It was 10:20 o'clock on St. Valentine's morning. Chicago brimmed with sentiment and sunshine. Peaceful was even the George ("Bugs") Moran booze-peddling depot on North Clark Street, masked as a garage of the S. M. C. Cartage Co., where lolled six underworldlings, waiting for their breakfast coffee to cook. A seventh, in overalls, tinkered with a beer vat on a truck. Two of the gang drifted aimlessly into the front office where ink wells stood dusty dry.
Ten minutes later they glanced at each other, startled. Was that a police gong? Into...
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