A CARD FROM THE UNDERWORLD
Long before Johnny and his companions were awake, newsboys were shouting:
"Extra! Extra! All about the radio studio murder!"
The newspapers, as is their custom, had exaggerated a little. Rosy had
not been murdered. She was not dead. Yet, so slender was the thread that
held her once abundant life to this earth of ours, it seemed that a
breath of air, a thought, might snap it, as the lightest feather may snap
the spider's web.
Her mother, sad faced, patient, resigned to the many sorrows that fate,
or what is worse than fate, crime, had bestowed upon her, sat at the
girl's side.
From time to time in her mind's eye she saw the sunny hills of her native
land, and seemed to catch the gleam of perpetual snows on the Italian
Alps. This vision lasted but a moment. Yesterday, as she had talked with
Rosy, it had seemed very near, very real indeed. But now it was far away.
"Rosy! My Rosy!" she murmured, as a stubborn tear splashed on her
toil-worn hands.
Then, as if powerful hands suddenly seized her by the shoulder and stood
her upon her feet, she rose from her chair. The tear was gone. Gone, too,
was the expression of pain from her face. In its stead had come a look of
sudden, stubborn resolve. Her eyes glistened like cold stars.
She left the hospital to board a street car. At her cottage she dug deep
into an ancient Italian trunk. From its depths she extracted a single
square of cardboard. At the center of the card was a name; in one corner
an address, in another, done in red ink with a pen, was a number; that
was all.
With this card in her hand, she marched to Drew's shack and knocked.
No answer. She pushed the door open. No one there.
She returned to her cottage. There, for a full half hour, she sat in
silent meditation. At the end of that time she spoke aloud to the empty
room:
"Yes, I will do it. If it is the last thing I do, that I _will_ do!
"They have killed my husband, who was a good man. Now they shoot my Rosy,
who is a good girl. Yes, I will do it!"
With the air of one who has formed a purpose from which she will not
deviate, she thrust the card within the folds of her dress.
The card was a secret token. The number on that card was a password. It
belonged to the underworld. It admitted one to secret places. How had the
Ramacciottis come into possession of this card? Who can say? When people
speak a common language in a foreign land, strange things will happen. It
was enough that she had the card. She meant to use it; had purposed to
deliver it to Drew. Drew was not there. Very well. She could wait.
* * * * * * * *
Newspaper reports of the bold attack, of the ruthless shooting, roused
the usually apathetic public. Two thousand dollars in rewards were
offered. A thousand humble men in all walks of life became, overnight,
zealous detectives.
"They have gone too far. This must end! We must put a stop to it all!"
These were the words on every honest person's lips.
But how? Who were the culprits? Where were they to be found?
These questions could be answered best by the city's detective force. And
this force, in the person of Drew Lane and Herman McCarthey, together
with those recently drafted ones, Johnny Thompson and Newton Mills, were
doing their best to answer them.
The Chief of Detectives had granted Drew Lane a leave of absence from his
position as pickpocket hunter in order that he might work on this special
case that had assumed such a personal aspect for him. The pickpockets,
however, could not be neglected. It was necessary for the team of Drew
and Howe to dissolve partnership for a time. Tom Howe was given another
partner while Drew Lane joined Sergeant McCarthey.
They were gathered in Sergeant McCarthey's office at the police station.
For his broad sheets of paper the sergeant had substituted oblongs of
cardboard not unlike playing cards.
"Here are the clues, the possibilities," he said, thumbing the cards with
nervous fingers. "You will recall," he said to Drew, "that when those
miscreants beat Johnny up in the radio studio, three cases were reported
which might have a bearing on the case; that is, they happened within a
half hour of the time the boy was slugged.
"In the first place, let me say that this last instance, when the girl
Rosy was shot, appears to eliminate one possibility. You remember I had a
sheet on which I proposed to record the names of those who might have
wrecked the radio station on that first occasion because their criminal
ventures had been interrupted in the past by radio squad calls.
"That's off, I guess. This time the man with a hole in his hand was
engaged in cutting wires. That's all he meant to do. The shooting was an
accident. That makes it certain that he wanted the radio silent. Why? He
was afraid a squad call would go through. If he cut that wire the police
report could not come in, and the squad call could not go out.
"Now here." Once more he thumbed his cards, as the others leaned forward
eagerly. "Here are the records of last night's doings in gangland, during
the half hour after Rosy was shot.
"Card No. 1. A daring theatre holdup on State Street. It was to have been
a rather large affair, involving several thousand dollars. Fortunately,
it did not come out so well. The greater part of the money had been
spirited away by the proprietor fifteen minutes before the robbers
arrived. They got only about seven hundred dollars.
"This robbery was pulled off by two heavy-set men of dark complexion.
They made a fruitless attempt to locate the balance of the money by going
to an office in the basement. Had a squad call gone through they might
have been caught. The cutting of those wires saved them."
"The man with the hole in his hand and old Mask Face are their men!"
Johnny exclaimed impetuously.
"Not so fast." The sergeant held up a hand. "There was another case. A
fur store was robbed. More than ten thousand dollars in furs is gone.
They jimmied the back door and hauled the stuff off in a truck.
"A watchman in the building adjoining saw them working. Suspecting
something crooked, he called the police station. Had a squad call gone
through, these men, too, would have been caught. They were not.
"There you have it!" He leaned back in his chair. "What do you say? Does
our friend Hole-in-His-Hand belong to the holdup gang, or the fur store
robbers?"
"Well," said Drew thoughtfully, "you've got to go back to that other
night when the radio station was wrecked and Johnny was beaten up. There
were three cases that night, weren't there?"
"Three. A robbery by two boys in an empty apartment, a stickup of a
theatre and the dynamiting of a safe.
"I think," the sergeant went on, "that we may drop the two boy robbers.
They don't seem to fit into the picture. But how about the others?"
"They go in pairs," Drew spoke again. "Two theatre stickups go together.
Men who dynamite safes are likely to rob a fur store. Those go together.
Two and two."
"Sounds like sense." The sergeant pinned two cards together. "We'll play
'em that way. But after all, the question is, where do the radio station
wreckers belong?"
"With the theatre stickups," said Drew. "The dynamiters and fur robbers,"
said Johnny. "They require most time for their work."
"You can't both be right," the sergeant grinned. "All I have to say is,
you'll have to scurry round and find out.
"This is our job. It's a mighty big one. And the reward is large. Not
alone the two thousand dollars, but tremendous acclaim by the people
awaits your success."
All this time Newton Mills, the veteran, had sat listening in silence.
"But the bullets?" he exclaimed. "How about the bullets?"
"What bullets?" The sergeant looked at him in surprise. "There was but
one shot fired. You have that bullet."
"On this last occasion, yes. But on other occasions, no. When the girl's
father was killed a random shot was fired. When this boy was beaten up,"
he nodded toward Johnny, "a shot was fired. These bullets doubtless
remain where they lodged. You are aware of the fact that through the use
of forensic ballistics we have been able to convict many criminals. The
bullets in this case are likely to prove of vast importance."
"And are you equipped to handle that side of the case?" asked the
sergeant.
"Equipped?" The veteran, Mills, opened his hands. They were empty. "We
will need tools and instruments."
"I have an expense account and access to the station equipment. You may
draw upon these in my name. I will write you an order. Anything else?"
"One--only one more thing." Newton Mills appeared to hesitate. "I--I
shall need an assistant. I should like this boy." Again he turned to
Johnny.
"How about it?" The sergeant's eyes were on Johnny.
"If I may be excused from my duties at the station," Johnny said eagerly.
"I'll arrange that."
"So now you are fixed." The sergeant turned once more to Newton Mills.
"We will begin work at once."
The veteran left the room. He was followed by Johnny.
That was the manner in which Johnny became the assistant of a veteran
detective whom he had saved from disgrace. The enterprise promised
adventures of a fresh and interesting character. Johnny entered upon it
with unlimited enthusiasm.