The Ghost Makers

The car swung toward the lake and stopped at a low, sloping building. Cardona was forced out, and his captors led him to a door in the side of the building. They went down four steps, and entered a low-roofed room. One of the men switched on the light.

Three men had captured the detective. They were a hardy, sullen-faced crew. Cardona, himself the possessor of a poker face, stared steadily as they frisked him of his police revolver, and backed him up against the wall.

One of the men — a big fellow — faced Cardona. He was the leader of the gang. He addressed the sleuth in no uncertain terms.

"All right," he said. "Spill it. What are you nosing about in Chicago for?"

"Do you know who I am?" questioned Cardona quietly.

"Sure I do," retorted the captor. "You're a New York flatfoot, named Joe Cardona. To square it, I'll tell you who I am. Did you ever hear of Snooks Milligan?"

Cardona nodded. He knew that Snooks Milligan was a survivor of an extinguished gang. Snooks and a few others had joined up with Gallanta's outfit.

"Well," said the hard-faced captor, "I'm Snooks Milligan. And when I want a guy, I get him. I wanted you tonight — so I got you!"

Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He saw no connection between his present investigation and the affairs of Chicago gangsters.

"Come on!" growled Milligan. "Spill it! Why are you out here? Talk quick, or it's the works for you!"

"I'll tell you why I'm here," declared Cardona plainly. "I'm looking in on a bunch of phony spirit mediums. That's where I was bound to-night. There's a woman named Plunket who runs a fortune-telling graft right near where you grabbed me."

"Yeah?" questioned Milligan, in derision. "You can't get away with that stall, Cardona. That may be your blind. But I've got a tip that you're out here to make trouble for us. What do you think of that?"

"You've got the wrong lay," declared Cardona frankly.

"I have, eh?" quizzed Milligan angrily. "Well, I'm going to find out about it! Savvy?? Bring him along." The last words were addressed to the other gangsters. One opened a door and turned on a light. Cardona was forced down another pair of steps into a cellar room.

There was a small platform in the corner; above it was a horizontal rack with a roller and a handle that resembled a clothes wringer.

While one of the gangsters held an automatic against Cardona's ribs, Milligan advanced and pressed a knob on the wall some distance from the rack. The platform tilted forward and extended into a black hole on the floor. Milligan pressed a second knob. The platform moved up again. The gangsters were binding Cardona's arms with ropes. They shoved the detective onto the treacherous platform, and hooked the ropes to the roller by the wall. One man turned the handle, and the ropes tightened, drawing Cardona back, almost to the wall.

"You've heard it said that gangsters don't talk," declared Milligan, to Cardona. "You're going to learn different, now. This is the place where they talk — when that roller begins to work. And when we're through with them" — the gangster motioned significantly to the knob on the wall — "that's the end.

"That hole underneath you is big enough, Cardona! Big enough to hide you along with others that have disappeared!"

Cardona knew well that a certain number of gangsters disappeared annually in Chicago. It was supposed that they were bumped off and left in vacant lots and other spots, in accordance with the usual scheme of things.

The usual idea was that only a certain percentage of the slain victims were discovered; for bodies frequently came to light in obscure places.

But now Cardona had inside knowledge of one of gangland's burial grounds, where bodies of murdered gunmen were lost forever.

The thought chilled him; for he realized that with the knowledge he now possessed, he was doomed to die.

Hence, Cardona shut his lips grimly when Snooks Milligan began a new questioning. The detective's only course was to let the mobsmen believe that he actually knew something that he would not tell. Something the mobsters wanted to know. That would at least give time to live — even though existence would be strained by torture.

Seeing that Cardona would not talk, the gang leader signaled one of his underlings to turn the winch. The man obeyed.

Cardona felt a terrific strain upon his shoulders. He resisted the tightened pressure. Another turn, and it seemed as though his shoulders would be wrenched from their sockets. Still, Cardona was obdurate. Minutes of agony went by, while Snooks Milligan glowered in amazement. This iron detective was resisting as Milligan had never seen a man resist before!

At last, the strain became too great. Cardona yielded — but not by word of mouth. He gasped, and his head slumped forward. He had lost consciousness under the terrific strain. An oath came from Snooks Milligan. This was something that he had not anticipated. He ordered the man to release the winch. Cardona's form slumped loosely forward. It was a long while before he revived.