They had pinpointed the room as best they could, but it was impossible to be one hundred percent accurate. The trucks that hit a steel-reinforced door didn’t get as far. One truck had to back up and ram the plate three times before it broke through. The two on the ends sailed through the wooden frame like it was papier-mâché.

Ness closed his eyes. Please, let them find something. A poker chip. A playing card. Something.

As soon as the engines were shut off, twelve of Matowitz’s men rushed into the now exposed rear room of The Thomas Club.

The boys laid off their horns, and for the first time, Ness could hear the cries of the patrons huddled at the front of the building, the distressed tumult of too many people crowded into too little space, the usual protestations and complaints encountered when the wealthy and privileged were inconvenienced. But this must have sounded as if an earthquake had hit Cleveland.

What he would do for a picture of that.

Ness headed toward the building. As he walked, he noticed a group of boys watching. They looked dirty and badly dressed, their clothes torn and ragged. They were obviously poor. He knew from the reports he’d read that they were probably living with one parent or had no parents at all. Living off scraps they could find in trash cans behind Automats and cafeterias. Street toughs, the kind that made Cleveland the worst city in the country for juvenile crime. Some of the reports he’d read talked about kids becoming hardened criminals before they hit puberty.

He waved. One of the boys shouted back at him. “Are you really the Eliot Ness?”

“I suppose,” he shouted back.

The boys whooped and shouted and cheered, throwing their hands up into the air. Interesting reaction, Ness mused, coming from hardened criminals.

He wished he could stop and talk to them. There were some details you just couldn’t learn from reading reports. But that would have to wait for another time.

As Ness neared the building, he saw Chamberlin restraining someone by the shoulders. Frescone. He watched as Chamberlin slipped handcuffs over his wrists.

“He was trying to escape,” Chamberlin said. This time his excitement had overcome his reserve. “It worked!”

“It wouldn’t have worked without your investigative work.”

“It wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t gotten the rats off the force.”

Ness tilted his head to one side. “Teamwork.”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Frescone growled. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

“He was carrying a concealed weapon,” Chamberlin offered.

Ness nodded. “That’s good enough for now. It’ll get better.”

“You won’t get away with this!” Frescone bellowed.

Ness stopped, looking at the mobster calmly. “I already did.” He took a step closer, then whispered. “You should’ve shut down when you had the chance. I told you I’d be back.”

“I don’t care what some stinking cop says.”

“You should. I always keep my word.”

Ness started to walk away, but Frescone jerked forward. Chamberlin pulled him back.

“You’ll be sorry, Ness. Don’t you know what this means? Me and my friends-we’re declaring war on you.”

“You’re too late. I declared war on you the day I took the oath of my office. This was all inevitable.” He winked at Chamberlin. “You were just too stupid to realize it.”

By this time, he mused, the men inside should have things well under control. “Bob, you go in the rear, see what the boys have found.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to the front door and knocking. Polite, like my sainted mother taught me. I’ll meet you somewhere in the middle.”

Ness passed through the line of officers, then knocked on the front door.

It was opened by Shimmy Patton, one of Frescone’s co-owners.

“I’m Eliot Ness, Safety Director. I have a warrant to search the premises.”

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“You can’t come in and start bustin’ up the place. It ain’t legal.”

“That’s for the judges to decide. In the meantime, I have a warrant to search. I believe my colleagues have already begun the process. You may have heard them entering your secret gambling parlor.”

Over Patton’s shoulder, Ness saw Chamberlin waving at him, holding something up in the air.

A roulette wheel.

“May I come in?” Ness said, smiling.

Patton couldn’t manage an answer.

“Are you feeling all right, Shimmy?” He grinned. “You look all shook up.”

20

Merylo had never eaten in Pierre ’s. In fact, he’d never been inside the place before and he didn’t expect he ever would again. But it was a tenet of his profession that police work sometimes led one to unsavory locales. And that included this swanky eatery and nightclub, where in the midst of the darkest days of the Depression the fortunate few men who could afford to do so sat in tuxedos, sipped ten-buck bottles of champagne, and danced the night away.

“Excuse me,” Merylo said, trying to use his most soothing voice, which still wasn’t all that soothing, “are you Arthur Dollarhyde?”

The man with the snowy white mustache barely looked up at him. “And you are?”

“Peter Merylo. Homicide Division.”

“What can you possibly want with me?”

“Just a little talk. It’s part of an investigation.”

Dollarhyde looked at him with a withering expression. “I’ll send my assistant around tomorrow morning.”

Merylo saw this was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. The police force was still a relatively recent addition to city government, mostly staffed by lower- and middle-class immigrants, and some people didn’t give them much respect. Especially the very rich, who considered talking to police officers beneath them and felt that as pillars of Cleveland society, they ought to be permitted to do anything they wanted to do, regardless of the law.

“No, sir. I’m afraid I need to speak with you now. If you’d like, you may excuse your wife. In fact…” He hesitated just a moment, hoping his message would come across. “I think it advisable.”

“Nonsense. Margaret and I have been together for thirty-one years. We have no secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“And let me tell you something else.” Dollarhyde drew up his shoulders and leaned forward, obviously putting on a show for his wife. “You’d best be careful what you say. I have a reputation in this town and I will defend it.”

Merylo pulled out an available chair and seated himself, even though he knew this would irritate Dollarhyde. Actually, that was pretty much why he did it. How his plain brown suit must stick out in this sea of penguin getups, he thought, taking a little pleasure in that, too.

“Last chance, sir. You really should excuse your wife.”

“I will not!”

Merylo sighed. “As you wish.” He withdrew a black-and-white mug shot from his jacket pocket. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”

Dollarhyde barely glanced at it. “Of course not. She looks like the lowest class of woman.”

“Pretty much was.”

“Then I am offended that you would ask if I knew her.” He gestured at a waiter who promptly appeared at the table. “Bring my wife and I another bottle of champagne. And get this odious man out of here.”

Merylo waited patiently.

The waiter was obviously conflicted, caught between two worlds. “I am so sorry, monsieur,” he said, in an accent so thickly French that Merylo wondered if it could possibly be real. “The gentleman is a gendarme. That is, he is with the police. We cannot prevent him from speaking to our customers. Much as we might like to do so.”

“I’m outraged!” Dollarhyde bellowed. “If you don’t evict him immediately, I will not come here again!”

“If you do try to evict me,” Merylo said quietly, “our exalted safety director might be here tomorrow evening with a big axe.”