Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

So, when Mitchell called the next night, the proprietor told him he had decided to string along with his old bootlegger and that he (Linky) could go to hell if he didn’t like it. Twenty-four hours later, the man who had defied Linky was leaving his cabaret for his home when he ran into a fusillade of steel-jackets and dropped to the sidewalk, a corpse.

A couple of nights later, Linky went into another night club and sought out the proprietor.

“My name’s Linky Mitchell, see? Did you read about what happened to the guy what run the Blue Owl, did you?”

“Yes; why?”

“Nothin’,” answered Linky, “only I’m the fella what bumped him off. He wouldn’t buy his booze off of me. Who are you takin’ your stuff off of?”

“I’m gettin’ it from Marty the Wop.”

“Well, beginnin’ to-morrow you’re takin’ it off of me, see?”

“All right.”

So that sort of thing went on for many moons. Whenever Linky decided that he wanted to supply another night club or cabaret with booze, he simply made his wish known to the proprietor of the establishment in question, the latter gentleman being only too pleased to acquiesce to the bad man’s desire. And whenever any one was foolhardy enough to demur, he was promptly riddled with bullets and Linky would go home and reload his gun.

But the peculiar thing about Linky was that he did things in such a manner that the police were never able to pin anything on him; they didn’t have any evidence. They laid a score or more murders at his door, but their hands were tied. Linky’s reign of terror was so completely dominating that the toughest of the tough simply wouldn’t entertain the fantastic notion of turning informer against him. Such a thing was entirely too dangerous. And there the matter stood.

So Linky continued on his defiant, boastful way, fearing neither man nor God.

His sole precautionary measure was the donning of a bullet-proof vest which he wore even while sleeping. He had, by this time, many enemies, but he of tea remarked that those people were, to him, the spice of life. In fact, he didn’t know what he would do without them; they supplied his only thrills.

One of Linky’s favorite stunts was to walk into a joint where he was surrounded by gangsters who were just eating their hearts out for a chance to murder him. On such an occasion, Linky would take a seat in a corner and order the most sumptuous repast which the establishment had to offer. When he had eaten, he would call the waiter over, hand him a good-sized tip, and then remark:

“I’m Linky Mitchell. I guess they ain’t no bill for this food, is they?”

“Oh, no, sir; that’s quite all right, sir.”

Whereupon Linky would turn his back on his hawk-eyed enemies and brazenly depart. But did any of those gangsters have the nerve to fire at Mitchell? Guess again! They were thanking their stars that he had gone without firing at them!

Time passed and one night, in January of 1926, Linky swaggered into a smoky, disreputable speakeasy and pulled his usual line on the proprietor, asking him who he was buying his booze from, informing him that he would have to change bootleggers, and so on. The proprietor, exhibiting more than his share of nerve, told Linky that he was perfectly satisfied with his present bootlegger.

“I’ll be around at ten to-morrow night, I will,” said Linky, “ ‘n’ if you still talk back like that I’ll bump you off right in here!”

Shortly after Linky left, Jim Kerrigan walked into the speakeasy. It might be explained at this point that this particular place was a favorite haunt of the Wolf’s because it was frequented by many stool pigeons who, from time to time, turned over certain information to the agent which resulted in the seizure of hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of narcotics.

In view of the fact that the place was a source of great aid to Uncle Sam, Kerrigan arranged things so that those in authority closed their eyes to its violations of the prohibition law. In other words, here was one speakeasy that was under the protective wing of the United States Government.

When Kerrigan entered that night, the proprietor rushed up to him excitedly and told him of Linky’s threat. Kerrigan, of course, knew all about Linky. He had never come in contact with him, but he knew him by sight — and he hated him. Likewise with Linky. He hated Kerrigan for the very plausible reason that the agent was a symbol of law and order — the thing most removed from Linky’s heart.

Kerrigan listened intently to the proprietor’s story, and upon its conclusion he asked:

“What time did that egg say he was comin’ to-morrow night?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“All right. Don’t worry; I’ll be here, too.”

The prospect of an encounter with the desperate Mitchell meant little to Kerrigan. It was just another nasty job in the line of duty — and duty was sacred. Kerrigan had started and finished many nasty jobs in his time; he had bucked up against what was thought to be certain death on countless occasions, only to exit unscathed. Fear was a total stranger to him.