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On the Spot: Violence and Murder in Chicago von Wallace, Edgar (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 07.07.2015
  • Verlag: Booklassic
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On the Spot: Violence and Murder in Chicago

On the Spot: Violence and Murder in Chicago was written in the year 1931 by Edgar Wallace. This book is one of the most popular novels of Edgar Wallace, and has been translated into several other languages around the world.

This book is published by Booklassic which brings young readers closer to classic literature globally.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 116
    Erscheinungsdatum: 07.07.2015
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9789635228249
    Verlag: Booklassic
    Größe: 473kBytes
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On the Spot: Violence and Murder in Chicago

Chapter 1


TONY PERELLI was not yellow, either by his own code or judged by standards more exacting. It was yellow, to squeal to futile police, but not yellow to squeal to one's own crowd, and squeal loudly, about injustices suffered. It was yellow to betray a pal, but not yellow if the pal had not acted square or if he himself was yellow; even then it was yellow to tip off the police about his delinquencies. The honourable thing was to take him to some lone place and "give him the works".

Horrified farmers who in the grey of morning found stark things sprawled on the edge of their lands might grow hysterical about the brutality of it, but there it was; justice in a sense, the sort of justice that the west and the middle west understood and countenanced too frequently.

For instance, "Red" Gallway.

Red bad been most things that were wrong and done most things that were indictable, He had been Peterman (which is a euphemism for safe-breaker), con man, hold-up man and keeper of questionable establishments. He came from this strenuous and not too affluent stew of professions into the business of booze running, which gave him wealth beyond his dreams, a comfortable existence, immunity from arrest, and the comradeship of square shooters. Success made him big in the head; he became talkative, a little quarrelsome; crowning offence, he began to sniff the white stuff.

Angelo Verona, the sleek chief of staff, expostulated.

"Say, Red, I'd cut out that stuff. Tony won't stand for coke in this outfit."

Red's ugly face twisted in a sneer. "Is that so?"

Angelo nodded, his grave, brown eyes on the weakling.

"Cocaine never did any good to anybody," he said. "Yeh! It makes you feel bigger than the Wrigley Building for a while, but when the effect passes you're just a hole in the ground. And the first time they get a guy down at Headquarters to quiz him, why, he falls apart."

"Is that so?" said Red offensively.

"That-is-so," nodded Angelo.

Red ran around with a friend-Mose Leeson, sometime machinist from Gary. The men had mean appetites in common, felt more at home in the squalor and dinginess of certain poor areas than in the splendour of lakeside restaurants.

To Leeson was due the credit of a discovery which had an important bearing upon the life of Tony Perelli.

Mose was poor and a sycophant. To him Red was the biggest of Big Shots, a man in the automobile and silk shirt class. He gave to his more fortunate friend the reverence of subject to monarch. It was over a drink at the firm's speakeasy that Mose, gross of mind and body, offered information and a proposal.

Red shook his head.

"Chink girls don't mean nothing to me, Mose," he said. "Listen! There's a girl up town who's nuts about me! Joe Enrico's daughter, but I don't look at her twice. That's me, Mose."

"Sure," said Mose. He looked twice at Minn Lee, and then more. He used to meet her on the stairs of the shabby apartment house where he had his home. She was Chinese and lovely. Small of stature, slim of body, with tiny, white hands that fascinated him. She was lovely, with slanting brown eyes and a rosebud of a mouth. Skin-like satin. When you saw it, you felt it. Her hair, not the blue-black of the Oriental but a sheeny black.

He used to give her a crooked grin. Then he tried to speak to her and found no difficulties. She was very simple and sweet and all too ready to talk. Her name was Minn Lee. Her husband was an artist, and a sick artist. She herself made fashions for catalogues.

Mose was staggered by her frank earnestness, and found no opportunity or opening for a more personal approach. Later, when he suggested supper at a swell place up town, she was more astonished than offended.

"But my husband is ill," she said. "I could not possibly leave him alone."

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