THE MYSTERY OF THE CHICAGO RIVER
Johnny Thompson dodged around a corner on West Ohio street, then walked
hurriedly down Wells street. At a corner of the building which shadowed
the river from the north he paused and listened; then with a quick
wrench, he tore a door open, closed it hastily and silently, and was up
the dusty stairs like a flash. At the top he waited and listened, then
turning, made his way up two other flights, walked down a dark corridor,
turned a key in a lock, threw the door open, closed it after him,
scratched a match, lighted a gas lamp, then uttered a low "Whew!" at the
dust that had accumulated everywhere.
Brushing off a chair, he sat down. For a few moments he sat there in
silent reflection. Then rising, he extinguished the light, threw up the
sash, unhooked some outer iron shutters, sent them jangling against the
brick wall, and drawing his chair to the window, stared reflectively
down into the sullen, murky waters of the river. At last he was back in
Chicago!
The time had been when the fact that Johnny Thompson occupied this room
was no secret to anyone who really wanted to know. Johnny had roomed
here when he first came to Chicago as a boy, working for six dollars a
week. When, in the years that followed, it had been discovered that
Johnny was quick as a bobcat and packed a wallop; when Johnny began
making easy money, and plenty of it, he had stuck to the old room that
overlooked the river. When he had heard his country's call to go to war,
he had paid three years' rent on the room and had locked the door. If he
never came back, all good and well. If he did return, the old room would
be waiting for him, the room and the river. Now here he was once more.
The river! The stream had always held a great fascination for him.
Johnny had seen other rivers but to him none of them quite came up to
the old Chicago. In its silent, sullen depths lay power and mystery.
The Charles River of Boston Johnny had seen, and called it a place of
play for college boys. The Seine of Paris was a thing of beauty, not of
power. The Spokane was a noisy blusterer. But the old Chicago was a grim
and silent toiler. It bore on its waters great scows, lake boats,
snorting, smoking tugs, screaming fire boats and police boats. Then,
too, it was a river of mysteries. Down into its murky depths no eye
could peer to discover the hidden and mysterious burdens which it
carried away toward the Father of Waters.
Yes, give Johnny the room by the old Chicago! It was dusty and grim; but
tomorrow he would clean it thoroughly. Just now he wished merely to sit
here and think for an hour.
The time had been when Johnny had not cared who saw him enter this
haven; but to-day things were different. Since he had got into this
affair with the Russian and his band he had had a feeling that he was
being constantly watched.
There was little wonder at this, for did he not carry on his person
forty thousand dollars' worth of rare gems? And did they not belong to
someone else?
"To whom?" Johnny said the words aloud as he thought of it.
His mind turned to his Japanese comrades, the girl and the man. He had
told neither of them about the diamonds. Perhaps he should have done so,
and yet he felt a strange reticence in the matter.
He was to meet Hanada at eight o'clock. Hanada had never told him why
they were pursuing the Russian; why he could not be killed in Siberia;
why he must not be killed or arrested if seen now, until he, Hanada,
said the word. He had not told why he thought that the Secret Service
men had committed a blunder in offering a reward for the Russian's
capture.
As Johnny thought of it he wondered if he were a fool for sticking to
this affair into which he had been so blindly led. He had not shown
himself to his old boss or to Mazie. To them he was dead. He had looked
up the official record that very morning and had seen that he was
reported "Missing in Vladivostok; probably dead."
Should he stick to the Russian's trail, a course which might lead to
his death, or should he take the diamonds to a customs office and turn
them in as smuggled goods, then tell Hanada he was off the hunt, was
going back to his old job and Mazie? That would be a very easy thing to
do; and to stick was fearfully hard. Yet the words of his long time
friend, "Get that man, or it will be worse for your country and mine,"
still rang in his ears. Was it his patriotic duty to stick?
And if he decided to go on with it, should he go to Hanada and ask for a
showdown, all cards on the table; or should he trust him to reveal the
facts in the case little by little or all at once, as seemed wise to
him? Well, he should see.
Then, for a half hour, Johnny gave himself over to the wild, boyish
reveries which the city air and the lights flickering on the water
awakened. At the end of that half hour he put on his hat and went out.
He was to meet Hanada on the Wells street bridge. Where the Japanese was
staying he did not know, but that it was with some fellow countrymen he
did not doubt. Cio-Cio-San was staying with friends, students at the
University. It had been arranged that the three of them should meet at
odd times and various places to discuss matters relating to their
dangerous mission. In this way they hoped to throw members of the band
of Radicals off their tracks.
Their conversation that night came to little. Hanada had found no trace
of the Russian, nor had he come into contact with any other important
Radicals since reaching Chicago. Johnny's report was quite as brief.
Hanada showed no inclination to reveal more regarding the matter, and
Johnny did not question him. He had fully determined to see the thing
through, cost what it might.
It was after a roundabout walk through the deserted streets of the
business section of the city that they came to South Water street. This
street, the noisiest and most crowded of all Chicago at certain hours,
was now as silent and deserted as a village green at midnight. Here a
late pedestrian hurried down its narrow walk: there some boatman
loitered toward his craft in the river. But for these the street was
deserted.
And it was here, of all places, that they experienced the first thrill
of the night. A heavy step sounded on the pavement around the corner.
The next instant a man appeared walking toward them. His face was
obscured by shadows, but there was no mistaking that stride.
"That's our man," whispered Johnny.
"The Russian?" questioned Hanada in equally guarded tones.
There was not time for another word, for the man, having quickened his
pace was abreast of them, past them and gone.
"I don't know. Couldn't see his face," whispered the Jap.
"Quick!" urged Johnny; "there's a short cut, an alley. We can meet him
again under the arc light."
Down a dark alley they dashed. Crashing into a broken chicken crate,
then sprinting through an open court, they came out on another alley,
and then onto a street.
They had raced madly, but now as they came up short, panting, they saw
no one. The man had disappeared.
Suddenly they heard steps on the cross street.
"Turned the corner," panted Johnny. "C'mon!"
Again they dashed ahead, slowing only as they reached the other street.
Sure enough, halfway down the block they saw their man. He was walking
rapidly toward the bridge. Quickening their pace they followed.
Distinctly they saw the man go upon the bridge. Very plainly they heard
every footstep on the echoing planks. Then, just as they were about to
step upon the bridge, the footsteps ceased.
"Sh!" whispered Johnny, bringing his friend to a halt. "He's stopped;
maybe laying for us."
For a minute they stood there. The lapping of the water was the only
sound till, somewhere in the distance an elevated train rattled its way
north.
"C'mon," said Johnny. "We've met that bird in worse places than this; we
can meet him again."
But they did not meet him, although they walked the full length of the
bridge. There was not a place on the whole structure where a man could
hide, but they searched it thoroughly. Then Johnny searched the sides,
the abutments. He sent the gleam of his powerful flashlight into the
dark depths beneath, but all to no purpose. The man was gone.
"Humph!" said Johnny.
"Hisch!" breathed Hanada.
"Well, all I have to say," observed Johnny presently, "is that if the
old Chicago River has that fellow, he'll be cast ashore. The good old
Chicago doesn't associate with any such."
They stood there leaning on the wooden railing debating their next move,
when a shot rang out. Instantly they dropped to the floor of the bridge.
A bullet whizzed over their heads, then another and another. After that
silence.
"Get you?" whispered Johnny.
"No. You?"
"Nope."
Then a long finger of light came feeling its way along the murky waters
to rest on the bridge.
With a sigh of relief, Johnny saw that it came from a police-boat down
stream. The light felt its way back and forth, back and forth across the
river, then up to the bridge and across that. It came to rest as it
glared into their eyes. It blinked one, two, three times, then went out.
"I'm glad they didn't hold it on us," breathed Johnny. "In that light
anybody that wanted to could get a bead on us."
Hearing heavy, hurrying footsteps approaching, they stood up well back
against the iron braces.
"Police!" whispered Johnny.
"You fellows shoot?" demanded one of the policemen as they came up and
halted before the two boys.
"Nope," Johnny answered.
"No stallin' now."
"Search us," Johnny suggested. "The shots were fired at us, though where
from, blessed if I know. Came right out of space. We'd just searched the
bridge from end to end. Not a soul on it."
"What'd y' search it fer?"
"A man."
"W'at man?"
"That's it," Johnny evaded. "We wanted to know who he was."
The policemen conversed with one another in low tones for a moment.
"One of the bullets struck a cross-arm; I heard it," suggested Johnny.
"You can look at that if it'll be any comfort to you."
The policeman grunted, then following Johnny's flashlight, examined the
spot where the bullet had flaked the paint from the bridge iron.
"Hurum!" he grumbled. "That's queer. Bullet slid straight up the iron
when it struck. Ordinarily that'd mean she was shot square against it
from below and straight ahead, but that can't be, fer that brings her
comin' direct out of the river, which ain't human, nor possible. There
wasn't a boat nor a barge nor even a plank on the river when the
searchlight flashed from the gray prowler; was there, Mike?"
"Not even a cork," said Mike.
"Well, anyway, that clears youse guys," grunted the leader. "Now you
better beat it."
Bidding Hanada good night, Johnny walked across the bridge, around four
blocks, then made a dash for his room. There was dust on his blankets,
but he could shake it off. Anyway, he probably would not sleep much that
night. Probably he would spend most of the night sitting by the window,
listening to the lap of the waters of the old river and trying to solve
the strange problem of the bullets fired apparently from the depths of
the stream.