MANY BULLETS
For Johnny Thompson the events of that day were full of interest. They
provided him with a whole volume of speculations.
While Newton Mills was returning to the shack for certain articles in his
kit, Johnny had been sent to a seed store. There he purchased two hundred
small cloth sacks. In this manner he missed meeting Joyce Mills. Since
her father did not as much as mention her name, he was not even aware of
her existence.
Armed with a hammer and several small chisels, they went first to an
unoccupied store-room.
Having presented his papers to the janitor, and procured the key, Newton
Mills led the way into this dingy cavern where dust lay thick and cobwebs
festooned the walls. This room had known tragedy. It was here that Rosy
Ramacciotti had seen her father shot down. Johnny fancied that if one
were to brush away the dust, he might still find blood stains on the
floor. He did not brush away the dust. Instead he shuddered.
Then, so that his mind might be occupied with brighter thoughts, he set
himself at the problem of picturing the place as it was before the
tragedy. Bright lights, gleaming show cases, boxes of candy, their
colorful wrappings lending a note of cheer to the place, and behind all
this, smiling, happy to be of service, Rosy.
"And after that," he thought, "there--"
His thoughts were interrupted by Newton Mills, who was speaking aloud.
"The cash register was about there. Rosy's father had just waited on a
customer. He would not be far from this spot. The man with the gun must
have advanced from the door, but not too far. He would aim so. The bullet
would take this direction. It lodged in that wall."
During all this time the veteran detective went through a small dream
which took him about from place to place. He now marched across the room
at an acute angle from the door, put his hand to the wall, felt about,
then uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.
"The medium sized chisel, please." He held out a hand toward the boy.
Johnny supplied the required instrument.
After prodding about, first in the plaster, then in a wooden lath at the
back, the detective gave vent to a second sigh as a leaden pellet dropped
into his hand.
"Here we have it," he murmured. "And not badly preserved. It should
present no difficult problem."
He placed the bullet, which had been fired at Rosy's father several
months before, in one of the white cloth bags. To this bag he attached a
tag. He wrote a number on the tag, recorded the same number in a small
notebook, and scrawled a few words beside the number; then, having placed
both notebook and bag in his pocket, he turned to go.
"That is all here. We will go next to your radio studio." He led the way
out of the gloomy place.
At the studio they searched the padded walls until they located the
bullet that had been fired on the night when Johnny was beaten up.
This bullet was also secured, placed in a bag, labeled and recorded.
"We will return to the police station." Once more Newton Mills led the
way.
They spent the remainder of that day in a vacant basement room at the
police station. To Johnny their occupation seemed passing strange.
First they filled a barrel with cotton waste. Next they went to a room in
the station where a great number of used arms were stored. These had been
taken from hoodlums, suspects, and police characters. With his arms full
of pistols of all possible descriptions, Johnny returned to the basement.
For four hours after that, they practiced the same bit of drama over and
over. Newton Mills loaded a pistol and fired it at the barrel of waste.
Johnny retrieved the bullet from the waste. This bullet was bagged,
numbered and recorded. After that a different pistol was fired, and the
identical process repeated.
Darkness fell before they finished. As Johnny left the basement he
fancied that he still heard the sharp crack of small fire-arms.
"We will return to the shack," said Newton Mills. "No. First we will go
to the laboratories."
They took an elevator, mounted five floors, then entered a room. The
walls of the room were lined with all manner of instruments. With some of
these Johnny was thoroughly familiar. Others were of a sort of which he
knew nothing.
Newton Mills requested the loan of two microscopes, some prisms, a
curious type of camera and various odds and ends of equipment. These he
wrapped in a bundle. He tucked the bundle tightly under his arm.
"To-morrow," he said as they descended to the main floor, "I shall not
require your services."
Johnny was disappointed. His curiosity had been roused by the strange
occupation of that day; it had been redoubled by the package under Newton
Mills' arm. He had hoped that the morrow would reveal the purpose of it
all.
"But now," he told himself with a sigh, "I am left out."
During the three days that followed, Newton Mills never left the shack.
He rigged up a curious affair made of microscopes and prisms. With this
he studied bullets. Bullets, bullets, and more bullets were studied,
measured, compared, and studied again.
He ate little, drank much black coffee, took numberless tiny photographs,
sent these out to have them enlarged, then pored over the numerous
enlargements, hours on end.
Since he had no part in this, and understood it not at all, Johnny
returned to the radio studio and his squad calls. In this he found slight
comfort. Rosy was not there.
From time to time he made inquiries regarding the girl. She was holding
her own, that was all. Time alone would tell whether or not this bright
world of sunshine and shadows, of moonlight, springtime, birds' songs,
and budding flowers was to exist longer for her.