Gangster's Brand
By  P.  T.  LUMAN 
Author of "Kid Ice," etc.
TWO small trim feet, then shapely legs in sheer silk, swung below the fire-escape in the dim light of the areaway.
They swung only for an instant and then dropped, ten feet to the concrete pavement below. The girl staggered from the shock, and then, picking herself up, swung back into the shadow of the big apartment building, hugging the wall as she regained her breath.
A wicked-looking gat glistened in her right hand as her snapping black eyes riveted on the iron door above her through which she had reached the fire-escape and safety.
Carlotta Wynn, active member of "Mort" Mitchell's mob, waited expectantly for the opportunity to plug the guy or guys who had spoiled one of the prettiest lays the gang had had for many a month.
A shadow moved behind her, far back in the areaway in which she stood. The gat in the girl's hand swung around like lightning.
"Stick 'em up," she said through gritted teeth, "or I'll	!"
"Out of here, quick, kid,' responded a guarded, but agitated voice, and Mort Mitchell himself motioned the girl to his side. With Mort leading, the rod and the moll stole through the shadows to a doorway in the wall surrounding the court and slipped through as Mitchell threw the door open cautiously.
They were in the alley behind the big apartment. A half-block away was their getaway car, planted there a half-hour before with "Needle" Sam Schwartz at the wheel and with; the engine running. They hustled to the corner of the alley and looked around the protecting wall cautiously. The car was there, and Barry Crandall, the fourth of the mob, was stepping into the front seat with the driver.
"Take the right-hand side of the street and hit for that car as fast as you can make it," whispered Mort, "I'll take the left hand side-and watch!"
The girl's gat was hidden under her light coat now and she walked quickly to the car. Mort hopped into the seat beside her just as
Needle Sam stepped on it and the big car jumped away from there;
There was cursing a-plenty as the car dashed through side streets where traffic cops would not bother) them. For the third time in two weeks, Mort Mitchell's mob had been within an inch of grabbing off some of the softest-looking hauls in their history. And for the third time, just as everything was right for the heist, something had gone wrong. The fall guy was wised up-and Mort and his mob had gotten nothing for their carefully laid plans.
Mort and his mob were being double-crossed and everyone of them knew it. After the curses came silence as the minds of the four recalled the mysterious jinx which seemed to have fastened itself upon the mob. Three times-and everyone the same. Even as the roaring car sped toward their hideaway the four looked at each other curiously, and askance. Suspicion, even between members of the mob against each other, was growing. The same thought came to all. Somebody in the mob-or somebody in a position to know their movements-was a rat!
Mort Mitchell, thinking deeply, was puffing feverishly on his cigarette as the car pulled into, the garage in back of "Dapper" Dan's speakie, where the gang hung out.
"In the back room," Mort said curtly as they climbed from the car, and the four slipped through the passageway between the garage and the farthest back room of Dan's. Mort Mitchell was going to find out, and that very night, too, if he could, just who was putting his mob over the jumps of failure. He sat at the end of the table and nodded to Dapper Dan, who appeared at the signal which came with their entrance.
"Send a bottle of rye and some soda, Dan," said Mort grimly, "and then go out and forget we're here. Don't let anybody disturb us, for this ain't no mass meeting. This is a secret party that may end seriously for somebody!" His dark eyes snapped as he looked into the faces of his mobsters. The bottles were brought and the door snapped shut behind Dapper Dan. Mort poured himself a stiff shot of rye and shoved the bottle down the table to the others. They poured and drank and Mort, throwing his hat on the near-by desk, faced them again.
MORT didn't look the part of the mobster any more than Carlotta Wynn looked the role of a moll. He was tall and thin, but of a deceptive thinness which concealed his tremendous strength. His hair was dark brown and his eyes almost black, with a particular snap and keenness. His clothes were of expensive material and conservative cut; clothes such as a broker might select.
The girl could have walked into the Ritz on his arm and seemed perfectly in place. She was of medium height and slender, but sinuous figure. Her features were small and regular, set in skin of marked smoothness and whiteness. The whiteness of her skin was emphasized by her silky black hair and eyebrows and black flashing eyes, which were large, almost round, giving her an appearance of innocence, of surprise;
Needle Sam and Barry Crandall, the other two at the table, however, looked their parts.. Sam's face was fat, with close-set eyes; His suit was flashy, of extreme cut. The first and second fingers of his right hand were stained deeply by the cigarettes' he smoked in every waking moment. Sam was a chauffeur par excellence -nothing else. He thought he was a hard rod, but he wasn't. He just was about the best driver in the city, for he knew every short cut in traffic, he drove like a charioteer and he never had accidents. They didn't pay in his business.
And Barry Crandall was a rod who had graduated from a lowlier beginning. There had been days when he did not scoff an opportunity to lift a wallet or even bend a lead pipe over an unsuspecting head. Now, however, he was in faster company and was Mort Mitchell's right hand man-and Mort wasn't a piker.
Mort's handsome face was turned on the other three.
"Well," he asked, sarcastically, "who spilled it?"
None answered.
Mort's expression grew hard and ominous, as he went on:
"One slip-up can, happen. Two might happen, but three times means- ~" He looked intently into the faces of the moll and the two other rods: "Three slips-and each one almost spelling curtains for me -mean a rat!"
The moll's eyes flashed dangerously. :
"Don't insinuate that I'm a rat, Mort," she said evenly, but the tiny muscles at the corners, of her mouth tightened and her small hands clenched. "I'm no rat and you; know; it. I'd go to hell for you, and the boys, would, too. Maybe you've talked too much in your off moments. Remember, you're mingling in society now!" Her voice was bitter and jealousy showed in the tone of that word "society."
"Never mind what I'm doing," retorted Mort, angrily, "I'm not monkey enough: to talk where there's going to be a comeback at me~"
He turned to face the girl squarely.
"Let's start from the beginning," he said grimly, "and maybe we can find the leak.   You got the tip-off from the Hag didn't you?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The night 'Carmen' was sung at the Metropolitan," answered the moll. "She was doing her usual stuff, whining around the. automobiles near the entrance, with that tooth sticking down on her lower lip and that mole on her cheek sticking out over her coat collar. She slipped me the signal and I watched my chance to step up to. her and drop four-bits into her tin-cup.
" 'The Vanderpools on Wednesday night, girlie,' she said in that whine of hers. 'It's a, pipe. I heard 'em talkin' as they dropped me a dime from the carriage window. All of 'em will be away Wednesday night, except the old dame, herself, and she'll be home taking a backgammon lesson from a girl sharp. And the old woman wears her diamonds for dinner every night, even in her home. It's a pipe, girlie. Tell Mort--an' I want my cut'"
"Anybody see you getting the info from her?" asked Mort.
"What if they did see me talking to her?" retorted the moll. "Who'd think she was tipping us to a job? I was just an opera-goer to the crowd on the pavement. Everybody talks to her-she's the Hag of the Opera to everybody. Never misses the carriage door on opera nights. All the society folk know her whining story; she was Dolores, the dancer, she tells them as she begs. Dolores the famous ballet dancer. How she gets away with it with that fang sticking out over her lower lip from her upper jaw and that mole, I don't know. Figure her as a dancer! But they listen to her and slip her change-and she's the best lookout and tipster this mob ever had, until now!"
"Yes," agreed Mort, reluctantly,
"but she gave us the bum steer on the Stickney job, too, didn't she? And she sent us out on Hark Island for that bust in the Longman's home that pretty near put me back of the walls."
"She's tipped us to plenty. She doesn't get her cut unless we click."
"Yes," responded Mort grimly, "but maybe she's changed her racket.
"Anyway	" he paused and looked into the anxious faces before him. "Anyway, either the Hag-or somebody here in this room-tipped off the Vanderpools tonight and we came damned near to dissolving this mob when that roomful of private dicks stepped on our feet. Now, suppose some one of you tries to answer that!"
"She's playin' with the Orange mob, maybe," suggested Barry, 'Blackie' Rango and his gorillas been knockin' off some sweet jack without no trouble while we're sticking our throats out for the knife."
"Yes," added Carlotta vengefully, "and Blackie Rango is a hog so greedy that he'd send us to hell in a minute, if he could. It gives him violent cramps if he hears any other, mob's grabbed a few dollars. He wants it all himself."
"Yes," responded Mort, grimly. "Some day Blackie and I are going to argue that little matter out-especially if I find he's back of this business of steering us into jams!"
Mort Mitchell straightened himself in his chair. He turned to the moll, who now was watching him admiringly.
"Baby," he said, "this looks like your job. The Hag has been playing with us-and getting plenty for it. But, maybe she's getting more to double-cross us now. You find out -and maybe when you do find out it'll have some bearing on your private grudge."

AS he spoke the moll's hand went involuntarily to her right shoulder and a spasm of hatred crossed her face.
"If it does," she answered grimly, "I'll want no more of any mob's takings. I'll be happy."
"Watch the Hag," warned Mort earnestly. "When's the next opera?"
"Friday night. It's 'Lucia' with Stephanie and Bendi in the cast. All the box-holders will be there."
"You go, as usual with that music hound from the Village--and watch the Hag for her signal. And watch her close, before and after you talk to her. Maybe she's spilling her chatter for Blackie and his rats, and if she is, she's trying to put the finger on us!"
Mort pushed back his chair and rang for Dapper Ben again.
"Mort," interrupted the moll anxiously, "are you coming over to my place with me?"
"No!" His tone was abrupt and he avoided looking the moll in the eyes.
"Society man again!" The girl snapped the words. "I guess	"
"Never mind about my business, baby," Mort replied menacingly. "I'll go with who I please. Your job is to watch the Hag, and bring the dope to me. I'm running this mob yet!"
The moll stifled her anger. She threw down another generous drink and stepped to the door. Her voice was cold now, despite the glitter in her eyes.
"I'll see the Hag Friday night," she said, "and if she's got any stuff I'll get it and bring it here to the Big Society Man-if he's not too busy drinking tea and eating lady-fingers to accept it!"
SHE stepped through the door and slammed  it behind her before Mort could reply.   Barry and Sam grinned, for they knew the reason for her anger. Deeply in love with the handsome Mort, Carlotta knew that a mysterious woman, a strikingly beautiful woman with flaming hair and star-like eyes who haunted the better supper clubs and mingled: freely with Park Avenue pleasure-lovers, was claiming every spare moment that the handsome Mort could give her. Their grins, however, were wiped from their faces by the grave words of Mitchell.
"Lay low for a few days," he cautioned them. "That moll is smart and she may be able to smell out the rat who's trying to put the finger on us. And, if she doesn't, well	   Then, it looks to me as though this mob is through. Blackie Rango is trying to hog every racket in the city, and he'll do it, too, unless the jane spoils his plans before they work any further."
Mort Mitchell left them abruptly. He hurried to his rooms to dress, for he was going to step out that night to one of the city's snootiest supper clubs where he knew he would meet and have at least a few; words with the woman whose flaming beauty had fascinated him, the. red-haired, glorious Vi Carroll, mystery woman of the night clubs and associate of those who moved in the faster set of Society with the capital S.
PERHAPS Mort Mitchell would not have been so eager for the smiles of the flashing Vi had he known of the scene which was being enacted at the time he was dressing for his night's pleasure. For the dazzling Vivian, her face unsmiling now and her musical voice harsh in emphasis, was talking angrily and excitedly, not with one of her society friends, but with Blackie Rango himself, the greedy mob leader, who seemed perfectly at home amid the luxuries of Vi's apartment.
And Blackie Rango was no sheik. He puffed from the exertion, of crossing one fat leg over the other and his language seemed very much out of place in the tasteful surroundings. His beady eyes peered from beneath thick, bushy brows in a beetling forehead that wrinkled as he talked. Vi's anger he passed unnoticed,
"You messed it up again, didn't you, broad?" he asked; interrupting her. "Everything set to give the Works to Mort Mitchell, his frail with him an' all his mob-and instead o' him gettin' his'n he's still around, gettin' in my hair."
"Yes! He's still around because you and your gorillas: didn't have the guts to take him when I put him right in your hands!"
"Maybe," answered Blackie, evenly, "an' then again, maybe not Now, see here, broad." His gimlet eyes glowed as he thrust his ugly face closer to hers "Its got to be me or Mort Mitchell. They ain't room in this town for his mob an' mine, an' mine ain't goin' to be the one to go out,"
He reached over and grabbed the red-haired moll by the wrist.
"Get this," he said, and there was murder in his tone. "I'm puttin' up for you. There ain't no limit. . You can play this society gag an' you sock away plenty of jack. Yes, I know you're doin' it, but I don't care, so long as you're on the level with me. Your job is to frame Mort: Mitchell-he's got to go. An' don't think I don't know how friendly you are with him, too!"
The moll started as Blaekie's eyes bored into hers. She started to speak, but he went on:
"An' when Mort goes, you'd better see to it that his frail goes, too. Maybe you don't know her. An'
maybe you do. Anyhow, she's with him on all his jobs an' she's a fightin' fool. Carlotta Wynn, that's what they call her. But that ain't her name. She ain't no ordinary moll. Nobody knows where she come from, but she's a moll for a reason -and nobody but her knows why." "What do I care about his moll?" asked Vi angrily.
"Maybe you don't, but you're monkeyin' with her man, an.' she looks like poison to me. Anyway, get this through your skull. Three times now you've slipped info to the Hag to send, Mort Mitchell and his mob into a jam. An' three times you've made a fine mess of it. Now, dame---"
Blackie's manner was menacing and he twisted the moll» wrist to emphasize his words.
"Get that guy!  Tell the Hag to slip him a certain one, a tip he won't pass up-an' leave the rest to me I'll see they's a load o' hot lead waitin' for him when he steps into it. An', broad, don't miss this time!, Make it right, so Mort and his whole mob will gor includin' the moll, for if you don't--"
"Well, if I don't?" challenged the girl defiantly.
"Here's your answer," replied Blackie ominously, "that moll Carlotta, in swimng' suit or evenin' clothes, never was known to bare h«r right shoulder! Does that mean anythin' to you?"
Vi Carroll cried out hoarsely. There was terror in her eyes.
"What's her name?" she screamed. "Tell me, you big ape-what's her name?"
"You guess it," replied Blackie brutally, with a half-smile. "She come from Chi, too."
HORROR   was   written  on  the white face of Vivian Carroll. Her hands shook and the words she. tried to speak would not come. Blackie laughed loudly.
"Maybe you'll follow orders now, eh, kid?" he asked. He wheezed from the deep chair and balanced his fat body on his feet. "Better forget your yen for that pretty boy, Morton," he added, "an' play along with the guy who's been right with you. Get me, frail?"
The girl nodded. Finally she regained her composure.
"I'll frame him, Blackie," she said with visible effort. "I'll frame him if you promise me you'll get that moll, too. My life isn't worth a nickel if that girl ever recognized me. Don't worry. I'll play a hundred per cent with you now!"
"Atta baby, Vi," answered Blackie, and he pulled on his coat with the help of the girl and waddled from the room. His soul was at peace as he waited for the elevator which took him to the street, and, as he rode away in his armored car with his gat bodyguard, Blackie Rango saw himself seated soon on the throne of gangdom. With the menacing Mort Mitchell and his mob out of the way, none in the underworld would dare dispute his leadership.
"An' that there Vi," Blackie said, half audibly, as he mused, "I'll keep her around. She's pretty easy on the eyes-an' besides, I got the dead-wood on her. She oughta pay dividends!"
DESPITE her valiant efforts to appear natural, Vi Carroll plainly was suffering from some repressed emotion that night. Her companions in the gay party which went to the ultra-fashionable Club Meta to see the new floor show and hear the reigning tenor noticed it. They joked with her; in mock solicitude they inquired gravely whether her dampened spirits were due to Wall Street, to a love affair, to the loss of a dear friend, or what else?
Then the floor show; engaged their attention and she had a moment's peace from their banter. She fingered the thin-stemmed glass before her and looked through the crowd anxiously. She was looking for the handsome Mort Mitchell, the striking-looking, mysterious Mort, who held such a subtle attraction, for her and the man she was pledged to frame. Her usual complacency was gone when she saw his tall figure appear. She was agitated when he bowed to her and exchanged a greeting.
"Let's dance," she said as the orchestra struck up a number. "I'm blue tonight, I'm depressed."
They danced silently for a round of the small floor and then the girl said abruptly:
"Morton, I want to talk to you. Let's walk out on the balcony, so we can be alone. Try to cheer me up. I feel morbid, almost afraid."
The mob chieftain laughed. What in the world, he thought, could this glorious girl, with wealth, social position and beauty, have to worry about? They leaned over the balcony rail together, looking out on the lights of the city. When Vivian spoke, she tried to conceal the eagerness in her voice.
"I've been hearing things about you, Morton," she said.
"What were they, Vi?"
"You're the man of mystery to all my friends," she went.on. "They like you, but they do not know your antecedents-and, as a matter of fact, neither do I."
"Just a fellow lucky to have a little bit of money," Mort said, "and a business which takes care of itself. I'm a consulting engineer, if you must know, but my duties are not confining."
Vi turned to him with an air of frankness.
"I'm not questioning you, Mort," she said, "and I don't care what the crowd thinks of you. But	" She hesitated, and then went on with a burst of apparent frankness. "Mort, who is the beautiful girl, the beautiful black-eyed girl I've heard is in your company pretty often? Frankly, I'm a bit jealous of her."
Mort laughed heartily.
"You jealous?" he scoffed. "I just wish you cared enough about me to be jealous. The other girl? Just an employee, Vi, a girl who has worked in my office, an efficient stenographer, that's all.. We have no social contact She's been in my car, . of course, but only in the line of her duties."
"Who is she, Morton?"
"Just a girl who came here from Chicago a year ago. I really don't know her first name. Miss Wynn, that's all the name I know."
Vi's voice was strained as she persisted in her questioning.
"This girl, Morton. Has she particularly large, black eyes?"
"Yes, she has."
"Did she?" Vi hesitated, then she went on, speaking almost desperately. "Morton, did this girl ever have an accident? Was she ever hurt badly, was	?"
Mort looked at the agitated Vivian curiously.
"Why all this interest in an office working girl, Vi?" he asked. "I don't know anything more about her. How would I know whether she ever suffered injury?"
"Forgive me, Morton," said Vi. Tve heard this girl described, and -and the description fitted a girl 1 once knew in the West. I thought, maybe---" She broke off with a laugh, a relieved laugh. "Let's forget about the girl and rejoin the party," and she led the way back to the dining-room with the attentive, but slightly puzzled Mort behind her.
From that moment Vi Carroll's manner changed. Her spirits rose, she laughed gayly she seemed determined to still any disquieting thoughts with an excess of gaiety. "It can't be the same girl," she said to herself as she tripped through a dance with Mort. "Only a chance in a million it's the same, and my luck is good."
MORT left the party comparatively early, for he had troublesome things on his mind. That matter, that vital matter of Blackie Rango, wouldn't be brushed from his recollections by the bright lights and gaiety. He left before the party broke up, managing a few whispered words again with Vi before leaving.
"Shall I see you tomorrow night, Vi?" he asked anxiously,
"Tomorrow," replied the flushed girl-"let's see, tomorrow's Friday. No, Morton, but I'll see you Saturday. Tomorrow night's the opera, you know, and I'm going with the Elberts, and then out to the island for the night."
She smiled fondly at Mort's disappointment and squeezed his hand tightly as he said adieu. A qualm came to her heart as she watched his tall figure moving toward the door. God, but he was a fine looking fellow to be marked for Death! Why did he have to be the one?
Friday night and the opera, with favorites singing the principal roles and the diamond horseshoe ablaze with celebrities and color. Outside the forbidding opera house the stream of automobiles, the crowds of curious, fascinated by the jewels and scintilating frocks of society. And along the line of crawling automobiles, slowly approaching the entrance to disgorge their cargoes of dressed-up and bejeweled folks, croaked the Hag of the Opera, the bunchy figure of that wreck of a woman who whined for her alms at the automobile windows. Her slovenly body was swathed in the ground-length, dingy coat which came high on her neck, to her chin. Over her head the inevitable dirty shawl. Beneath the shawl peered the beady eyes, the gnarled sallow skin of the Hag, whining and showing the long discolored tooth, more like a fang, which reached from the front of her upper jaw down over her lower lip as she pleaded with the richly-gowned opera patrons for alms. Adding to her hideousness was a blemish-a huge, hairy mole-on her right cheek, which moved up and down as she whined. . Dirty, hideous, repulsive was the Hag of the Opera, yet she had her clientele. Women in shining automobiles shrank from her dirty extended paws, yet they besought their escorts to help her.
"Help Dolores," the Hag cried, "help the old woman who once knew so well the plaudits of the crowd. Dolores of the Imperial ballet-I, Dolores, who danced for kings. Now, I need crusts. Help me, good people."
And, as she begged her acute ears were attuned, not for words of sympathy, but for the intimate talk inside the vehicles, the chatter about social engagements, anything that might mean an unguarded mansion, a particularly display of gems at some social gathering-some target for the mob's arrows!
RECEIVER of their largess, the Hag of the Opera was betraying their secrets to the banditti! Long had it been her trade, with no suspicion directed at her. She had played into the hands of Mort Mitchell and to those who had gone be-
fore him in command of the same mob. Now, however, the Hag had extended the scope of her double-crossing. Her greed aroused by the calculating Blackie Rango, the Hag was getting the heist info for Blackie while purporting to be cooperating with Mort, and was acting as the go-between to arrange the frame-ups against Mort's mob which Blackie engineered!
The Hag was watching closely the faces in the cars as they approached the entrance. She was looking for the flaming hair and the face of Vi Carroll, the bearer of instructions, and she wandered up and down the row of cars until she saw Vi's signal. She hobbled to the side of the handsome limousine and approached the window through which Vivian's brilliant opera cape showed.
"Alms, good folks,' the Hag cried, leaning close to the window, and Vi lowered it, compassionately, turning to her escort as she did so.
"Give me some money for this miserable creature," Vivian said, and a man of the party thrust a bill in her hand. Vi's daintily gloved hand stretched through the auto's window as the Hag whined her thanks. Her mumbled words, however, merely were a cover for the whispered words which Vi directed to her.
"The Horton Place on the Sound, Monday night!" Vi said, and the Hag winked acknowledgment of the words.
The shiny limousine moved forward toward the opera house entrance with Vi Carroll chatting laughingly with her companions as the Hag moved away. The first step in the trap set for Mort Mitchell and his mob had been taken. Within a half-hour the deceiving message would be on its way to pave the road for destruction. The Hag would relay the false information to Carlotta Wynn, emissary of the Mitchell mob!
The Hag moved down the line of carriages, ready to relay the frame-up message. She now was looking for Carlotta, the moll from Mitchell's mob. She did not know that Carlotta, hidden in the milling throng on the sidewalk, had been almost at her elbow when Vi Carroll whispered her message-and further than that, the keen-eyed Carlotta, seeing through a changed appearance in the beautified Vivian, had recognized the society-minded moll a» the enemy she was stalking so desperately!
CARLOTTA WYNN, her teeth clenched and her hands doubled into small fists, gloried in the triumph she foresaw over the woman who had sent her into the underworld on her adventure into vengeance. That smiling beauty with the flaming hair now, apparently, a society favorite, only two years before had done the irreparable wrong to the black-eyed girl who stood in the opera crowd and planned her revenge!
The moll forgot the presence of the "music-loving kid" who always accompanied her to the opera performances. He was a harmless sort; he did not know that he was a pawn in the machinations of a mob. He went to the opera with the pretty girl who seemed pleased to enjoy the music with him.
Everything except revenge was forgotten by the black-haired null. She moved forward as Vi's auto moved toward the entrance.
"I could kill her now	!" she spoke aloud and the music-loving kid startled.
"Who could you MB, Carlotta?" he asked in astonishment. The girl recovered her poise.
"No one, Robbie," she replied:, "I was just joking." She saw the Hag
approaching and she knew the crone sought her, to relay the death-trap message to Mort Mitchell.
'There's the Hag," Carlotta said, pushing toward her. "I always give her a little change. Isn't she horrible looking? I feel as though I had to help her."
She drew a few coins from her small purse and stepped to the side of the Hag, dropping the coins into the outstretched tin cup. The Hag leaned close to her, the repulsive, hairy mole almost touching the girl's face.
"The Hortoii Place, on the Sound -on Monday night, girlie," the Hag whispered. "Tell Mort it's a pipe- and not to forget me."
She turned from, the girl, whining her plea for alms to others as Carlotta and her escort walked to the entrance.
Blackie Rango's message to trap Mort Mitchell and his mob to death was delivered-but it was delivered through a moll who knew that the Hag had turned on her former benefactors and was plotting with their enemies for their deaths!
THE beautiful strains of "Lucia" meant nothing to Carlotta that night. She sat through the performance with the lad because she did not know where to reach Mort until late in the night. And before her eyes, instead of the singers and the brilliant audience; was the picture of Vi Carroll, the woman the moll was determined should feel the weight of her vengeance.
The moll dismissed her escort quickly as the throng poured from the house of music. She raced to a taxicab and hurried to Dapper Dan's, where she felt sure she would find Mort at midnight. She entered the speakie through the garage and the rear door, and waited for Mort in the secret chamber.
The moll was on her feet, pacing the room, when Mort entered.
"I've got the works, Mort," she cried, "It's a cold frame, set up by Blackie Rango. Here's the message from the Hag; "The Horton Place, on the Sound-Monday night!' It's phony! It's	"
"How do you know it's phony?" demanded Mort.
"Because I overheard the message slipped to her, Mort, I heard it slipped to her by the very woman I've been hunting, the jane I've sworn to find and to repay a certain debt."
"And who," asked Mort, eagerly, "was Rango's messenger? Did you spot her?"
"Yes, I spotted her!" responded the moll, and her eyes were blazing. "And maybe you'll be interested to know just who she is! You've been playing around with your society friends-with a red-headed woman who's got you dizzy, haven't you?"
"Never mind that. It's my business where I go and	"
The moll blazed at him angrily:
"Well, maybe this is your business, too. The red-headed moll who gave the Hag the tip that's set to put you under the grass went to the opera with the Elberts, your society friends, and is the crookedest snake that ever wore woman's clothes!"
Mort Mitchell's amazement held him speechless.
"Not Vi, not Vi Carroll!" he ejaculated. "It can't be	"
"Fall for the tip, then, sap," retorted the moll, "but I won't. If you go near the Horton Place Monday night, Mort, you'll die from hot lead poisoning. I know!"
Mort grabbed the moll by the wrist and swung her around until she was looking up right into his eyes. His voice was low, but it was full of menace.
"Damn you," he snarled, "are you on the level, or are you framing Vi Carroll, just to	"
The moll twisted away from him furiously.
"Take it or leave it, you sap," she snapped, "but I'm going to get HER! And I'll make you believe it Listen, Mort, will you believe your red-headed vamp is crossing you before it's too late? Will you believe me if I prove it to you?"
"Yes," he answered sullenly, "if you prove it. But, how are you going to do it?"
An inspiration came to the moll.
"I've got it, Mort," she cried excitedly. "You'd kidnap the Hag of the Opera, wouldn't you-to save yourself?"
"No, but why?"
"Because," replied Carlotta, "I want her out of my way on the next opera night-because that night I'LL BE THE HAG OP THE OPERA!"
"What?" asked Mort, bewildered.
"Just that," replied the moll. "Act just as though we're falling for that bum tip on the Horton Place, but stay away from there. Then, on the next opera night, grab the Hag, so I can get her clothes. I'll do her whining act and I'll get the tip-off from your red-headed friend who's trying to put the finger on you!"
"You can't do it, kid," responded Mort, "you can't impersonate the Hag. There's no other like her. Look at that fang which hangs down her lip-that mole!" He almost shuddered when he recalled the evil face of the Hag.
"I'll do it, Mort," cried the moll, her eyes snapping. "I'm entitled to a chance this time, for I've got a score to even and then, maybe	"
Her voice caught, but she went on. Maybe, Mort, you won't think so badly of me. Does my. scheme go?"
"Yes," he replied. "We'll stay just about a thousand miles away from that Horton Place and, then	"
His eyes gleamed ominously. "Then, if your dope is right, we'll see how Mr. Blackie Rango likes lead for supper! It's up to you, kid!"
He squeezed her arm and the girl stepped closer to him, expectantly. But his mind wasn't on the moll. He was wondering whether he could successfully fight against the power of Blackie Rango. He left her absently, and walked to the front of the speakie. The girl, her face showing her disappointment, walked from the speakie and went to her room. She slept little, for she was laying her plans, not only to thwart Blackie Rango's plot against the Mitehell mob, but also to satisfy her ancient feud against the brilliant Vi Carroll.
MORT MITCHELL and his mob stayed severely away from the country place of the Hortons on the Sound that Monday night. It was well they did, for hidden in the shrubbery a quarter-mile up the private road which lead to the estate was a band of a dozen rods in the employ of Blackie Rango, ready to mow them down. And Blackie Rango was a sadly disappointed vice king when he got the word of the failure. He called Vi Carroll on the telephone and told her in no uncertain words that her job was in peril-that she must make good on her next attempt.  So it was a perturbed Vi who rode with friends slowly toward the opera house entrance on the next opera nighty She had her instructions from Blackie and they were explicit. She was to tell the Hag to lure the Mitchell mob to an uptown apartment building with an exciting story of unguarded jewels and an absent family and the following Friday night was to be the time for the massacre.
Again, on this occasion, Vi was a guest of the Elberts. She chatted nervously with Elbert and his wife and another guest as their car approached the glittering opera house. But her mind was not on the small talk. She was watching anxiously for the Hag of the Opera-for she simply had to make good now. Morton Mitchell had to be sacrificed. Her eyes wandered through the crowd as the car approached the entrance. God! Would that damnable Hag never appear? At last she saw the tottering, repulsive figure. It hurried to the side of the Elberts auto and Vi lowered the window, coins in her hand to cover the few words she must exchange with the repulsive crone.
The Elberts and their guests looked in wonder as Vi leaned nervously from the car window. Why did Vivian pay so much attention to that pest, that wreck of a woman with the revolting face? Bat Vi was oblivious to them.
"Dolores," she whispered vehemently, "they've got to fall for this; tell them the Donaghan jewels, a half-million dollars worth, will be absolutely unguarded Friday night. The approach is through the area-way beside the apartment. Make them fall for it."
She peered intently into the wrinkled face before her. She saw the loathsome fang denting the Hag's lower lip. She shuddered as she looked at that horrible mole on the crone's right cheek.
"Yes, dearie," whined the Hag, accepting the coins Vi handed to her. "They'll go, all right. I'll fix that. Now, here's something. for Blackie, and tell him it's a chance of a lifetime. Mrs. Alex Wilson's pearls, the great Wilson pearls, will be delivered to their country place Thursday night by automobile, a car with only the Wilson butler and one guard in it. The car will get there at seven o'clock in the night-and if Blackie don't get them he'll never get another such a chance at them."
The Hag was creeping alongside the slowly moving car. Vi heard the message leaning from the window. The Elberts and their other guests wondered at the whispering between the glittering Vi and the loathsome Hag. The Hag, however, leaned close to Vi again.
"Tell Blackie it won't be easy; tell him to have the whole mob, but for God's sake not to miss this one!"
SHE fell back into the crowd as Vi turned back to her hosts apologetically.
"I'm sorry," she said as their car, neared the opera entrance, "but the Hag insists upon my hearing her troubles. I've tried to help her; to get her off the street in this pitiful begging, but she insists upon haunting the opera."
Vi accepted the arm of an escort and the Elbert party moved under the marque to the foyer of the opera house, Vi in possession of two things she cherished-belief that she had set the trap for Mort Mitchell's mob, and information that would make her even more solid with Blackie Rango.
Hardly had the Elbert party disappeared into the interior of the opera house, however, when the Hag of the Opera House, for the first time in a decade, lost all interest in the opera-going crowd. With surprising quickness for one of her age and dumpy figure, she slipped through the crowd on the pavement, and away from the opera. Ignoring her former benefactors who might still be mulcted, she disappeared down a cross street and boarded an automobile which waited there.
"Quick, Sam," she snapped to the chauffeur, and Needle Sam did his stuff, taking the short cuts to Dapper
Dan's speak. At the garage, she left the car and traversed the secret way to Dan's furthest back room and entered. Mort Mitchell was waiting there. He jumped from his chair as the Hag entered. It MUST be the Hag, that dumpy, uncouth figure, that revolting fang which dented her lower lip; that mouselike mole which blemished the right side of her face.
"Hell!" Mort ejaculated, "I thought	"
The dumpy figure of the Hag straightened and a quick hand pulled the dirty shawl from the head. Another quick motion and Carlotta Wynn, the fake Hag of the Opera, pulled from her mouth an odd dental plate to which was attached the fang which protruded from her mouth. Another pull wrenched from her face the "mole", the imitation such as marked the face of the real Hag, Quickly she wiped the grease paint from her face-and Carlotta, the moll, stood before the mob leader in the Hag's habiliments. With an expression of disgust, she ripped the Hag's rags from her body and stood before Mort in her undies.
"Had to get that filth off me before I could think or talk," she said calmly. She slipped into a suit which she had left in the speakie room, ordered a drink by pressing a button and turned to face Mort, the mob leader and more than that to Carlotta.
"The trap's set, Mort," she said quietly. "Blackie Rango's greed will not let him pass up a chance at the Alex Wilson's pearls. If you don't get him and his gorillas Thursday, night, you'd better knuckle to Blackie's orders-for you'll never again get such a chance."
Carlotta explained the set-up "tip" she got from Vivian-and her face contorted with hate as she told it.
"You get Blackie and his apes, Mort," she said, vindictively, "and while you're doing it, I'll pay off my score."
"You'll lay off that dame," Mort replied, angrily, "I'm not satisfied that she's not regular. Hands off, till I give the word!"
Carlotta laughed-a bitter laugh.
"All right, Mr. Society-Man-About-Town," she said sarcastically. "I'll promise you this; I won't harm a red hair of her head-until I tell you about it first."
THE MOLL gathered up the discarded clothing of the Hag and threw  them  into  a  suitcase.   She turned to Mort.
"What'll you do with the Hag?" "Keep  her  prisoner until I decide," he responded shortly.   "Anyway, I'll hold her till after Thursday. Don't worry about her."
"Good night, Mort," said the moll, moving toward the speakie door, "don't you want to come over to my place for awhile and have a nightcap with me? I'm tired and I've got some Scotch such as Dapper Dan never dreamed of." The moll's voice was pleading, but it drew no response from the handsome mob leader. His thoughts, despite Carlotta's expose of Vi's perfidy, still were on the red-haired siren.
"No, kid," he answered absently. "See you some other time."
Carlotta slammed the door and went out into the night. More than ever was she determined to "get" the red-haired Vivian Carroll.
Thursday night in that secret back room of Dapper Dan's speakie. There was an air of tenseness as Mort Mitchell explained for the last time the plans for the night.
"We'll reach the Wilson place road a half-hour before Blackie's gang," Mort said slowly, "and Sam, you'll hide the car in the cross-road, pointed for a quick getaway. The big tree at the proper spot has been cut up deeply that a push will send it across the road. That's your job, Barry. When you get the signal, you and Sammy give the tree a shove. It can't fall, except across the road.
"Our Tommy-guns will be beside that same tree trunk. When the tree falls, you, Barry, and Sam grab them and step to the side, where you can rake Blackie's car. If his car withstands your fire-I'll have a surprise package for him. That's my part of the job. I'll attend to that and you attend to yours. But, above all else, don't go near Blackie's car until I give the word!" Mort turned to Carlotta. 
"And you," he said emphatically, "you're going along! You'll sit in the car and wait for us until	"
"But," interrupted the moll heatedly, "I won't do anything of the kind-for I won't be there!"
"Where will you be?" The question came in a snarl from Mort.
"I'll be calling on your red-haired society girl friend," mocked Carlotta, "and I'll be waiting for you in her apartment." Her voice grew biting with scorn, as she continued:
"You still think she's on the level, don't you? You poor sap! You believe her, but you won't believe me. Do this, then. Settle your score with Blackie Rango. I was smart enough to plant that job for. you and to save your neck! Then, when you've done your job, drive back to your red-head's place. I'll be waiting for you there. I won't hurt her before you come. I'll merely set the stage for the show which is going to make you see that one of us is crooked and the other straight Are you game for that?"
The moll's eyes were snapping in her challenge.
"I won't hurt the dear thing before you come," she mocked as he hesitated. "You've my promise, Answer, big boy, are you game?"
"Yes," he snapped angrily. "Remember, no fireworks till I get back!"
The mobsters rose from the table and prepared to go to the garage for their car.
"Happy trip, boys," said the moll. "I hope, when you return, there'll be fewer snakes in the world."
AS the gorillas passed from the room, the moll helped herself to a man-sized drink from the bottle on the table. She had stern work before her and she welcomed the scorching liquor as it warmed her throat. The moll walked swiftly from the rear door of the speakie, just as Mort Mitchell's big black car slid away from the garage door on its errand of death.
Silently through the twilight the big car swept, through the outskirts of the city and into the fashionable residence area. Hardly a word was spoken, for the route was well-mapped and the trip timed to the minute. Finally it drew up in the shadows of the small cross-road outside the Wilson estate and the gangsters took up their stations.
Ten minutes before the time they looked for the car of Blackie Rango and his apes, its dimmed lights appeared far down the smooth road leading to the Wilson country mansion. Smoothly and menacingly the armored car of Rango approached through the semi-darkness. They recognized its lines, even at a distance.
Mort gave his last order.
"When they get opposite the big pine on the right," he whispered, "over with the tree-and then grab your Tommy-guns and open up on the car. And, remember, STAY AWAY FROM THAT CAR if you fail to penetrate his armor!"
Closer came the Rango car as Mort and Sam and Barry crouched in the protecting foliage at the roadside. Sweeping up the road, the big car approached almost before they were hidden. It seemed right upon them when the shoulders of Sam and Barry leaned against the big tree which already was cut for falling. With a muffled roar, the tree plunged across the road, hardly a dozen feet in front of the rival gangsters' auto!
There was a screeching of brakes -but not in time. Blackie Rango's automobile, carrying the eager Blackie and three of his gorillas, plunged into the tree's foliage just as the Tommy-guns of Mort Mitchell's gorillas spat flames!
The lead hail played a tattoo against the sides of the heavy armed car, and in a minute Rango and his rod men had picked themselves from the floor and were replying to the fire through slits in the body of the car.
Despite his trap, Mort Mitchell found Rango, his enemy, apparently safe in his fort-like automobile embedded in the foliage of the felled tree.
"Back!' yelled Mort, and there was a momentary silence as the Tommy-guns of Sam and Barry stopped. "Back into the woods," yelled Mort -and he dived to a depression beneath a distant tree. As he dived, his hand stretched out and struck a plunger--a plunger such as is used in dynamiting. The pressure on the plunger completed the electric contact he had set.
There was a flash and a roar- and    the    road    beneath    Blackie Rango's enmeshed automobile opened up in a devastating blast.
The mine which Mort Mitchell had set in the road had done the work the Tommy-guns could not do through the thick armor of the
Rango car. Struck from below, its vulnerable spot, the big armored car flew apart as though the explosion came from within itself. As the echoes of the blast died away, a heavy pall of smoke hung over the spot. And as it cleared, nothing remained except a huge crater in the once smooth road, a few broken and twisted bits of metal.
The stunned Sam and Barry rushed for their car as Mort joined them.
"Out of here, quick," Mort commanded. "That blast will bring every dick and every motorcycle cop from miles around. Back to the city, Sam-and by the back road."
THE CAR leaped ahead under the skilled hands of Sammy, with Mort urging him to more speed. A gripping fear came to Mort as the car swept on. Carlotta! Would she keep her promise not to molest the rival moll, Vi Carroll, until Mort returned? Through gritted teeth, Mort ordered Sammy to drive to Vi's apartment. As they swept into the city proper, he said:
"Drop me at the corner and you three hit it for Danny's. I'll join you there as soon as I can."
The car merely slowed for him. He leaped to the street and the car swept away, leaving Mort a scant half-block from the imposing apartment building on fashionable Park Avenue where Vi Carroll lived among her friends of society. Mort entered the elevator, scorning the suspicious looks of the attendant at his dusty and disheveled clothing. He left the car and hurried down the quiet corridor on the fifth floor, reaching the door of Vi's home.
No sound came through the door and Mort tried the door knob. The door opened to his touch and he stepped inside, peering through the dim light of the reception room. He saw no one. Silently he walked to a door on his left. That door, he knew, led to Vi's sumptuous boudoir. That door, too, was closed. He turned the knob softly and the door half opened. He peered into the room.
There, facing him in negligée, sat Vivian Carroll, a look of horror on her face, facing someone else in the room, directly opposite her. A look showed Mort the reason for the fright of the red-haired beauty. Her "caller" was Carlotta Wynn, the gun moll, who sat quietly toying with a shiny gat pointed toward Vi's body!
"Drop that gat!" Mort's voice brought a subdued scream from Vi and Carlotta sprang to her feet. "What's this stuff?" he demanded.
"Hands off, Mort," retorted Carlotta quietly, but her eyes were snapping dangerously. "You've had your party and this is MINE! Come in and shut the door." She waved the gat toward the red-haired siren and said elaborately:
"Mr. Mitchell, let me introduce Miss Vivian Carroll, alias "Chicago Red" Hardy, the red-haired Siren of The Loop and a few other names! And, also, Mr. Mitchell, the moll who has been trying to put the finger on you for weeks as a small favor for her good friend, the late Mr. Blackie Rango!"
"You lie!" snapped Vi, looking to Mort for protection, "I've never been in Chi	"
"Put that gat down, moll," snapped Mort, "I know this girl and you're all wrong about her!"
Carlotta laughed sardonically. She threw the gat from her and it clattered on the polished floor, as she faced Mort.
"Mort, you poor fool," she said, bitingly, "will you never be convinced? That red-headed moll was head of one of the most cruel, savage mobs that Chi ever knew. She blew here because Chi got too hot for her-and she's making saps out of people here just as she did before. But, I KNOW HER!"
The moll's eyes flashed with bitter hatred as she spoke and her voice rose shrilly. "I know her-and I'll never forget her, the snake that she is."
She turned again passionately to the confused Mort.
"You won't believe? Then I'll show you!"
With a quick gesture she seized the right sleeve of her dress and tore it away, exposing her arm. Again she tore at the dress, ripping it open at the shoulder. As the fabric tore she pointed dramatically to the white skin of her upper arm and body.
"Look there," she cried vengefully, "There's the mark put on me by that hell-cat, that vampire!"
And as Mort looked and Vi stifled the involuntary sob which came, Carlotta bared to them an angry-looking fiery-red brand on her white shoulder-a vivid brand of the fleur de lis, the ancient French brand for a thief!
"Look at that Mr. Mitchell," cried the moll. "That's what your society girl-friend did for me. She laughed while her gorillas put the hot electric needle to my flesh and drew that design there, drew it because that redheaded bum thought I'd stolen the dirty little hop-head she claimed as her 'Man'! That's what I owe her."
She turned on Mort vengefully.
"And you want to save her, to protect her, the moll who put the finger on you! All right, then, take my gat-and I hope the two of you will be happy. I won't drill her. She'd poison a decent bullet!"
She stopped and looked from the disconcerted Mort to the now relieved Vi. Her voice was lowered and she apparently had expended her anger.
"I'll go," she said sadly. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and took from her bag a small, silver vanity case. "Might as well go," she went on monotonously to the two silent ones, and she dabbed at her face with a small powder puff from the compact. She turned to Vi as she used the puff.
"Before I go," she went on, stepping closer to Vi's side, "there's one thing I want to say	" She put the small powder puff back into the vanity case and absently took another small puff from the receptacle, holding it poised in her hand. "Just one thing	!"
She stood facing the now reassured Vivian, the little puff half way to her face.
"You branded me, Vi Carroll," she cried, quietly, "and I've spent time and money to track you down to punish you." She paused again. Then. her voice came like a whip lash.
"AND I'M GOING TO DO IT!"
There was a flash of a bared white arm, and the small powder puff from Carlotta's compact smacked firmly against the left cheek of the red-haired woman. Vi screamed and Mort Mitchell grabbed the now violent Carlotta.
"We're even!" Carlotta Wynn's voice was triumphant now. She looked without pity at the suffering and horrified Vi, who was clawing at the left side of her face, which was turning a blotchy red and then purple.
"I've branded you, you hell-cat," she went on. "Branded you with acid-you rat!"
She turned to the astonished Mort and asked:
"Do you want her or do you want me? She branded me and she double-crossed you. Look at her and see whether I speak the truth!"
They looked, and the sobbing, hysterical Vi answered for Mort.
"Yea," she said, "I branded you because I hated you-and I hate you, too," she blazed at the confused mobster. "I'll get the pair of you. I'll get you--"
Mort Mitchell interrupted her. He seemed to come to himself, as though recovering from the influence of some insidious drug. He reached out to the little black-eyed moll, Carlotta, and pulled her close to him. He held her coat as she slipped it over her scarred, exposed arm and the two of them, the rod and his moll, moved toward the door. At the threshold Mort turned to the acid-marked
Vivian. There wag nothing lover-like in the tone of his voice now. It waa cold as steel.
As Carlotta hung on his arm, he said:
"Get out of town in two hours, red-head! If you don't---I'll be back here to put MY mark on the OTHER cheek-and I don't want to have to bother to do that, for I'm going to be busy, squaring myself with my own moll. Eh, baby?"
He smiled at Carlotta as he asked the question-and the smile he got in return indicated the answer.