Джон Данн - Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 44, No. 5, September 28, 1929

“We’ll make sure of that,” said Jack Conlon.

Then for several minutes Foxcroft could hear little. At intervals Conlon vigorously nodded his small, round head. The gaming-house keeper had a repulsive face, and this evening it wore a leer. His cheek bones stood out prominently.

At length Stuffy McHugh’s voice broke in, smooth, rich, and forceful. “Now, you fellows let me handle that end of it. I’m not a lawyer, but neither am I a fool. Tony must do his stuff. That’s just where you’ve gone wrong once or twice before. You think the details aren’t important—”

“But what’s the need of it, chief,” Conlon protested, “if Massey and Pearson will swear they seen him there? And then there’s Benny — a coupla grand’ll buy his testimony any day.”

“I’ve told you, I’ll handle this. It’s all right for three men to swear a thing happened at a certain place — but under cross-examination they’ll have to go into details before and after. And if they rely on imagination for that part, all three may not imagine the same things. I tell you, for that reason as well as for another, Tony is going to do his stuff.”

McHugh rose abruptly and glanced toward the other end of the room.

“Bugs — there’s a job for you tonight. Foxy — we’ll not need you.”

Foxcroft nodded, set down his glass, and pushed back his chair, while his companion crossed to join the others. When the gang leader said that a man wasn’t needed, it meant that he wasn’t wanted. Foxcroft knew better than to invite displeasure by remaining. He took up his cheap straw hat, opened the door, and stumbled down the long, steep, creaking stairway to the alley at the rear of the building.

The fragments that he had overheard had left him perplexed and uncertain. All of the gangsters, by their tense, quiet demeanor, had made it plain that the occasion was momentous. It might prove an evil night indeed for the unknown victim against whom their plans were being directed!

The Roost was at the top of an old brick building on Columbia Street, in the heart of gangland. Crossing thoughtfully toward an intersecting thoroughfare which led to his third-rate rooming house, Foxcroft caught sight of a crowd gathered on a corner a block farther south. He advanced with interest.

There was a raid in progress — a raid on a notorious dive, Hurley’s gambling joint. Two patrol wagons waited outside, and the lower floors of the structure swarmed with officers in plainclothes. Foxcroft shook his head grimly. Here was another slap for the big mob — a raid conducted within a stone’s throw of their leaders’ conference in the back room at the Roost!

As he moved on, he passed a knot of gangsters on the opposite corner. They were watching the police and muttering darkly. He paused, ostensibly to light a cigarette.

“Leonardos—!”

“He never comes wit’ th’ cops.”

“Dat’s all right wait! De dirty skunk will turn up one o’ dese nights!”

“Leonardos... the—!”

Foxcroft smiled oddly, bitterly, a twisted smile, as he walked through the poorly lighted thoroughfare. Here was an example of the reward of the common crooks, the vast majority of crooks. They weren’t even permitted to share in inside information necessary for their own protection. It was Leonardos, editor of the Beacon, the reform newspaper, whom they blamed for the campaign against gang-controlled interests; it was Leonardos whom they hated and threatened — with never a thought of the man behind Leonardos!

Stuffy McHugh and a few more at the top knew, of course. They were aware that there was another with whom they must reckon; an outsider, a man who had planned the whole long series of raids and prosecutions, and who had signed a contract to rid the city of organized gang rule. A very few knew also that their arch-enemy’s name was Lane — “Under Cover” Lane — a consulting expert. Yet even the chief, McHugh, didn’t guess the whole truth.

The vast campaign had been almost ruinous for McHugh. One by one, his biggest enterprises had been halted; police captains in the gang districts had been moved about like chessmen; and nearly all of the mob’s best friends had been transferred. And McHugh laid the blame upon the police commissioner, wondered at his unerring knowledge; he didn’t suspect that the commissioner’s hand had been forced by the Governor, nor that the latter’s information had come from — Under Cover Lane!

Foxcroft gave a quiet, hollow laugh. Perhaps Lane’s work was nearly ended — this time might be the last! He knew of the sums offered by different gang leaders for the exposure of the secret investigator who had cut off their enormous profits. In Cincinnati, in Cleveland and Brooklyn and other cities, Lane’s identity had never been known.

He had directed huge drives against law-defying organizations: yet in every case, others had received the credit. The present task might have a different outcome — a single slip meant the end.

The end! There wouldn’t be the slightest doubt about that part. It would come without warning, in a flash; and through all the underworlds would spread a murmur of relief and satisfaction. In gangland there is no hatred so deadly as that which the mob holds toward an agent who works from the inside; he is called a snitcher, a stool pigeon, a rat!

Crossing the street, the man known as Foxcroft entered a small rooming house, a dingy and unattractive place like hundreds in the South End. He slipped up the stairs to his room, where he lit the gas, drew the shades, and went to work at once with the thoroughness of one who realized that his life might depend upon his care.

A cracked and dusty mirror hung facing the light, reflecting an oblong patch on the faded wall paper. It was a lean and sallow man of forty, prematurely gray, whom the glass first revealed; a man cheaply yet flashily clothed, with several gold teeth prominent among others broken and darkened, and with hollow, pale, bitter eyes. The underworld was well acquainted with this individual — Foxcroft, inveterate gambler, rapidly aging, buffeted by the winds of chance.

But in a few minutes an amazing change had taken place. The flaring check suit, the bright shirt and tie, were discarded, and the man donned plain, quiet apparel. His sallow, dry complexion disappeared beneath a dampened cloth, and a sponge dipped in dye hid temporarily the gray streaks in his thinning hair. His eyes lost their sunken appearance. Finally he took from his mouth his full set of false teeth, and opened a wallet which he kept in his pocket.

In this wallet were two other sets of plates. One, much more repulsive than that with the gold teeth which he had just removed, displayed only two crumbling fragments adorning the lower jaw and one above. The third set were faultless — small, white, and regular. He selected these, and his transformation was complete.

No longer was Foxcroft, the gangster and gambler, reflected in the mirror. A different man, erect, well-poised, square-jawed, had taken his place. The highest executives of several states knew this man, and listened attentively when he spoke.

Opening a drawer which he kept locked, Under Cover Lane paused, glancing at an assortment of hats and caps. He chose a dark felt, despite the warm evening. Turning out the gas, he quietly raised the shade and window at one end of the room, peering out.

A musty odor rose from the back yard below. There was no sound. Lane groped for the railing of the fire escape and softly descended. In silence he made his way through an alley to the street.

From the point where he emerged, he walked three blocks, then signaled a passing taxicab. Riding to a corner well outside of the South End, he entered a drug store and slipped into a telephone booth.