Keen journalists sought to find a motive in the affray. Had Thurman been identified with any Chicago mob, the killing would have presaged a new gang war. As it was, the New Yorker appeared to be a free agent.
Both Genara and Anelmo read the accounts with interest, and felt real satisfaction in the fact that Thurman had arrived at the scene of the crime before the police.
They realized that matters would be serious for them if they were known as the murderers. Larrigan had made statements to the press, and anything that might connect Nick Savoli with the killings would mean the beginning of gang war.
ONLY three men knew the truth of the affair at the apartment house. Genara and Anelmo intended to say nothing. Monk Thurman was evidently willing to take the blame.
For once, the grapevine telegraph of gangdom, that secret channel through which many facts became known to the underworld, was silent and inactive.
Every Chicago mobster, from the weakest hoodlum to the big shot himself, was completely fooled by the network of circumstantial evidence that pointed to Monk Thurman.
It was not surprising that Nick Savoli and Mike Borrango were deceived. Both had expected a battle between their new torpedo and Larrigan’s allies. For once, the big shot grinned, as he gloated over the newspaper reports, and his prime minister also wore a smile of enjoyment.
“A good fellow, this Monk,” observed Savoli, as he sat in the privacy of his den. “Two at one time. Quick. Right away. Leaves nothing behind him.”
“They can’t convict him if they do catch him,” responded Borrango. “The only evidence they’ve got is that he was there.”
“Right, Mike,” replied the big shot. “But better than that — Larrigan can’t trace this back to us.”