absorb and imprison him."

  "Like a genie in a bottle?"

  "Exactly," said the Doctor. "Like a genie in a bottle!"

  But as yet, the genie was still unconfined.

  "I don't want any more arguments from you, Captain Reilly," shouted Big Bill Thompson. "I want a total crackdown, starting first thing tomorrow. You can call on the other precincts for all the men you need. Every speakeasy, brewery and illegal beer joint you can find. It's time these hooligans learned who's boss around here! Oh, and Reilly - you don't have to be too gentle about it. If one or two of these guys get hurt or even killed resisting arrest, well, it all helps to relieve the pressure on the courts."

  At the other end of the phone, Reilly said, "If that's what you want, Mr. Mayor, that's what you'll get. I'm to hit everyone, you say? No exceptions?"

  "No exceptions!"

  "What about Doc?" Thompson looked up at the tall, thin aide standing at his shoulder. The aide whispered briefly in his ear.

  "Hit Doc's Place as well," bellowed the Mayor. "I've been talking to a guy who knows, and these Washington connections Doc talks about are all fake. He's just a cheap hoodlum like the rest of them!"

  Thompson hung up the phone. "That's telling them, Mr. Mayor," said the tall aide standing at his shoulder. "I can just see the headlines: Mayor Thompson Cracks Down on Chicago Crime! When they see those headlines in Washington it won't be Mr. Mayor, it'll be Mr. President."

  Lost in dreams of Presidential glory, Big Bill Thompson sat sipping scotch in his darkening office. He didn't even notice when the tall aide faded away into the shadows, leaving him alone.

  25 CRACK-DOWN

  Early next morning, Captain Reilly was addressing an astonished gathering of his fellow Chicago police captains, all big, beefy prosperous-looking men much like himself.

  "The orders come straight from the Mayor," he said. "If you don't believe me you can call him up and check."

  He looked round the circle of angry and resentful faces. "Now, 1 know what you're all thinking. This is going to mean an interruption in the weekly pay-packet, and I don't mean the pittance you get from the City of Chicago. There'll he no more brown envelopes coming our way for a while. But I've been thinking things over, and for once his honour is right. He's under a lot of pressure, and he has to do something to make himself look good. Besides, these fellers have been getting above themselves entirely. There's poor Red Duffy killed, one of our own, and McSwiggin and Lingle as well. A police captain, a D.A. and a journalist! It could be one of us next!"

  He paused, watching his words sink in. "And remember this - it can't last long. The good citizens of Chicago have to have their booze or his honour will lose their votes. Before very long it'll be business as usual. When it is, the cost of operating will have to go up. Believe me, they'll be so glad to be open again, they'll pay up and like it!" He stood up. "So be off with you now - oh, and just one more thing. You can hit where you like, and be as rough as you like, but no one's to touch Doc's place. That's a pleasure I'm reserving for myself - a little treat at the end of the day."

  Inspired with a new sense of civic duty, Chicago's finest went out to bust a few heads.

  Ace slept in next morning. When she came down, the Doctor and Dekker were drinking coffee in the alcove, Happy was mopping the floor and Luigi was polishing glasses behind the bar. Luigi poured her a cup of coffee, and she went over to join the others.

  "Mr. Dekker says the police are on the rampage," said the Doctor.

  "I got the word straight from my pal Eliot," explained Dekker. "He's like a kid in a candy-store. Total crackdown, no exceptions, no mercy. I thought I'd better come and warn you."

  He reached down beside his chair and came up with an elaborate card embossed with a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a bedraggled bunch of flowers. Proudly he presented them to Ace.

  She looked at them with distaste. "What the hell is all this garbage, Dekker?"

  Dekker looked hurt. "Presents for my best girl. Don't you know it's St. Valentine's day?" He leaned over and gave Ace a quick kiss. Automatically she raised her fist to thump him, decided against it and kissed him back. She was getting much too used to Dekker.

  "About this crack-down," she said. "I thought all the cops were on the take?"

  "Most of "em are," said Dekker. "But cops have a natural hatred for hoods. Being paid off only makes it worse. A lot of old scores could get settled in the next few days."

  The Doctor said, "It sounds as if we'd better stay closed for a while." He waved Luigi over to the table. "Luigi, we're closed down till further notice. Tell the staff they'll all be paid as usual till we open again. Lock up tight and don't let anyone in, especially the police."

  "Sure Doc, me and Happy will take care of things. Hey Happy?"

  "Sure thing, boss. We'll clean the joint up real nice and have a grand reopening."

  "What are we going to do if we don't have to work?" said Ace.

  "Easy," said Dekker. "If it's okay with Doc, I'll take you out and show you the town."

  You could hear the scream of police sirens, the sound of shattered wood and breaking glass, the shouts and gunshots and the dull thud of police nightsticks thumping criminal skulls all over Chicago.

  Squads of police burst into countless bars, speakeasies, saloons and soda parlours, seizing stocks of booze, rousting the customers, arresting the owners. Seven breweries were raided and padlocked, and notices nailed to the doors: CLOSED FOR ONE YEAR FOR VIOLATION OF NATIONAL PROHIBITION ACT.

  Eliot Ness and his squad of Untouchables got hold of a heavy truck, reinforced the front bumper and drove straight through the locked door of a booze warehouse.

  Police cells were filling up all over Chicago.

  In Schofield's flower shop, Pete Gusenberg and Bugs Moran held a crisis conference.

  "I tell you it's the straight dope," Moran was saying. "I got it from this guy works in the Mayor's office."

  Gusenberg frowned. "Oh yeah? Which guy?"

  "Tall, skinny guy, I don't remember his name. Anyway, he says this clean-up is all a fix, see, between Thompson and Capone."

  "The way I hear it Capone's joints are getting hit as well."

  "Sure, the cops'll knock over one or two of Al's places to make it look good, but we're the real targets. When all this is over, we'll be outta business and Capone will be sitting pretty."

  "Maybe it's time we did something about Al," said Gusenberg. "We oughtta take care of him before he takes care of us all like he did poor Hymie, right out there on that sidewalk. I'll talk to some of the boys."

  Moran shook his head. "No, this is too important. We'll do something about AL all right - and we'll do it ourselves."

  Later that day, as Al Capone's Cadillac was pulling up outside the Lexington Hotel, a black Packard drove by, a tommy-gun sprouting bullets from the open window. Capone's car was sprayed with .45 calibre bullets from end to end. Had it been any ordinary vehicle those inside would certainly have been killed. But Capone's new Cadillac weighed seven tons. It had armour-plated bodywork and its windscreen, side and rear windows were made of bullet-proof glass t
hree inches thick.

  When the shooting stopped and the Packard had disappeared, Capone got out of the car unhurt and stomped into the foyer of the hotel. He stopped for a moment and spoke to Frank Rio, who was at his side as always. "You get a look at them?"

  "Moran and Gusenberg. Gusenberg driving, Moran handling the chopper."

  Capone said, "Okay, that does it. Enough is enough. Send for Anselmi and Scalise. And put some of the boys onto tracking those guys down."

  Al Capone was alone when he got into the lift, yet somehow he wasn't surprised to see the tall thin man lounging in the corner. This was one of his best men, a trusted adviser. Who else could it be?

  "You took the right decision, boss," said the tall man as the lift swept upwards. "Those guys have been asking for it."

  "Anselmi and Scalise will take care of "em," grunted Capone. "The problem's going to be finding them."

  "I know how we can find them," said the tall man. "And I know how you can get them exactly where you want them."

  North Clark was a shabby, ordinary sort of street lined with shops, rooming houses and small businesses. Number 1222 was a grubby one-storey brick building with black painted windows. A placard on the door read SMC Haulage Company.

  The front part of the building was partitioned off to form a small shabby office. The rest of it formed a garage, entered by double doors from the back alley. The garage was owned by the North-side mob, used for the storing and distribution of bootleg booze. So far it had escaped the attention of Reilly's crack-down squad.

  That morning the garage held a couple of empty trucks. One of the trucks was jacked up, a mechanic working underneath. His name was John May, and he'd brought his alsatian, Highball, tying it to the wheel of the truck.

  Watching him work there stood a small group of men in overcoats and hats. Pete Gusenberg and his brother Frank, a small-time gunman called Jim Clark, Frank Snyder the garage owner and a failed optician called Schwimmer, a minor hanger-on.

  A stocky man in a brown hat and grey overcoat came into the garage. His name was Al Weinshank, a speakeasy owner who handled liquor distribution for the gang. In build and appearance he was very like Bugs Moran, and the two were very often mistaken for each other.

  (The mistake was being made now. In a diner across the street a watcher picked up a telephone, dialled and said, "Moran's just gone in.")

  Weinshank looked around the garage. "They ain't here yet?"

  "They'll be here," said Pete Gusenberg. They were waiting for a hijacked consignment of Old Log Cabin whisky. The unknown hijacker had offered the Northside mob a good deal, saying there was plenty more where this came from. In these hard times it was a deal not to be missed. The fact that the booze had been hijacked from Al Capone made the deal all the sweeter.

  The hijacker had insisted on dealing with Pete Gusenberg and Bugs Moran in person. Although he lived in the Parkway Hotel just round the corner, Bugs Moran, luckily for him, was late.

  A black car drew up outside the front of the garage. It was a black seven-seater Cadillac like the ones used by the detective squads. It had a siren and a gong and a gunrack behind the driver's seat. Five men got out, leaving the driver at the wheel. Witnesses later described the fifth man as being especially tall and thin. Two of the men who got out were in police uniform. They were carrying shotguns.

  Bugs Moran and his bodyguard Ted Newberry appeared around the corner just as the men in police uniform got out of the car.

  "Ah hell, a raid," said Moran disgustedly. He hesitated for a moment.

  "No point getting pinched for nothing, boss," said Newberry.

  "Yeah, you're right. We'll go back to the Parkway and call a mouthpiece."

  They turned and went back the way they came.

  The two uniformed men in the lead, the group of raiders forced open the flimsy door, went through the empty office and down the narrow passage that led to the garage.

  At the sight of the blue uniforms, Peter Gusenberg echoed Moran's words, "Ah hell, a raid. Okay boys, no trouble." For bootleggers a police raid was just a professional hazard. All it meant was a bit of pushing around from the cops, a few hours in a cell, a speedy release when the mob mouthpiece turned up with habeas corpus writs and bail money.

  "What are you trying to pin on us?" said Frank Gusenberg. "There ain't even any booze here yet!"

  One of the men in uniform said, "Up against the wall in a line, hands up." He pointed to the mechanic. "You too." Covered by the two shotguns, the gangsters obeyed.

  Schwimmer the little optician tried to protest. "Officer, I'm not really -"

  "Shaddup. In line with the rest."

  When the line was formed one of the uniformed men went down it, taking guns from the Gusenbergs, Clark, Snyder and Weinshank and tossing them to one side. Schwimmer and May, the mechanic, were unarmed. "Okay. Now turn to face the wall."

  Hands still high above their heads the seven men faced the brick wall of the garage. It was to be the last thing they saw.

  Two of the men in plain clothes took tommy-guns from under their long overcoats. They formed a second line, two tommy-gunners in the centre, a shotgunner at either end.

  The fifth man, the tall one, stood a little apart, watching. Then he smiled and raised his hand.

  The garage exploded in a roar of sound, the harsh chattering of the tommy-guns punctuated by the boom of shotgun blasts.

  The first sweep of sub-machine-gun bullets took the line of men at shoulder level, later sweeps riddled them lower across the body. Repeated blasts of buckshot made doubly sure. Four of the men fell straight forward, lying at right angles to the bullet-pocked wall. Clark half-turned and fell sideways, Pete Gusenberg slumped face-down across a wooden chair. One of the machine-gunners fired a final burst, spraying the prone bodies at head level.

  The noise died away and the five men walked out of the garage, leaving the way they had come. The alsatian dog Highball, still tied to the wheel of the truck, howled miserably, struggling to reach his dead master where he lay in a spreading pool of blood.

  Several people heard the noise of shooting, but gunfire wasn't so unusual in Chicago. A lady in the apartment house opposite was cleaning her front room window. She saw three men come out of the garage, covered by two policemen with shotguns, and assumed she was seeing an arrest.

  "They all got in the car and drove away," she said later. "The funny thing was, one of the fellers being arrested, the tall thin one, was smiling."

  In his hotel suite, Al Capone was listening to the report of his adviser. "So, you missed Bugs - still, you got both Gusenberg boys. Two out of three ain't bad."

  "The danger isn't over," said the tall man. "There are still people out to get you and some of them are the ones you trust the most."

  He began to talk in a low hypnotic voice. Capone listened appalled as the extent of the treacherous plotting against him was revealed at last.

  The anger turned to a fierce delight as his friend, his one trusted friend, explained how he could take vengeance on his secret enemy. "Who'da thought it'd be him all along," whispered Al Capone. "Well, I'll take care of him. I'll take care of them all."

  The Doctor sat alone in the empty bar, grey eyes staring into nothingness. He was letting his mind range through time and space and events.

  The anonymous message from Gallifrey, the summons from Romana. He ought to do something about that soon and about Bernice as well, but he was close, so close ...

  It was like playing three-dimensional chess in the dark with an opponent who could become one of the pieces at will. Or even several of the pieces.

  But was there another game behind the game? A voice inside his head whispered, "To lose is to win, and he who wins shall lose."

  There was a distant ringing sound and the Doctor became aware that someone was calling him. It was Luigi from behind the bar.

  "Telephone for you, Doc." He lowered his voice. "It's the Big Fellow."

  The Doctor got up and went over to the telepho
ne that stood on the bar. "Hello?"

  A rich throaty voice said, "That you, Doc? This is Al."

  "How are you, Mr. Capone?" "Fine, Doc, fine ... if it wasn't for them lousy cops. They hit your joint yet?"

  "Not yet. I've closed down for a while just to be on the safe side."

  "Smart move. Me, I'm taking a little vacation till things blow over. Going down to my little place in Miami. Listen Doc, you know that line you fed me about some guy stirring things up so he could take over? Well, I think you're right and I think I know who it might be."

  "I'd be very interested to hear."

  The voice became confidential. "I don't wanna talk over the phone, Doc. Listen. I'm giving a little dinner party tonight, over at the Lexington. Why don't you come? We'll have a quiet word and I'll spill all I know. Bring Miss Ace as well."

  The Doctor thought for a moment. "I'd be glad to," he said. "I can't speak for Ace, she isn't here, but I'll certainly pass on your invitation."

  "Swell. I'll leave word at the door. Oh, and it's formal - tuxedo, the works. Be seeing you, Doc."

  The Doctor put down the phone. For a moment he stood lost in thought. "Tell Happy I'll be needing him to drive tonight, will you, Luigi? I'm going to supper with Mr. Capone."

  Ace had to admit it, she was having quite a day. Dekker had driven her all over Chicago, showing her everything from dazzling new skyscrapers to tenement houses where immigrants cooked alky for Capone in illicit kitchen stills.

  They'd talked to cops and crooks and all kinds of people in between. Dekker seemed to know everyone. They'd seen police cars tear down the streets with howling sirens, and seen axe-wielding cops smashing up a speakeasy.

  She'd met Dekker's friend Eliot Ness, an astonishingly young-looking man with an honest, square-jawed face like a clean-cut boy scout leader. They'd even gone on one of his raids, riding in the cab of the truck as it smashed through booze-warehouse doors, leaping out to help arrest the astonished gangsters inside.