Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
It wasn’t until July, 1919, that he was permitted to have visitors at the hospital. When the doors were opened to them they streamed in, Peg Leg Lonergan, Donnelly and Raycraft among the first. They were followed by dock wallopers who hailed the man who had given Dinny Meehan his only licking. They did not bring cheerful news from the docks. They told the bed-ridden patient that Meehan had not only torn down the flags and Lincoln mementoes, but he was back in full power at the Loaders’ Club. But the worst news was that Meehan had joined hands with the hated Al Capone; that he had given Capone control of the coffee docks; and that the former Five Pointer had taken up his post at the gates of the coffee docks and was extorting half a day’s pay from every walloper who did a day’s work unloading coffee. The Irishmen had protested to Meehan against this alliance with Capone, and Meehan’s answer had been to set Navy Street guerillas upon them.
Nor was that all Meehan had done. He had given over to Capone the job of keeping the wallopers tamed and Capone had discovered that the most effective way to subjugate rebellious wallopers was to threaten to steal their wives, daughters and sweethearts and force them into lives of shame.
Wild Bill had been within the shadow of death in France and even now he was not certain that he had passed the danger point. The surgeons doubted that he would live two years even though he had the best attention in hospital. His wounds gave him great pain. He had not given much thought to Meehan or to the affairs of the White Hands. Mention of Al Capone’s name rekindled his old hate.
In spite of the surgeons’ pronouncement that he wouldn’t live a year if he left the hospital, Wild Bill went. Unarmed and clad in a fleece-lined trench coat, he turned up at the gates of the coffee docks and faced Capone.
“It’s a swell day for you to be taking a walk, Capone,” he said.
“Yeah?” grinned Capone.
“Yeah,” Bill repeated. “You better walk while you can.”
Capone’s eyes narrowed. He stood meditating.
“When you start walking,” Bill added, “you better walk far.”
Capone started away.
“Never show your mug around these parts again,” Bill called after him.
“Aw, you won’t always be around here,” Capone snarled back. Yet he kept on walking and finally vanished.
There is only one reasonable explanation of Capone’s willingness to quit Brooklyn at Lovett’s command; he feared Wild Bill, not alone because of the ferocious reputation the weakling had built up, but also because of Lovett’s record of slaughter in the army and the unquestioned sway he held over the men in his gang; his power to command obedience from all men as had been demonstrated by his ability to lead them into the army. Besides, he was a full-fledged hero, decorated by his country.
From the coffee docks Wild Bill hastened to the Lonergan home and paid his respects to Anna. She poured a tale of woe into his ears. Her parents were always at war in the house. If he cared anything for her he ought to marry her and get her away from the constant fighting around her. She intimated that Frank Martin would marry her if he didn’t. She was still eager to find a meal ticket.
But Bill had to start life over and the future was uncertain.
“We’ll see how I turn out with Meehan,” he explained.
“Meehan?” the girl exclaimed.
“Yep, Meehan,” said Bill. “We’ve got a few things to settle.” If Lovett had any deep love for Anna Lonergan he had subordinated it to his hate for his enemies and his desire for power in gangdom.
He left the Lonergan home and went straightaway to the Loaders’ Club. He found Dinny Meehan plunked solidly in his high-backed chair, his four bodyguards in vigilant attendance. Wild Bill glanced up at the dust-streaked picture of the playing cards, then scowled at Meehan.
“You tore down the flags and things, didn’t you?” he said. “You let Capone in on your graft too. I’ve taken care of Capone and now I’m here to take care of you.”
Neither Meehan nor his bodyguards stirred. Perhaps they too felt about Lovett as Capone felt. They knew, of course, that he commanded the loyalty of members of his old gang and that he could win as many more supporters as he needed. And Meehan courted no bloody conflict, when, with a little strategy, he might easily best the returned White Hander.
After a moment of reflection Meehan addressed Wild Bill.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “This Saturday night coming I’ll clear out of here and leave it all to you.”
Lovett agreed to this.
On the Friday night following this quiet encounter, Wild Bill went to a party given in his honor by Owney Manley, an old pal, who had gathered in his home all the men he could find who had given their allegiance to Wild Bill. It was a merry affair. There was much dancing and much grog, and Bill forgot the pain of his wounds after a few drinks of liquor. He became quite hilarious. Toward the end of the night he drew out an automatic .45 and with one well-aimed shot cracked a whisky glass held at the lips of a merrymaker. The crowd was surprised and entertained. It was expert marksmanship, but, more important, Wild Bill now carried a gun. Lovett took pains to explain that he was used to a gun after what he’d seen in France, but he shot only steel-nosed bullets.
“I don’t forget,” he grinned, “that I’ve had soft-nosed bullets thrown into my chest and some of them’s still there. If I’ve gotta shoot anybody I’ll be as easy on ’em as I can.”
The party broke up in the wee hours. Bill started down the front steps. Suddenly he halted. At the bottom of the stairway he saw a man crouching with a knife in his hands. Bill whipped out his automatic and fired. The knife clattered to the sidewalk. Lovett pounced on the figure of a gangster known as Dago Red.
“Cripes, Bill,” Dago Red pleaded, “I was only fooling.”
“Swell way of fooling,” said Bill. “Now go back and tell Meehan what happened. And tell him too he better be out of the Loaders’ Club and out of this town by tomorrow night.”
The submissive attitude of Meehan and his bodyguards was now clear to Wild Bill. Meehan didn’t intend to get out — not if he could put Lovett out of the way. Lovett had beaten the knife-wielder to it, but Meehan was not daunted by this failure.
At noon Saturday plainclothesmen pounced on Lovett and yanked him into court to face a charge of carrying a weapon and feloniously assaulting Dago Red. Unable to reach Lovett with a knife, Meehan was trying to put him in jail. Anything to keep Wild Bill from taking over the Loaders’ Club. A dozen witnesses swore upon the witness stand that Lovett had no gun and added that the only weapon in evidence was the knife carried by Dago Red. Lovett was discharged. With Peg Leg and Donnelly he left the courtroom. They had gone along three blocks when a motor car swung into the curb just ahead of them. Suddenly, from its partly open door, gunfire flashed. Wild Bill dropped to the pavement with six bullets in his emaciated body.
As the car sped away a voice came bellowing out of it — “That’s for what happened at the coffee docks.”
Lovett was rushed to a hospital. Three of the bullets were removed from his side and three remained, leaving six leaden pellets imbedded in his body. The surgeons wanted to probe for all of them, but the patient insisted that “the more bullets I carry around in me the safer I seem to be.” Almost a month later he left the hospital. Police questioned him about the shooting.
“Aw, I know who did it all right,” he said. “But say a word about them? Not me. I’m deaf, dumb and blind when it comes to that.” As a matter of truth, Lovett did not know who had shot him, but the message that was spouted to him from the fleeing car was sufficient to remind him that although Capone had left Brooklyn he still had proxies in Brooklyn to do his deadly bidding. And the Saturday night on which Dinny Meehan was to have abdicated was four weeks in the background. He still held forth in the Loaders’ Club.