by Otto Penzler
“Would you be willing, Mr. Williams? I need your services against the Gorgons if this proves true or false, and I will mail you a check in the morning as a retainer. But don’t come to see me. Don’t ring me up. I want Michelle Gorgon to think that I have dropped you, perhaps even dropped him. I will get in touch with you when I hear from Italy, or from one who knows much, but will not talk yet. It may be only a few days. It may be a week. What do you say? Will you risk it? The pay will be good.”
“Don’t forget to mail the check in the morning,” was my answer.
CHAPTER XVII
INFLUENCE VERSUS GUN-PLAY
As a matter of fact it was ten days before I again heard from my client, Colonel Charles Halsey McBride. But the check had come, and where it wasn’t a fortune, it was for ten thousand dollars. Which is plenty of jack, as real money goes today.
But I kept to the letter of Colonel McBride’s instruction. I didn’t frequent any place where I might meet the Gorgons. That was a little tough. It might look to the Gorgons as if I were afraid of that “on the spot” threat. Also, I still had the envelope containing the currency and jewelry which Michelle Gorgon had asked me to return to his brother, Eddie. Yep, the temptation was strong to look Eddie up and slip it in his hand. For the money and jewelry were given to The Flame by Eddie—as an inducement, I guess, to bring her into the Gorgon outfit. But Doctor Michelle Gorgon had looked at The Flame and seen bigger things for her. So it was that he suggested rather sarcastically that I return the money and jewelry to Eddie Gorgon.
Anyway, since the killing of Toney, the little drug addict, not far from the Golden Dog night club, Eddie had sort of disappeared from his usual haunts in the city. That is, for several days. The last couple of days he was back again. But I understood that the police were not looking for him. Such was the power of Michelle Gorgon— or the so-called cleverness of the police in giving Eddie a free run. Take your choice.
But, as I said, it was ten days before I heard from Colonel McBride. Then, on Thursday evening, at exactly eleven-fifteen, he called me on the phone.
“I should have called you before.” He got down to business. “Giovoni, Toney, it all seemed so strange. Yet Toney came over on the boat with the Gorgon brothers, over twenty years ago. They were called Gorgonette them. Michelle was twenty-seven then, but looked younger, Joe no more than in his twenties, and Eddie just a small boy. Williams, we may have to start over, try to prove something here in New York. You see, I thought we could pin this crime of years back on Michelle Gorgon. No excitement in the city; no involving others; no influence, no bribery, no jury fixing to fight against. Just the turning of Michelle Gorgon over to the Italian authorities for the murder of his wife years back. Now the Italian investigation seems to have proved a—well—entirely false.”
“There must be something in it. Giovoni was murdered. Toney was murdered. And certainly by the Gorgons. Why kill them if they didn’t fear what they could say?”
“Yes. But, Williams, we should have a long talk. My life was attempted yesterday. Some one else has told me that Michelle Gorgon did kill his wife in Italy. But on top of that I have indisputable evidence from my agent in Naples that Michelle Gorgon, or Michelle Gorgonette was never married in Italy. But, enough talk on the phone. I am wondering if I should come to see you or have you come and—”
“I’ll come and see you,” I cut in quickly. “The Gorgons have killed two men, who for all they know may have told you something. There was an attempt on your life, you say. If the Gorgons think you know too much, then you are a menace to them. And get this straight, Colonel. The Gorgons have a direct and efficient way of dealing with menaces. I’ve been looking up the Gorgon record during the past week. And I guess I can name as many murders that they committed as any dick on the Force, including your friend, Sergeant O’Rourke. But naming them and presenting them as evidence to a jury are two different stories, which the Gorgons know as well as I do.
“It’s well known in the underworld that Joe Gorgon shot down Lieutenant Carlsley over four years ago. Yet, they couldn’t even get the grand jury to indict Joe. Then there’s Eddie Gorgon’s brutal murder of the laundry owner who defied the laundry racket and paid for it with his life. At least four people saw that murder. No graft there. The jury was composed of honest citizens. That was straight out and out terror. One witness was drowned; another had disappeared; and two others changed their stories right on the witness stand, giving a description of a murderer that would better fit any man in the city of New York than it would Eddie Gorgon. Friends gave Eddie a dinner and presented him with a loving cup the night he was freed.
“And what’s more, you’re right about Michelle Gorgon. He’s the brains of the whole show. Directs the killing, covers himself, and never has a hand in it. ‘Murder in the abstract’ is what he calls it. He—” I paused, strained my ear against the receiver. Not a sound. “Are you listening?” I asked, just in a natural voice. No one likes to shoot his trap off just to hear himself talk. At least, I don’t.
“Are you listening?” I tried again, his time louder. Perhaps an anxious note came into my voice as I strained my ears to catch the faintest breath. And I thought that I heard something. A distant voice, or a buzzer, or, damn it, maybe just the odd sounds that the telephone wires put on as an added attraction to the subscriber.
I jiggled the receiver hook, spoke quickly— maybe louder—maybe fearfully. Just instinct. Just those nerves I talk about in others and deny having myself. But somehow I felt that tragedy had suddenly stepped into that distant room, that something had happened to—. And then, when I was sure, and about to jerk the receiver back on the hook and dash from the room, his voice came, low, soft—and maybe it was caution in it instead of fear, maybe an anxiety instead of dread, maybe—. But he whispered, for I barely caught the words.
“Come down then. I’ve got a visitor. I think maybe I’ll learn the truth.”
The voice died. The receiver clicked across the wire, and silence. But had there been a roar—the beginning of a roar, just before that receiver dropped back upon the hook, or had there—? Hell, these Gorgon boys could stir up fancies. Fancies? I thought of the dead snowbird before the night club, the little Italian with the knife in his chest, the—.
“Jerry,” I grabbed up my hat and stepped to the apartment door, “I’m going out again. And put your hat on. I’m taking you bye-bye.”
Jerry’s eyes shone, his lips parted and his big, uneven teeth jumped into the sudden gap. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to get ready. Though I seldom took Jerry with me on any such errand he always hoped that I would, and was always ready. Besides which, Jerry knew his underworld by being kicked around it, not from books or the papers. And he was the best shadow since Mary’s little lamb fell foul of some mint sauce.
It didn’t take Jerry long to turn the corner, dash to the garage and rush my car out. And we were on our way.
“Big thing you’re going on, isn’t it, Boss?” Jerry just bubbled with enthusiasm.
“Big enough, Jerry,” I told him, as I skipped over to Fifth Avenue. I like action, none better. Maybe I got a thrill now. I daresay I was the only man in the city of New York, or out of it, that the Gorgons had put on the spot, and still lived. And what’s more, still intended to remain alive.
Jerry tried again.
“Them Gorgons ain’t it?” And when I looked at him, “When I followed Big Joe I knew who lived in the swell dump he went to. His brother, the Doctor. It’s gospel in the right places that Joe never makes a big move but the Doctor advises it. He never pushed no cart on the Avenue, did the Doctor. He never played any gat in Joe’s rise. Most of the big timers don’t even know the Doctor to speak to. But they know what Joe means when he says, “I’ll think it over,” or “I’ll tell ya tomorrow.” I remember once O’Hara, the big bootlegger, the wise money, hearing him say to Joe Gorgon, a year or two before O’Hara got bumped off, and I came with you—”
“All right, Jerry,”
I helped him out. This lingering over a story was Jerry’s way of finding out if I were interested, “what did Mr. O’Hara pull on Mr. Joseph Gorgon?”
“It was a liquor deal, I think, a big one, for control of the entire Bronx. When Joe told him what was what, O’Hara says, ‘Are you speaking through your own mouth, Joe, or through the mouth of the Third Gorgon?’ And, Bing! Like that, when Joe gave him the office that he was simply an echo, O’Hara smacked right in on the deal—like nothing at all. I hear as how the Doctor makes judges now, and sells justice at so much a head. They say as how he can pull a murderer right out of the Tombs for the right price. That’s how he gets his money, and—. But if it was me, I’d say this Eddie Gorgon is the worst of the lot. Shoot you in the back like THAT.” He snapped his fingers.
“In the back, eh Jerry?”
“Yeah. That’s his way, unless it’s a snowbird. Do you think he got little Toney that night?”
“Maybe.” I was listening though. “But I think, Jerry, if I had to fear any man, I’d pick the influence to fear. It comes natural and sometimes easy to pop at a guy who’s standing behind a rod he didn’t aim right, or pull the trigger quick enough. But influence, you see, hasn’t any body.”
Jerry scratched his head.
“It don’t sound right.” He seemed to think aloud. “But I think I get what you mean. This Third Gorgon don’t sport no firearms. That may be hot stuff for the police, or you, with your finicky ideas. But there’s a hundred or more guys in the city who’d find it much easier to give a guy the works who’s unarmed than—”
“But those guys won’t. Maybe there’s no reason for them to do it. And maybe a good reason why they shouldn’t. You wouldn’t want to be the guy who knocked over Joe Gorgon’s brother, would you?”
“No,” said Jerry, “I wouldn’t. But Joe Gorgon only kills for business, for necessity, while Eddie—. Well—he’s got the killer instinct, Boss. You might duck in and out, and hide from influence—but you can’t do nothing with a gun against your back.”
“And that’s the point,” I told him. “It’s influence, Jerry, that puts that gun against your back, whether it’s Eddie’s gun or Joe’s gun, or a hundred or more other guns. If you kill a rat, another takes its place. If you kill a dozen rats, a dozen take their place. But if you kill influence, you kill where the rats breed. How the devil can you walk in and shoot down an unarmed man,” and, very slowly, “and get away with it?”
“Well, they all get it sooner or later,” Jerry said, philosophically. “But if Eddie Gorgon was after me, like I hear as how he’s after you, I’d forget influence and shoot the guts out of Eddie Gorgon.”
Not elegant? Maybe not. But practical just the same. I simply said:
“Eddie Gorgon is only a common murderer, and as such not to be worried about. You see, it’s influence again, Jerry. If it wasn’t for his brother, he’d have been taken for a ride or roasted at Sing Sing long ago. Now, get this training into your head. A common murderer is only as good as the gun he draws, if you can forget what’s behind him. But—. Here’s where we lay up. My business is just around the corner.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ON THE LONELY STREET
We parked the car and I took Jerry as far as the corner with me. Colonel McBride’s hangout was Number 137.
“No. 137,” I told Jerry, as I tried to point out the house down the street. “It’s possible—” and I stepped back from the corner. Of course I couldn’t be sure, that is, as to the identity of the man who moved restlessly in the shadows across from 137, but one thing was certain. He was conspicuous enough to be a flat-foot; defiant enough to give the office to any marauder that No. 137 was protected by the law and not a safe place to bother. I often wonder why the police go in so much to prevent crime, that is, temporarily, by a display of law, when a little cagy work might capture the criminal and prevent the crime permanently.
“Stick around,” I told Jerry. “If you see any one you fancy, follow him and give me a report later.” And as Jerry grinned up at me, I gave him the orders he liked so well. “On your own, Jerry,” I said, “Scout around the block behind, if you like.”
“Right’o, Boss.” Jerry half raised a hand in salute. And I turned the corner and walked toward 137. Nearly half a short block, it was, and I’m telling you that, for some reason, no one ever found a block so enmeshed with danger, maybe imaginary danger. But you’ve got to admit that since I was in this case every trick had been taken by the Gorgons. And now the fear, well, I won’t admit the word fear, maybe, but anyway, the apprehension that the Gorgons were about to take another trick—yep, in spite of the fact that a bulky shadow, without an attempt at concealment, was crossing the street before I got halfway down the block. And that bulky shadow had all the earmarks of a headquarters detective.
So things were safe enough from that position. I spun on my heel and turned quickly back, slipping close to the shadows of the old houses. Once I looked over my shoulder. The man was hurrying toward me. I increased my pace, reached the corner again and turned it quickly, paused by the building and stuck my eye back down the street.
The man was on my side of the street now, on the house No. 137’s side. He had his hat in his hand and was scratching his head. Twice he stepped toward the corner and twice he drew back again. I couldn’t even see his face, yet I thought that I could read his mind. He was told to watch that house, to watch who came to it. It wasn’t up to him to think for himself.
Finally he hurried back down the street, paused for a moment before 137, and then quickly crossed the street and hurried up the steps of the house opposite. I smiled at that. It struck me that I was to gather the impression that he was an ordinary householder, going home, while he watched me from the darkness of the doorway.
I shrugged my shoulders. There are front doors as well as back doors. After all, I might be wrong about this watcher. But anyway, I wanted my visit to be private.
My car was still parked in the middle of the block, but Jerry was gone. I knew Jerry’s way. He’d walk clean around that block. I skipped down to the next side street. It wouldn’t be so hard to measure off the distance, slip down an alley, straddle a fence and drop into the rear yard of 137.
But I didn’t do that little thing. Just about where I guessed the house behind 137 should be two figures emerged and crossed quickly to a big sedan parked by the curb. You could clearly make the figures out, though to recognize them was not so easy. There was not enough light. But one was big enough to be Colonel Charles Halsey McBride.
As that black sedan door opened, the smaller one of the two men paused, drew back a bit and quickly shoved off the arm of the other, that clutched at his. I jerked out a gun and ran down the street.
One of those two men, the one I thought my client, the Colonel, had thrown up his hands and cried out. A figure had suddenly jumped from the closed car and clutched him. Two other shadows bounded down the steps from a dark vestibule and were on him from behind. Almost in the time it takes to tell it, that one man was bundled into the car and the other man had escaped and was running down the street, away from me.
There was no chance to overtake that car. It had jumped ahead in second gear and was dashing down the block. I saw it swing into Broadway under a light, sway perilously as it turned left, and disappeared from view. But I thought too that I saw a slim, boyish form come from an areaway and start in pursuit of the man who had fled. And with a little gulp of satisfaction I thought that I recognized that slim pursuing figure as my assistant, Jerry.
Now, I could have gotten the man who ran down the block in the same direction the fleeing car had taken. He wasn’t very fast, and slightly bent, and rather uncertain.
But just as I took out after him came more trouble from behind me. I heard the tires skid as a car turned the corner from the same direction I had come. I jumped quickly for the first retreat. A two foot drop into a basement entrance. Turning, I leveled my gun as the car screeched to a stop at the curb. The occupants of that
car had seen me all right, for two men hopped to the street.
I put my gun in my pocket and called out to the broad shouldered man who was slipping along with his back close to the building, toward my hiding place. I had gotten a good look at his map.
“Glory be to God, Race Williams,” said Sergeant O’Rourke. “Surely it’s not you that’s making all this disturbance! You’ll be the bloke that started down the street a few minutes ago, just before the light flashed.”
“What light?” I asked him.
“The—well—the Colonel’s. If he needed help he had only to flash his light on and off in the front room, where he sleeps. And he did just that.”
“When?” I asked.
“Less than three minutes ago.”
I counted up quickly. The time to leave his room, go down the stairs, pass through the lower floor into the back yard, climb the high fence that must be there and pass through the alley to the street. And he hadn’t left that alley in a hurry. Just a slow walk, and—.
“He couldn’t have flashed a light in his front room,” I told O’Rourke, “less than three minutes ago.”
“But he did.” O’Rourke nodded emphatically as he grinned. “I had me own eyes on it. I thought maybe the—some one might try and pay him a visit, so I left the way open for an ‘in,’ you understand. Not an ‘out.’ And it’ll be about three minutes, now, since the light flashed. The boys will be playing the front door, while we take the back. Come on, Race. The Colonel will be safe as a fiddle, with his door locked and his gun in his hand and the police busting in. Make it snappy. I’ve got a few boys across from the front of the house who’ll be in by now. I took no chances.”