JOHNNY CALLS THE SQUADS
It was night: ten o'clock. Johnny stood atop a ten story building,
looking off and down. A thousand white lights shone along an endless way.
Like great black bugs with gleaming eyes, countless cars glided down that
glistening boulevard. To the right, shimmering waters reflected the
thousand lamps. And at the edge of this water, on a yellow ribbon of
sand, a host of ant-like appearing creatures sported. These were human
beings, men, women and children, city cave-dwellers out for a breath of
fresh air and a dip in the lake before retiring for the night.
"How happy they are," he murmured to himself as their shouts of joy came
floating up to him. "And how happy they should be. The great Creator
meant that they should be happy. And for the most part they have earned
happiness, a brief hour of pure joy after a day of toil.
"'One in three hundred,'" he recalled Drew's words, "'One in three
hundred is a crook.'
"Ah well," he sighed, "catching the crooks, and so making those others
safer, happier, freer to enjoy their well earned rewards: that's our job.
And it's a big one."
These last were no idle words. Only a day had passed since his long talk
with the young detective, Drew Lane; yet even in that brief span of time
he had found for himself a part in the great work, in the task of
detecting crime. A very, very small part it was, but a real one all the
same.
He smiled as he thought of it now. In half an hour he would enter the
door at his back, would pass through a rather large room in which stood
all manner of band and orchestra instruments, and then would enter a
veritable cubby-hole of a place. In this closet-like room was a chair, a
telephone, a large police gong set on a steel post, and a microphone.
When these were rightly placed there was room for Johnny to squeeze
himself into the chair, that was about all. Here, for two hours around
noon, and again two hours at midnight, it was to be his task to sit
waiting for the rattle of the telephone. Every jangle of that telephone
was to set him into brief but vigorous action. In a word, he formed the
last link between the unfortunate citizen who was being robbed,
burglarized or attacked, and the police squad that stood ready to come to
his aid.
Johnny had landed this part-time job, which he felt sure would prove more
than interesting, just as he had secured all else in life, by going after
it. He had spoken to Drew. Drew had spoken to a police sergeant. The
sergeant had said a word to a captain. The captain, being just the right
person, had spoken to the manager of the station. And there you are.
"And here I am," Johnny said to himself. "And, for the glory of the good
old city I have always loved, I am going to pound that police gong as no
one ever has, and to such good purpose that someone higher up will say:
"'Good boy! You deserve something bigger and better.'" He threw back his
head and laughed. "Then," he sighed, "maybe they'll make me an
honest-to-goodness detective."
Meanwhile there was the telephone, the "mike," and the gong. He had taken
his training at noon. Now, from 10:30 P.M. to 12:30 A.M. he was to go it
alone.
As he reached the door to his cubby-hole, a tall, red-headed youth rose
and stretched his cramped legs.
"Quiet night," he murmured. "Ought to have it easy."
"Thanks. Hope so, for the first night at least." Johnny eased himself
into the chair and the red-headed youth departed.
A quiet night? Well, perhaps. Yet for Johnny, all unaccustomed as he was
to his new duties, it proved an exciting one.
The very place itself, a great broadcasting station at night, was filled
with interest and romance.
The large studio before him was not in use. More than a score of
instruments, horns, bass viols, cellos, snare drums, basso drums and all
the rest stood there, casting grotesque shadows in the half light.
Beyond this, through glass partitions, he could see a young man. Sitting
before an elaborate array of lights, plugs and switches, this man put out
a hand here, another there, regulating the controls, directing the
current that carried messages of joy, hope, peace and good will to the
vast invisible audiences out in the night. He was the station operator.
In the studio beyond, only half visible to Johnny, the men of a jazz
orchestra performed on saxophones, trap drums and who can say what other
instruments?
"And I am now part of it all!" Johnny thought to himself. "I--"
But now came a buzzing sound, a red light flashed.
"A call!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. "My first night call."
Placing his finger on a button, he pressed it twice. This told the
operator in the glass cage to stand by, ready to give him the air.
"All right," he spoke into the phone, then gripped a pencil.
His pencil flashed across the paper.
"Got you," he said quietly. "Repeat."
His eyes followed the lines he had written.
"O.K."
Now, striking the gong, he spoke into the microphone: "Squads attention!"
His own voice sounded strange to him. "Squads attention! Robbers breaking
in at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36 assigned."
Repeating: "Robbers breaking in at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36
assigned."
Once more, save for the ticking of his watch and the faint throb of the
jazz orchestra penetrating the padded walls, his cubby-hole was silent.
"Queer business," he murmured.
He tried to picture what was happening ten miles away at 6330 Drexel
Boulevard. Burglars had been breaking in. Who had reported them? He
pictured neighbors looking through a darkened window, seeing the burglars
prying up a window. He saw the neighbors tip-toeing to a telephone,
notifying the police.
"And then the Chiefs call to me; my call to the squad. The burglars are
inside by now. And here comes the squad. Clang! Clang! Clang!
"They are not the first arrivals. Nearby residents have heard the squad
call. In dressing gowns and slippers they have rushed outside.
"But the burglars?" he mused, settling back in his chair. "Did they get
them? Who knows? If they were professionals, wise to all the tricks of
escape, probably not. If they were amateurs, first-timers, boys who saw
romance in crime, probably they were caught. And Drew says one
professional is worth ten first-timers in jail. The first-timer may never
repeat. The professional will never do anything but repeat. It's his
business, his _profession_. And what a profession! Bah! I'd rather--"
Again the buzz; the light. This time it was a shooting at Halsted and
22nd Streets.
"Drunken brawl." The affair did not interest him. He put it through with
neatness and dispatch; then he resumed his meditations.