A ROYAL FEAST
That evening at nine o'clock Johnny was given a delightful surprise. At
the same time some of the questions that had been revolving about in his
mind like six squirrels in one cage were solved.
He had returned to the shack at six. Weary from his exciting day, he had
stretched himself out on his cot and had at once fallen asleep.
Awakened by someone entering the room, and startled by the darkness that
had settled upon the place since he fell asleep, he was about to cry out
in alarm when the place was flooded with light and he found Drew Lane
smiling down upon him.
"Have a good rest?" he asked.
"Fine. And you? What luck this afternoon?"
"No luck at all. But that's what one must expect. You can't get 'em every
day. If you did you'd soon be out of a job. All the crooks would be
behind the bars.
"Not that I'd care," he hastened to add. "There are a lot of occupations
more congenial. If I didn't have a conscience that keeps me hunting men,
I'd take up commercial aviation. There's a job for you! I can fly. Have a
hundred and ten hours to my credit, and never a crack-up."
"Think they'll ever use airplanes in hunting criminals?" asked Johnny,
sitting up.
"Might. Couldn't do much right in the city. But if a gang was supposed to
be leaving town; if the car they used was well marked, you could do a lot
with a plane; soar about, watching a hundred roads at once."
"Had anything to eat?" Drew asked, as Johnny rose and busied himself with
his toilet.
"Not since noon."
"My treat to-night. And you'll like it. Mrs. Ramacciotti has some ravioli
a la Tuscany on the stove."
"What's all that?"
"You'll see. Just get on your collar and tie. We'll want plenty of time
for a feast before you go back there to get beaten up again. Or are you
going?"
"Think I'd stay away?" Johnny gave him a look.
"No, I didn't. But if I were you I'd sit with my back to the wall."
"Do more than that. Take 'Silent Murder,' as you call him, along." He
nodded toward the bow that stood in the corner.
"Too slow. Better get a gun."
"Slow! Sometime I'll show you. That studio is all of twenty-five feet
long. Door's at one end. My cubby-hole's at the other. Let anyone try
getting to me after this!" He picked up an arrow and felt its razor-like
point. "Silent murder," he mused. "About right, I guess."
To Johnny's surprise he found that the feast Drew had alluded to was just
ten steps from their own door. Down one low flight of stairs, up another,
and there they were in the shack that stood before their own and fronted
the street.
A large, dark-skinned woman of middle age greeted them with a smile that
was genuine, and a handshake that was "all there."
"This is Mrs. Ramacciotti," said Drew. "Without her and Rosy this city
would be a dreary place."
Rosy stood by the table dimpling and smiling her thanks.
Johnny had seen Rosy before. Now, however, she was dressed for the
occasion, and one good look at her made him think of cool meadows, shady
orchards, blushing russet apples, and all the rest.
"I don't blame Drew," he told himself.
They were invited to take seats before a small square table covered with
a cloth of snowy linen. At once a steaming platter was set before them.
"But what's on the platter?" Johnny asked himself. "Dumplings in meat
gravy?"
It was far more than that. The finest of chicken meat, run through a
grinder, some fine chopped veal; carrots cut fine, and who knows what
else of viands and seasoning had been mixed together and used as the
filling for small, turnover pies. These had been boiled for half an hour
in salt water. After that they were smothered in rich gravy. A layer of
meat pies, then one of gravy, then pies again until they stood a foot
high on the platter.
But then, who can describe ravioli a la Tuscany? It is the proudest dish
of Italians, and they are an exceedingly proud people.
For a full half hour the time was spent between small talk, and much
eating.
As Johnny pushed back his chair with a sigh of regret, Mrs. Ramacciotti
put her hand to her hair, and said in a sympathetic tone:
"Your head. What could have happened to it?"
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Drew. "Some gangster beat him up last
night."
"Oh, the miserable ones!" Madame spread her hands in horror. "But why? He
is only a boy."
"I'll tell you," said Drew. He proceeded to tell of Johnny's unusual
adventures.
"And the only thing we know," supplemented Johnny at the end, "is that
the man has a hole in his hand. I saw that. I--"
But what was this? Rosy had uttered a low scream, then had dropped into a
chair. Her face had gone white.
"Now! Now!" her mother said, placing a protecting hand across her
shoulder.
"You see," the Italian mother's face took on added character as she spoke
in a low, clear, steady tone, "her papa was shot by a man. He wanted
papa's money. He would give. But he not always understand. He move his
hand to pocket. Always he did so when he was nervous. This man shoot
him--dead! Rosy, she see this man. See hole in the hand. Same man? What
you think? Mebby so."
Johnny and Drew stared at one another.
Johnny was thinking, "So the man who beat me up was a murderer!"
"You never told me this before," said Drew, speaking to Mrs. Ramacciotti.
"No. I did not know you then. You did not work on the case. The man, he
was never found."
"Well," said Drew as his lips drew together in a tight line, "now we
know, and we have a double reason for getting the man with a hole in his
hand. And we will get him. Never fear."
This unfortunate interruption of their party ended in a prolonged
silence. In the end the two boys expressed sincere thanks for the
splendid feast and begged to be excused.
Rosy, with an effort, summoned one of her sweetest smiles of farewell. As
she stood there framed in the door, a brave little orphan of gangland's
making, Johnny could not help feeling that their common tragic interest
in finding the man with a hole in his hand was destined to bring them
very close together in the days that were to come. Nor was he far wrong.