The Fortune Hunters Read Online Free PDF Page A

saloon’s door. His surly face twisted into what charitably might have been described as a welcoming smile as he looked at Ballinger.
    ‘Yerse, Mr. Ballinger?’ he said in a grating Cockney accent. ‘What can I do fer yer?’
    ‘I’m leaving this feller out here. See he’s kept safe.’
    ‘That I will. He’ll be as safe as if he was me own.’
    The driver looked much relieved as his two passengers walked along the street away from him. In the Bad-lands, Henderson’s name carried much weight and no man under his protection need be afraid—at least not in plain daylight and before Henderson’s front door.
    ‘Where now?’ Dusty asked as they walked along the street.
    ‘Down here,’ Ballinger replied, swinging into a narrow street with rows of three-storey houses flanking it. ‘This’s the one here. Cohen owns the place, lives up on the top floor. If we’re real lucky we’ll get up there before anybody recognises me and warns him.’
    Inside the building a foul stench hit Dusty’s nostrils, the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and excreta, the aroma of a slum.
    ‘Lord!’ he said. ‘What a way to live.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Ballinger replied. ‘And Cohen’s probably got more money than a lot of folks living in big mansions up in Streeterville. Let’s go.’
    They went up the stairs which felt slick and greasy with filth underfoot. Just as they reached the second floor, a small, rat-aced man stepped from a room. He stared at Ballinger, his mouth dropped open in surprise, and he turned to dash towards the stairs leading up to the third storey.
    Springing forward Ballinger shot out his left hand to catch the man by the collar and haul him backwards. The detective’s other hand went into his jacket pocket and came out with a short, leather-wrapped, lead-loaded police billie. Even as the man tried to yell a warning, Ballinger’s right hand lifted and he brought the billie down. He struck only once, with the skill of long practice, and the crook collapsed in a limp heap to the floor.
    ‘Let’s move!’ Ballinger snapped, bounding over the man’s still body and heading upstairs with Dusty on his heels.
    On reaching the third floor, which was no cleaner than the rest of the house, Ballinger led the way towards a door. From behind it came a flat ‘splat’ and a high pitched scream, the cry of a child, or girl, in pain.
    ‘We’ll have to bust it in!’ Ballinger growled. ‘It’d take more than one man though.’
    ‘What’re we waiting for?’ Dusty answered.
    Abe Cohen was handing out a disciplinary lesson to one of his workers. Always a man who demanded results, he did not take kindly to failure, especially repeated failure. With his door locked, he thought himself safe from interference, so gripped the pretty, if dirty, black haired girl by the arm with one hand, the other lashing his thick belt across the back he had exposed by ripping open her flimsy ragged dress. Half-a-dozen other ragged boys and girls in the middle teens stood around the room, flattened back against the walls and watching the thrashing in silence.
    ‘I’ll teach you to come back empty handed!’ he bellowed, swinging up the belt again.
    Then the door burst open. The door he had prided himself on as being strong enough to prevent such unauthorised entry. Swinging around, Cohen opened his mouth to snarl out something. Releasing the girl’s wrist, he let her fall in a sobbing heap to the floor.
    On bursting into the room, Dusty and Ballinger took in the scene before them. Ballinger felt rage welling up in him. Yet was bound by certain rules, for there were defenders of the right of the people who would be only too willing to jump on him should he hand Cohen the thrashing the man so richly deserved.
    Dusty had, been a lawman, but he held no official post in Chicago. For all he cared, the defenders of the rights of the people could go climb their thumbs. He saw something which made his temper rise, and he was just the man to do something