TALKING IN THE DARK
Johnny spent the remainder of the day sight-seeing. Old friends awaited
him, the Museum, the Art Institute, the State Street stores. The work
along the Outer Drive amazed and delighted him.
"Great city!" he mused. "Do anything. No spare land for parks. Make some.
Why not? Goes and gets things, this old city does. No islands. Dig some
from the bottom of the lake. Great, I'd say!"
Then his brow clouded. He recalled stories he had heard repeated. Even in
the far-away Canadian woods men had spoken of rampant crime, gang
killings, wholesale gambling and robbery in his beloved city.
But at once his face brightened. "A few hundred fellows like this Drew
Lane would fix that all up. Young, ambitious, fearless college fellow,
I'll bet. Looks like a dude, but got real stuff in him. Why not a
thousand like him, fresh from college, full of ideals, ready for fight?
Like the men that went to France. Why not? A thousand strong! The Legion
of Youth. Man! Oh man!"
So, sight-seeing, reminiscing, dreaming, he wandered through the day to
find himself, toward eventide, wandering back to the low shack that lay
at the foot of many great piles of brick, and wondered more and more that
such a fellow as Drew Lane should choose so humble, not to say
disreputable appearing, habitation.
"Lot of things go by opposites," he told himself. "Besides, there's that
girl. Italian. But a beauty for all that."
He was only partly right. The girl had played a part in it all, but not
exactly in the way he thought.
"Just what you been doing with this thing?" Drew asked, taking up
Johnny's bow, as he entered.
"Hunting."
"What did you kill?" Drew's brow wrinkled. "You couldn't kill much."
"Couldn't I though!"
Johnny drew forth an arrow and handed it to him. "Exhibit A. I will ask
you to examine the point." Drew felt of the razor-like edge and whistled.
Taking up a square of pine board, Johnny set it against the far end of
the room. Then, nocking the arrow, he sent it fleeting. The arrow struck
squarely in the middle, passed quite through the board and buried itself
in the wainscoting.
"Oh--ah!" said Johnny. "'Fraid I've marred your paint."
"Silent murder!" murmured Drew. "What a spiteful little thing of power!
"Wouldn't be bad; not half bad," he mused a moment later.
"Bad for what?" Johnny asked.
"For an officer. Catch a bunch of yeggs pulling a job. Pick 'em off one
by one with that bow, like the Indians used to do wild turkeys. And
gather them up after. Never know what killed them. I say! We'll have to
add you to our staff!"
They laughed together, then went out to the little restaurant around the
corner for their evening meal.
Darkness had fallen when they returned to the shack, yet Drew Lane did
not throw on the lights at once. Instead, he guided Johnny to a
comfortable chair.
"Let's just sit and talk," he said. "I like it best this way, in the
dark. You tell me of the wild woods where the North begins, and I'll tell
you of a city where trouble is always just around the corner!"
"Tell me first," said Johnny quickly, "how you came to be at the pier
last night and why you picked me up."
"Nothing easier," Drew laughed. "An officer of the law is never fully off
duty. Tell you about some of my 'off duty' experiences some time. You'll
be surprised.
"You see, last night I strolled down to the pier, just for an airing.
Then your ship came in. Thought I'd have a look at anyone who came off.
An extraordinarily large number of persons enter our country in this way
from Canada and Mexico. Mighty undesirable persons, many of them. So I
was on the lookout.
"When I saw you I guessed you were all right. But in our business,
guesses don't go. We must have facts. I got them. You were O.K."
Drew lapsed into silence.
"But that doesn't explain why I am here now," Johnny suggested.
"Oh! That." Drew sat up. "There's a natural comradeship between certain
people. If you are one of the parties you know it at once. I felt sort of
related to you. Liked the way your muscles bulged beneath your clothes.
You had an air of open spaces about you. I wanted to know you. So here
you are. Regret it?"
"Not a bit."
"Nor I."
So they talked. And as Drew Lane's voice came to him in a slow and steady
murmur Johnny felt a kindred spirit laying hold of his very soul. More
than once, too, he felt an all but irresistible impulse to leap to his
feet and dash from the room, for a steady, indistinct but unmistakable
still small voice was saying to him: "This man goes into many dangers. If
you travel with him he will lead you into great peril. Once you have
followed you cannot turn back. Such is the spirit of youth, faith,
romance, and love for the human race. Test the steel of your soul well.
If you are in the least afraid it were better that you turn back now."
Johnny listened and humbly vowed to follow this or any other leader whose
purpose was right and whose heart was true.
An hour passed. At last Drew Lane rose, stepped across the room and
pressed a button to set a square of light dimly glowing.
"Like a little music?" he asked.
Johnny did not reply, but waiting, heard as in a dream the faint,
plaintive notes of a violin creeping into the room.
It rose louder and louder. Then of a sudden, quite without warning, it
was broken in upon by a terrible, jarring WHONG!
Clang! Clang! Clang! sounded a brazen gong. Then a voice:
"Squads attention! Squads 8 and 11 go to 22nd and Wabash. A man robbed
there."
The message was repeated. Then again, quite as if nothing had happened,
the violin resumed its lovely melody.
"That's the way it goes at that station," said Drew. "Funny part is that
the gong sings a sweeter song to us than the violin. It's a great
service, son; a great service.
"Of course in time we'll have our own station; broadcast the calls on a
low wave-length. Only people who get the squad call will be the boys in
the squad cars. Know how it works, don't you?"
"Not very well."
"Simple enough. Someone reports a robbery, a burglary or what have you,
to the police by phone. The report is relayed to headquarters.
Headquarters gives it the once over. Is it important? Out it goes on a
private wire to the radio station. 'Hold everything!' the radio squad
report operator signals to the other studio people. Then Whang! Whang!
Whang! the report goes out.
"More than forty squads of police, with loud-speakers in the tops of
their cars, are listening, waiting. Number 9 is called. The squad car
whizzes away. Two minutes later they are there. Burglars have laid down
their tools to find themselves staring into the muzzle of an officer's
gun. A bank robber has pulled off a slick daylight affair, only to walk
right into the waiting arms of a detective squad summoned by the radio. I
tell you it's great.
"But after all," his voice dropped, "we're not getting them very fast,
not as fast as we should. It's the professional criminals we don't get.
We--"
"There! There she goes again!"
Once more the squad call sounded. This time it was the robbery of a store
by two men who fled in a green sedan.
"You might haunt the courts for two weeks at a time and never see a
professional criminal on trial," Drew went on. "And yet eighty-five per
cent of crimes are committed by professional criminals, men and women
with records, who make a business of crime, who haven't any other
occupation, who don't want any other, who wouldn't know what you meant if
you asked them to settle down and live an honest life. In this city one
person out of every three hundred is a professional criminal. Think of
it! Three hundred people go to work every day, work hard, save their
money, raise their children in a decent manner, look ahead to old age;
and here is one man who robs them, beats 'em up, burglarizes their homes,
disgraces their children. And the irony of it all is, the whole three
hundred can't catch that one man and lock him up. Be funny if it wasn't
so tragic."
"I suppose," said Johnny, "it's because the city is so big."
"Well, perhaps." Once more the young officer's voice dropped. "It's
discouraging. And yet it's fascinating, this detective business. There
are boys, lots of them, who think crime is fascinating. They read those
rotten stories about Jimmy Dale and the rest, and believe them. I tell
you, Johnny!" He struck the table. "There never was the least touch of
romance in any crime. It's mean and brutal, cowardly and small. But
hunting down these human monsters. Ah! There's the game! You tell of your
white bears, your wolves, your grizzlies. Fascinating, no doubt. But
compared with this, this business of hunting men, there's nothing to it!"
He took a long breath and threw his arms wide.
"I believe you," said Johnny with conviction. "I wish I might have a part
in it all."
"Don't worry. You have made a good start. You are to be a witness."
"That--why, that's nothing."
"Nothing, is it? You wouldn't say so if you had seen witnesses kidnapped,
bribed, beaten, driven out of town, murdered by the gangs that all but
rule us. A good witness. That's all we need, many's the time. And lacking
him, the case is lost.
"You won't fail us?" he said in a changed voice.
"I won't fail you. When the trial comes up I'll be there."
"Of course." Drew's tone was reassuring, "I don't want you to become
unduly frightened. Pickpockets don't band together much. We seldom have
trouble once they are caught. It's the robbers, the hi-jackers, the
bootleggers. They are the ones."
A few moments later they turned in for the night. Johnny, however, did
not sleep at once. He had been interested in all this newfound friend had
told him. He had felt himself strangely stirred.
"If only I could have some real part," he whispered to himself.
A few moments later he murmured half aloud, "That's it! I believe I could
do that. Anyway it's worth the try. Do it first thing in the morning."
With that he fell asleep.