FROM OUT THE SHADOWS
Shortly after his discovery that the man who wrecked his broadcasting
corner and beat him up was, in all probability, the robber who had
murdered Rosy's father, Johnny visited Sergeant McCarthey at the police
station. As the days passed, this station was to become a place of
increasing fascination for this boy who was interested in everything that
had to do with life, and who had a gnawing desire to know all that is
worth knowing.
This day, however, his interest was centered on one question: What
additional information had the sergeant secured regarding the man who had
wrecked his station?
"Little enough, old son." The sergeant leaned back as he spoke. "Visited
those pickpockets in the jail. If they know anything about the affair,
their lips are sealed.
"As for those young chaps, caught looting a house, they promise even
less. Won't tell a thing about themselves; names, addresses, nothing.
They're not foreigners. American stock, I'd say. It's my guess that they
had nothing to do with your radio affair. They appear to be boys from out
of town. Some of those chaps who read cheap detective stories that make
the criminal a hero. Came to this city to crash into crime. Got caught.
And now they'll take what's given to them rather than disgrace their
families. Can't help but admire their grit. But the pity of it all! To
think that any boy of to-day should come to look upon crime as offering a
career of romance and daring! If only they could know the professional
criminal as we do, could see him as a cold-blooded brute who cares only
for himself, who stops at nothing to gain his ends, who lives for flash,
glitter and sham, a man utterly devoid of honor who will double-cross his
most intimate friend and put a pal on the spot or take him for a ride if
he believes he is too weak to stand the test and not talk if he is
caught."
Then Johnny spoke. He told of the murder of Rosy's father.
"He did? The same man!" The sergeant sat up straight and stared as Johnny
finished. "The man with the hole in his hand shot Rosy's father?
"Let me think." He cupped his chin in his hands. "I worked on that case.
Didn't get a clue. There was just one thing. After Rosy's father had been
shot, this man fired a shot into the wall. Bullet's there still, I
suppose. Few crooks would do that. Likes noise, I suppose, the sound of
his gun.
"You know," he explained, "we are always studying the peculiarities of
bad men. It pays. You know how a poker player judges men. When his
opponent has a good hand, he looks just so, from beneath his eyelashes,
or his fingers drum the table, so. But if his hand is bad, and he's
bluffing, he looks away, whistles a tune, does some other little thing
that betrays him.
"It is that way with the crook. Each man has some little tell-tale action
which brands each job he pulls. One man never speaks; he writes out his
orders. Another whispers. A third shouts excitedly. One is polite to his
victims, especially the ladies. Another is brutal; he binds them, gags
them, even beats them. Some prefer silence; some, noise.
"It would seem," he sat up to drum on the desk, "that our friend with the
hole in his hand likes the sound of his gun. He fired an unnecessary shot
in the Ramacciotti case, and one when he raided your studio.
"Now," he said with a sigh, "all we have to do is to search the records
of crimes committed in this city and see if we can find other raids and
stick-ups to lay at this man's door. Of course, if the perpetrator of
other crimes fired his gun needlessly, it will not prove that Mr.
Hole-in-the-Hand did it, but it will point in that direction.
"That bit of research will take some time. I'll let you know what I
find."
"In those other cases of that night, the safe-blowing and theatre
robbery, was there any unnecessary shooting?" Johnny asked.
"None reported. But then, of course, it is not likely that Mr.
Hole-in-the-Hand was on the scene in either case. He was busy with you.
If he was in on either of these, the work was done by his gang, not by
him."
That night a curious and startling thing happened. This affair, as Herman
McCarthey agreed later, might or might not have a bearing on the problem
just discussed.
The detective team of Drew and Howe worked for the most part during the
daylight hours. They were assigned to the task of detecting and arresting
pickpockets. If you rode a crowded street car, attended a league baseball
game, or chanced to be on the edge of a crowd drawn together on the
street corner by a vender of patent medicine or unbreakable combs, you
might easily sight the nifty hat and flaming tie of Drew Lane, the natty
detective. They knew more than three hundred pickpockets by sight, did
this young pair. They picked up any of these on suspicion if they were
found in a likely spot, and at once haled them into court.
This permanent assignment left Drew with his evenings free. Because of
this, he and Johnny enjoyed many a night stroll together.
One of their favorite haunts was a slip which ended some four blocks from
their shack, and extended for several blocks east until it lost itself in
the waters of the lake. This narrow channel of water was lined on one
side by great bulging, empty sheet iron sheds, and on the other by brick
warehouses which appeared equally empty. A narrow landing extending the
length of the sheds, and fast falling into decay, offered a precarious
footing for any who chose to wander there.
It was a spooky place, this slip at night. At the end nearest the shore,
half under water, half above, a one-time pleasure yacht lay rotting away.
At the far end, an ancient tug fretted at a chain that was red with rust
and from time to time added to the general melancholy of the place a
hollow bub-bub as it bumped the shore.
One would scarcely say that a horde of gigantic red-eyed rats could add
to the attractions or any place, let alone one such as this. Lend it a
touch of joy, they did, nevertheless. This became Johnny's hunting
ground. Armed with his bow and quiver of arrows, he stalked rats as in
other climes he had stalked wolves and bears.
Drew never tired of seeing his keen bladed arrow speed straight and true.
There is a certain fascination about such expert marksmanship. Besides,
Drew hated rats. He had said many times, "A great city has two scourges,
professional criminals and rats. It's every honest man's duty to help rid
the city of both."
On this particular night Johnny and Drew had gone on one of their hunting
trips. They had put out a lure of shelled corn during the day. Game was
plentiful. In the half light of the smoke-dulled moon, many a rodent
whose eyes gleamed in the dark met his death.
Drew had tired of the sport and had walked a dozen paces down the way.
Johnny was lurking in the shadows, hoping for one more good shot, when he
thought he heard a curious sound. This sound appeared to come from the
shadows opposite the spot where Drew, unconscious of any danger, walked
in the moonlight.
Then, of a sudden, a terrifying thing began to happen. A hand and half an
arm emerged from the shadows that lay against the rotting shed. In the
hand was a gun. This gun was rising slowly, steadily to a position where
it would be covering Drew.
What was to be done? Johnny's mind worked with the lightning rapidity of
a speed camera.
Should he shout a warning? There was not time. Leap forward? This too
would be futile. One thing remained. The movement of that hand was slow,
sure. Johnny's fingers were fast as the speed of light. He nocked an
arrow, took sudden aim, and let fly. "Silent Murder" found his mark.
Came a low cry of surprise, then a thud.
"What was that?"
Drew whirled about and snatched for his own gun.
Johnny did not dare answer. What had he accomplished? Where was the hand,
the gun, the man? Nocking a second arrow, he crowded further into the
shadows. What was to come next? His heart pounded hard against his ribs.
Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty.
With gun drawn, Drew advanced toward him. Johnny expected at any moment
to hear a shot ring out. None did.
Once more Drew demanded, "What was that?"
"I-I saw a hand, half an arm, a-a gun," Johnny stammered. "I shot--shot
an arrow at the arm."
"A hand, an arm, a gun?" Drew was plainly bewildered.
"The gun was aimed at you."
"Where?"
"There. Over there in the shadows."
Gripping his gun tight, Drew threw the light of his electric torch into
those shadows. "No one there," he muttered. "You were dreaming. But no. I
heard something.
"And look!" he cried, springing forward. "Here's the gun. He dropped it.
Fled. Thought the Devil was after him. No wonder, when you hunted him
with 'Silent Murder.'
"But I say, boy!" he exclaimed, gripping Johnny's hand till it hurt. "You
saved my life. I'll not forget that!"
"We'll just take this along," he said a moment later as he picked up a
steel blue sixshooter with a six inch barrel.
"A forty-five," he said, turning it over. "Not a bad gun. And full of
slugs. Reminds me of one that nearly did for me once. Tell you about it
sometime."
At that they turned and walked quietly away from the scene of the near
tragedy.
Where was the intruder? Gone. What of Johnny's arrow? What damage had it
done? Perhaps the light of day would answer some of these questions. At
present it was time for Johnny to hasten away to his nightly vigil in the
squad call corner.