THE GANG LEADER
With the arrest of Dopey Jack, it seemed as if all the forces of the gang world were solidified for the final battle.
Carton had been engaged in a struggle with the System so long that he knew just how to get action, the magistrates he could depend on, the various pitfalls that surrounded the snaring of one high in gangland, the judges who would fix bail that was prohibitively high.
As he had anticipated and prepared for, every wire was pulled to secure the release of Rubano. But Carton was fortunate in having under him a group of young and alert assistants. It took the combined energies of his office, however, to carry the thing through and Kennedy and I did not see Carton again for some time.
Meanwhile we were busy gathering as much information as we could about those who were likely to figure in the case. It was remarkable, but we found that the influence of Dorgan and Murtha was felt in the most unexpected quarters. People who would have talked to us on almost any other subject, absolutely refused to become mixed up in this affair. It was as though the System practised terrorism on a large scale.
Late in the afternoon we met in Carton’s office, to compare notes on the progress made during the day.
The District Attorney greeted us enthusiastically.
“Well,” he exclaimed as he dropped into his big office chair, “this has been a hard day for me—but I’ve succeeded.”
“How?” queried Kennedy.
“Of course the newspapers haven’t got it yet,” pursued Carton, “but it happened that there was a Grand Jury sitting and considering election cases. It went hard, but I made them consider this case of Dopey Jack. I don’t know how it happened, but I seem to have succeeded in forcing action in record time. They have found an indictment on the election charges, and if that falls through, we shall have time to set up other charges against him. In fact we are ‘going to the mat,’ so to speak, with this case.”
The office telephone rang and after a few sentences of congratulation, Carton turned to us, his spirits even higher than before. “That was one of my assistants,” he explained, “one of the cleverest. The trial will be before Judge Pomeroy in General Sessions and it will be an early trial. Pomeroy is one of the best of them, too—about to retire, and wants to leave a good record on the bench behind him. Things are shaping up as well as we could wish for.”
The door opened and one of Carton’s clerks started to announce the name of a visitor.
“Mr. Carton, Mr.—”
“Murtha,” drawled a deep voice, as the owner of the name strode in, impatiently brushing aside the clerk. “Hello, Carton,” greeted the Sub-boss aggressively.
“Hello, Murtha,” returned Carton, retaining his good temper and seeing the humour of the situation, where the practice of years was reversed and the mountain was coming to Mahomet. “This is a little—er—informal—but I’m glad to see you, nevertheless,” he added quietly. “Won’t you sit down? By the way, meet Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson. Is there anything I can do for you?”