Again, Chicago

The front pages of Chicago's newspapers almost ignored the war. They had more exciting news. Headlines blazoned accounts of kidnapping and murder. Accompanying stories hinted at the rise of a new gangland mob: the "wise boys" said that the "Syndicate," or the "Outfit"--presumably the remnants of the old Capone gang--was being muscled out. Black-market traffic in liquor* and even in cheese was involved; so was the overlordship of gambling, bawdyhouses and numerous other rackets. Then, to top it off, to give the stories the real burnt-powder smell of the turbulent '20s, the name of another Capone flashed into the news. He was Al's younger brother Matt, the pampered one of the family, the one Al had sent to Villanova College to get culture, the one who liked to listen to Puccini's music in Mr. Insull's opera house. The police wanted him for murder.

Bloody Year. Chicagoans had been aware for some time that gangland was stirring. The Crime Commission's list of unsolved homicides had grown portentous.

There were Danny Stanton and Louis Dorman, a couple of punks who had managed to survive Prohibition shootings. They were mowed down by shotguns in a South Side saloon.

There was Thomas Neglia, reputed North Side gambling king. He was already in a reclining position, getting a barber shop shave, when hoodlums rubbed him out. John Pisano, a small-time gangster, was shot at the wheel of his car. The gunmen who murdered James D'Angelo, a gambler and saloonkeeper, trussed his limp body up with a clothesline, left it in the trunk of his automobile.

These killings were all in the accepted gangland tradition: no clues, no witnesses; even the families of the murdered men failed to press police for a solution. There were others. Month ago Lake Michigan's icy waters gave up a bloated, battered body. The man had been shot, beaten and tortured; his fingernails had been pried away. His skin had been stained dark, his hair dyed, his fingertips sandpapered smooth. The elaborate efforts to hide his identity were successful: the corpse is still nameless and unclaimed.

"Business Transaction." The meaning of these unsolved homicides had begun to sink in last week when Chicago had its first bigtime kidnapping since the days of Roger ("The Terrible") Touhy. One Jack Guzik, a sawed-off gangster known in Chicago journalese as the "business manager" of the Syndicate, disappeared. On the day of his disappearance he was wearing a double-breasted suit of the sharpest cut and the newest hue--Australian kangaroo blue--a red tie, striped shirt, a Chesterfield overcoat.

The kidnapping had been reported to Guzik's close pal, one Hymie ("Loud Mouth") Levin. Thirty-six hours later, with Hymie keeping his loud mouth tightly closed, Guzik announced through an intermediary that he was safe & sound. Said he: "It was just a holdup, followed by a business transaction."

Newspapers agreed that Jack Guzik had been muscled out of the gambling business. But they disagreed about who had done the muscling. Hearst's Herald-American reported a group of downstate gangsters moving on Chicago like a Russian artillery division. Panted the Herald-American: "They are not here yet, but they are pounding on the city's gates." The rest of the press, sticking closer to home, pointed out the new gambling overlords as one Tony Accardo, a beefy onetime chauffeur for Al Capone, and one Murray ("The Hump") Humphreys, a quick-trigger man also known as The Camel.

"Quiet Man." Two days later the body of James Larkin, onetime horse trainer, was found in an alley. It was just a routine murder until police discovered that he had been shot at the Hall of Fame, Matt Capone's saloon in suburban Cicero. No one, of course, saw or heard the shots. Matt's young and handsome wife cried to reporters: "He is such a quiet man. He couldn't have had anything to do with it." But Matt was in "Plantsville" (the newest gangland phrase for taking it on the lam).

In the traditionally sober and unhurried manner of Chicago police in such matters, an assistant district attorney remarked: "It would be interesting to know why Larkin was killed."

* Seven soldiers, sick from drinking bad whiskey bought from a bootlegger in Chicago's Grand Central Station, were taken off an eastbound B & O train last week, rushed to hospitals. One died.

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