"Police After Blackmailers, Stage Battle..." ~ Green Bay Press-Gazette, January 10, 1928

Cannard grabbed the paper bag and slowly brought the Hudson to a stop alongside the marked fence post, which was part of a farm field. Cannard exited, dropped the bag in the box, hurried back inside his car and drove on.

Shorty Van Pee’s sold more than just soda. Chicken was their specialty along with the prohibited brew on the side. It was a perfect location for the Triangle Club to watch their goods arrive.

Cannard drove ahead a few hundred feet, turned around, and Delloye stepped out. The headlamps silhouetted Delloye while he walked along the shoulder in the snow-covered field. The moderate temperature and clear skies allowed the ambient moonlight to reflect off the snow and help him see. Delloye gripped his sawed-off shotgun. He was within 150 feet of the fence post and concealed himself as best he could in the dormant brush. He focused on the lighted box and watched for any movement near it. The lights from the box diminished his night vision and he had trouble focusing beyond it. It was 9:00 p.m., right on time.

Wall and Walters had already hidden themselves in the brush and crept forward to get a closer look.

“Hey!” whispered Walters, trying to get Wall’s attention. “Look, just past the post, to your left. There he is.”

Wall also saw the figure, lowered in the brush. They slowly moved towards it, readying themselves to take down the Triangle Club.

Delloye saw them approaching and prepared himself for the arrest. He stood up and took aim. Peering down the front sight, he had his bead on the leader, whose figure was somewhat obscured by the light illuminating from the box. He waited for the right moment to announce himself. He wanted them to reach the box, grab the bait and complete the crime before making the arrest. That would make it a solid case.

Wall and Walters glanced at the lighted box while they walked past it, closing in on Delloye. Burke and Cannard were too far away to see what was about to happen next.

“Halt!” shouted Wall, pointing his shotgun at Delloye.

“What the hell?” Delloye thought to himself, believing he had heard, “Hands up!” He opened fire with his shotgun. Pellets streaked toward Walters and Wall, nearly striking them.

Wall returned fire with his shotgun. The fast No. 5 pellets retained their velocity well in the cold air, striking Delloye’s left side.

The blasts caught the attention of the patrons inside the soda parlor. Someone immediately placed a call for help to the sheriff’s department and deputies were on their way.

Delloye, feeling the pellets embedded in his skin, ran to his right while holding the shotgun across his body. He pumped off his next five rounds over his left shoulder. He didn’t aim and hoped to suppress any return fire until he could get to cover. It was ineffective. The blackmailers kept shooting. Delloye winced in pain. More pellets riddled his left side, legs and torso. Delloye dropped the shotgun and drew his pistol.

Wall and Walters gave chase. Running straight at the blackmailer, it was easy for them to hit their moving target. Wall’s remaining rounds were devastating. He raised the barrel and planned to finish the Triangle Club off with a head shot. He squeezed the trigger and the blast rocked his shoulder. He racked another round and fired again. The fire breathing from the barrel flashed into the night.

Pellets ripped into the soft tissue of Delloye’s face and drove into his head. His skull stopped the penetration into his brain. Delloye slowed and stumbled. He unloaded his Luger in the direction of the shotgun blasts. Blood streaked down
his face, pouring into his eyes, over his nose and dripping onto his lips. Tasting blood, he knew he was in trouble. Refusing to quit, he reached the front steps of the farmhouse and forced his way inside. A trail of blood marked his path…