Borrango knew that gangsters spoke the truth when their tempers were heated, and he had made his artful insinuation to draw further statements from Cronin.
In this he was successful. Steve Cronin gripped the arms of his chair, and half rose. It was with difficulty that he restrained himself. For a moment, he was ready to leap at suave Mike Borrango.
“I’m a yellow squealer, am I?” he snarled. “You’ll eat those words, Borrango! Bring on your tough gorillas — I’ll mop up all of them! But I can’t fight a guy that I can’t see — a guy like The Shadow!”
Mike Borrango had gained his point. He lifted a restraining hand, and his voice again resumed its softness.
“I did not say that you were a squealer, Steve. I said only what I have heard — that yellow squealers have used the name of The Shadow as an excuse. If you say that The Shadow is real, he must be real. What do you think, Nick?”
Nick Savoli was chewing the end of an unlighted cigar. He looked at Cronin half doubtfully; then he removed the perfecto from between his lips, and answered Borrango’s question, although his remark was addressed to Cronin.
“Tell us more about The Shadow,” he said.
This was the final encouragement that Steve Cronin needed. He sat back in his chair, calmly lighted a cigarette, and began to talk in a leisurely manner. He was careful to give conviction to his story, and he also sought to again gain the favor of Mike Borrango.
“I DON’T blame you fellows for doubting me,” he said. “I didn’t believe in The Shadow the first time I heard of him.
“There was a guy named Croaker, in New York, who was scared of The Shadow. The gang bumped him off for double-crossing them, and the last words he said were, ‘The Shadow!’