Thirty Per Cent or Fight
“We have a guest, I see,” remarked the smiling owner of Porpoise Island.
“This fella can fix engines, Boss,” said the leader of the boat’s crew.
“We got stuck at Main Haven and he fixed the trouble in a jiffy. He’s
outa work and I thought----”
Mr. Nevens, searching the G-man with an appraising stare, seemed
satisfied as he interrupted the speaker with, “--Yes, we can find work
for a man who knows how to tend marine engines!”
“Fine,” said Mr. Sandborn, “and what is the pay for the job?”
“Enough to satisfy you, Mister!” Nevens replied. “What else can you do?”
“Anything that’s wanted.”
“Anything, can mean a lot,” Nevens said, leading the way to the cabin.
“Let’s talk this thing over.”
In his private office he seated himself comfortably in his chair and,
poising his feet upon his desk, lit a black cigar, and surveyed Mr.
Sandborn more carefully than even before. He saw before him a medium
built man with regular features of a determined nature and a habit of
holding his hands as if ready to sling them up in attack or defence.
That he might prove a valuable addition to his staff, Mr. Nevens, alias
Cowboy Nevada, felt rather certain and he was toying with an idea. The
idea involved big things and moves must not be too fast. Disaster might
well result!
“Just who are you?” queried Nevada, quietly, his eyes watching the
G-man’s face intently through a whisp of smoke from the cigar.
“The name is ‘Happy’ Gallagher,” responded the G-man, promptly. “I was
born and reared in Kansas City, cut my teeth on a rod, and done some
time in a jail or two till I wised up to the racket.”
“Just what is your racket, Gallagher?” Nevada asked, softly.
“Gallagher” grinned and leaned his hands on the desk as he said, “Doing
jobs for big shots!”
“For instance----?”
“I was right-hand man to Steve Hackinaw out in Chi three years back.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hackinaw was dead so Mr. Sandborn was fairly safe in that statement.
Hackinaw had been “Big Time” in gambling rackets but was done in by
rival factions. His right-hand man had been a fellow closely resembling
Mr. Sandborn. Besides, the underworld had lost track of that “yes-man,”
though G-men knew that he was dead! They had felled him in battle in a
deserted suburban section and the facts had never got into the papers.
“I been taking it easy last few years, Nevada,” said Gallagher, “since
the heat went on and just thought I’d try to land a job somewhere. By
good luck I fell in with your men at Main Haven!”
“You seem to know me, Gallagher,” Nevada said, blowing smoke rings.
“Who doesn’t? You were big guns in the West and I’ve always figured
you’d be somebody to tie up with. It sure was lucky of me to run into
you.”
“Dago ain’t gonna like it, Gallagher, should I use you as my trigger
man.”
“Who’s scared of Dago, Nevada?”
“Well, I’ve got a little job for you. Dago’s kind of careless in some
ways. I want you to keep an eye peeled for two young kids that have
been snooping around here the last few days. You’ve heard of the kids
that helped get Hogan?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of them. Who hasn’t? I’ll land them if they come
round here again! I don’t like kids anyhow!”
“You do the job right, get these kids unharmed and turn them over to
me, and I’ll make things right by you, Gallagher!” Nevada promised.
“Dago’s about washed up, anyhow.”
“You’ve got big plans, Nevada, and you’re the one to see ’em through!”
Gallagher said, in praise.
Nevada patted the six-guns in the scabbards on the wall.
“Gallagher,” he said, seriously, “when I was riding the hot towns and
the road I didn’t know what I do to-night. I’ve got schemes up my
sleeve that will make this country sit up and take notice. Right now
I’ve got a network of men from Maine to California in every big city
and most towns--working for me and the day I’m ready to take things
over in full!”
He made no offer to say more and Gallagher knew the wisdom of silence,
so asked no more questions. But he knew that this ex-cowboy and bad-man
was now a powerful underworld figure, and he knew that the search for
Nevada was over the moment the word was sent to Headquarters. But the
Chief would want to get the entire ring, the entire organization of
Nevada’s crime network. And that would call for evidence, concrete
and definite, and lots of it! It was arrest and imprison Nevada the
bank-robber or wait and nab Nevada the leader of a stupendous crime
syndicate and gather in his henchmen too!
Now the G-man was able to make use of many facts not clearly seen
before. For a year or more the F. B. I. had seen the tentacles of a
vast crime syndicate and had been unable to locate the brains of the
system. In Omaha, a man had been kidnaped and a huge ransom collected.
He was released, but the thing was so cleverly planned that even the
F. B. I. could not yet put a finger on the man back of the “snatch.”
In New York City the vegetable markets had been paying tribute to a
“cabbage king” in the form of special orders for cabbage at fixed
prices “or else----!” Who was the “cabbage king”? Police would have
liked to know. The lottery racket was flourishing throughout the
nation. Dozens of rackets were springing up, never heard of before.
And, instead of being able to trace it to one or two big shots, the
F. B. I. had run up against stone walls and blind alleys because of
crooked lawyers, tight-mouthed suspects, and the resisting surface of
the underworld. Mr. Sandborn began to see that Cowboy Nevada was a big
cog, if not the main cog, in this racket business. He had graduated
from small time bank robbing to specialized crimes.
Now that took millions of dollars of money to keep “the machinery
greased when starting!” Cowboy had gotten about fifty thousand dollars
from that Federal bank and by the time he’d paid for “protection” and
a “fence” to handle the “hot money,” there was probably half that
sum left for his efforts. Therefore he’d gotten unlimited wealth
elsewhere. He might have made the money in the rackets themselves, but
the G-man thought not. No, Nevada must have struck it rich suddenly and
so got his grip on the underworld and the making of his syndicate.
Whatever happened, Mr. Sandborn must keep his identity secret, for
these men would delight in the discovery that he was a law-man,
particularly one of the dreaded G-men. They would find a way to get
rid of him in some unpleasant manner and take their chances with the
F. B. I. proving murder! He could not even be sure that Cowboy was not
suspicious of him now. Time alone could prove that. In the meanwhile he
must play his part as a gunman and aide to the syndicate head, learning
all he could, memorizing everything, and getting to John and the boys
all information possible to help convict these super-criminals.
Dago rapped for admission and upon entering scowled as he sighted
Gallagher. Cowboy, shifting the cigar from one corner of his mouth to
the other, watched the actions of both men with quiet amusement, then
introduced the G-man to Dago.
“Glad to know you, Dago,” Gallagher responded, offering his right hand.
Dago reddened.
“Well, can’t say I’m-a glad!” he retorted, ignoring the hand.
Cowboy’s features did not hint what he might be thinking as he puffed
on the cigar without comment.
“Sorry you feel like that, Dago, it might be better fer you to be
friends with me instead of giving me the cold shoulder. I ain’t never
liked them kind of actions.”
Dago snorted in reply.
“Send up Wan Ho Din, Dago,” Cowboy ordered.
As Dago closed the door Cowboy grinned at Gallagher.
“Dago don’t care much for you, Gallagher.”
Gallagher said nothing, but laughed.
The Oriental cook came toddling in softly in a moment or two.
“You send flo me, Mister Nevens?” asked the cook, meekly.
“Great act, eh, Gallagher?” queried Cowboy, laughing, then to the cook
he said, “It’s o.k., Wan, to be yourself. Gallagher here is one of us.”
“That’s swell!” said the Oriental in plain American slang. “You
sure hooked up with the right outfit when you signed on with--The
Amalgamated Service Corporation of America!”
“Some name!” Gallagher said. “Of course it ain’t a real one!”
“No?” remarked Cowboy. “Take a look at that!”
He handed Mr. Sandborn some stationery with raised, fancy printed
headings. The name was there, in full, with, “Raymond Nevens,
President” in modest letters!
“Official stationery and all, Gallagher! That’s the way we do things!
Like to see the thing worked?” he asked, his eyes glinting.
“Sure, go ahead, Cowboy.”
“Take a letter, Wan,” remarked Mr. Nevens.
Gallagher took a seat in a comfortable chair while the cook sat in
another seat and began taking down a letter in short-hand as the
astonishing Mr. Nevens dictated. It was a very cleverly worded letter
which sounded businesslike and innocent of wrong-doing but which
really was full of veiled threats and intimidation. Addressed to
a large contracting firm in New York it professed to offer “night
watchman service for which a small fee is charged, considering the
fine service given.” Actually, anyone on the inside track and knowing
what the wording really meant, as Mr. Sandborn well did, the letter
was an invitation to let the gangsters have ten per cent of the money
received from every contract, for which ten per cent they would consent
to keep the prospective buildings free from strikes and trouble while
being built. Actually the letters implied that if this offer were not
accepted serious consequences would result!
Mr. Sandborn knew the story of that system well. And he knew that the
contractor, if of the usual type, would accept the offer because, as
long as that gang existed, not only would his business be faced with
ruin but his life might be taken as well! New York police could not
cope with the gang for they could not locate its head, hidden as he was
on one of the hundreds of islands along the coast, and surrounded by an
excellent system of fake addresses, names, and a dozen forms of legal
detours. The F. B. I., once on the trail, would have men planted, as
was Mr. Sandborn, right in with the gang when possible, and so learn
its secrets and strike at the right time to clean up the mob.
“How’s that for a letter, Gallagher?” asked Nevens, as Wan Ho Din began
to type out the final copy.
“It ought to get results!” agreed Mr. Sandborn truthfully. “Do you ever
have trouble lining the boys up?”
“Tell him about Teverton Products, Wan!” suggested the happy Mr. Nevens
proudly.
“Teverton Products made woolen blankets, Gallagher,” Wan said, “and we
offered to increase their production for them by selling their blankets
at higher prices to a string of hotels Mr. Nevens controls. Teverton
Products refused to do business, partly because we wanted ten per cent
of their year’s business from then on, so some of the boys did a little
night work down there at the plant and a lot of machinery got bunged
up. The mill hasn’t been doing so well since!”
“People must be fools not to see what we have to offer,” Cowboy
pointed out. “Suppose you’re in business making, let’s say, broom
handles and handles for tools. Now, you ain’t doing extra well on
account of your competitors is cutting prices on you. Well, you give us
ten per cent of your profits and we’ll guarantee that your competitors
will boost prices and that you’ll get, say, one hundred thousand
dollars extra business that year!”
“That’s service!” Mr. Sandborn agreed.
“Well, we got about eighty per cent of the business in this country
lined up now, Gallagher, and half of it don’t know it yet! But when the
time comes, and it ain’t far distant, we’ll be cashing in on all of
them. I’ve put about eight million dollars into this business and I’m
getting five times that a year now, returns. I got a nice little nest
egg of reserves left and I’m not sure how much, either. Bet you don’t
know where the reserves is, either!”
Gallagher admitted that he had no idea where Cowboy kept his reserve
cash.
Wan and Nevens exchanged looks and just smiled.
“If you ain’t too busy to-night, Gallagher,” said the amiable Mr.
Nevens, “I’ll show you something that’ll pop your eyes out!”
Dago rapped at that moment to announce visitors.
“Who is it, Dago?” Cowboy asked, pulling out another cigar and lighting
a match.
“Machine-gun Hegarty hisself aboard the _Sea Hawk_!”
Mr. Nevens went taut about the jaws and bit hard on the unlit cigar.
“Stick around Gallagher, and listen to the fun,” said he, then to Dago
he said, “Send him up, Dago. And keep an eye on his right-hand man. I
don’t want no junk stolen.”
Now Mr. Nevens, for all his slang and roughness when in the privacy of
his office, could be the soul of polished gentility when he desired, a
veneer learned at the time he laid aside his old cowboy trappings and
decided to cut himself a piece of the world’s cake. He displayed this
refined side of himself now by putting the unlighted black cigar into
his desk-drawer and lighting, instead, one of more expensive make.
Machine-gun Hegarty came in with a flourish. He was some six feet five
inches tall, broad-shouldered, groomed to a nicety, and correctly
attired in every way for yachting.
He did not know Mr. Sandborn, whom he now met as Gallagher, but the
G-man knew him well. Hegarty was one of those smooth confidence men
with such a legal knowledge and society background that even his
coarser moments of bloodshed were not provable in court. He had not
acquired his nickname for nothing, for unlike most of the confidence
gentry, Hegarty did not hesitate to use a machine gun upon his
competitors when necessity required it. Loads of money spent on skilled
and crooked lawyers and great care not to leave fingerprints near his
crimes had kept the slippery Mr. Hegarty comparatively safe from the
hands of justice; but Mr. Sandborn had an idea that justice would win
the day before long. The F. B. I. would be interested in Mr. Hegarty’s
entrance into the field of intimidation and the “service racket.”
“Charmed to know you, Mr. Gallagher,” Hegarty said, gravely shaking
hands.
He had a slimy manner about him not to be removed by his warm brown
eyes and his well-shaven face. Dissipation had left lines about his
eyes and a certain paleness about his jaws and his thin lips curled
back from large teeth. Society folk spoke of him as “unique.” Mr.
Sandborn thought a snake might be “unique” also, on occasion.
“And now to business, Nevens, old boy,” said Hegarty, turning to Cowboy.
“You know what my proposition is, Hegarty,” Cowboy said. “You come in
with me on the society end of this game and I’ll protect you for thirty
per cent of the proceeds.”
Hegarty frowned.
“Be reasonable, my dear Nevens.”
“Thirty per cent, Hegarty. I’m taking the risks for you. Surely, my
good fellow, you wouldn’t leave me empty handed!”
“It’s too much, Nevens, old thing. I’ve a notion to disregard you
entirely.”
“You forget how unhealthy that might be!” Cowboy sighed, quietly.
The other shifted in his seat.
“You forget I’ve a reputation with a machine gun!”
“So has Gallagher, and so has Dago, Hegarty!”
The visitor arose abruptly.
“I can’t pay thirty per cent and I’m not going to. This is war, Nevens.
You may think you can get control of this entire country, and you’ve
murdered fifty men so far to do it, but I’m not done yet! Now I’ll make
a proposition of my own--you pay me ten per cent from now on of your
entire income, or I’ll rub you out!”
Gallagher knew that this was preposterous and so did Hegarty but it was
said and done and it meant war between the two factions. That there
might be instant gun-play in that small room, Mr. Sandborn had no fear.
Both men were crack shots and each respected the other’s speed in
drawing a weapon.
“Let’s make it a week from to-day, at midnight, Hegarty,” Nevens
suggested.
“Fine, and get your bullet-proof vest on, Cowboy--you’ll need it!”
The charming Mr. Hegarty left after that without the formality of
shaking hands and Nevens put away the expensive cigar, breaking it in
pieces in the ash tray, and getting out his old black one.
“Gallagher, I ain’t never seen none of your shootin’. What say you and
Dago show me some typewriting?”
“O.k., Cowboy, let’s go.”
As a member of the F. B. I., Mr. Sandborn was an expert shot with side
arms, machine guns, or rifles, far better, in fact, than any of the
gangster rats he had yet met up with. He now followed Mr. Nevens out of
the office and down through the building into the underground passages.
Wan Ho Din, who had been a silent listener to the incident, was now
sent to get Dago. He returned presently with the swarthy mobster and
the party adjourned to a special long gallery at the end of which
moving figures traveled on endless tracks just as in any shooting
gallery.
The contestants took turns with revolvers, automatics, and machine guns
and the gallery rang with the rain of gunfire. It became very apparent
that the new gunman of the Nevens’ gang was far superior to Dago who
had previously been the best shot in the outfit and the fat man became
angrier and angrier as the minutes passed.
“Well, Dago,” said Cowboy, “I guess that sort of washes you off the
list as my right-hand man.”
“There’s one thing he ain’t done yet, Cowboy, and you was always one
to say it had ta be done before you’d give me the gate!” sneered Dago,
with hard eyes.
“And what might that be, Dago?”
“Let’s see how good-a this typewriter artist is with his fist in a
free-for-all!” Dago cried, heatedly.
Mr. Sandborn knew what that meant--a fight free of rules. Anything
would go! But he had to play this game through to the bitter end for
the sake of law and order and the future of the F. B. I.
“Let’s get at it. O.k., Cowboy?”
Cowboy grinned with delight.
“Get going--you two!”