GANGDOM CHALLENGES.
Patrolman Tom Jennings, who claimed he had a flair for poetry, described
him thus:
A talking fool with a voice like a dove
And a face that only a mother could love,
Small and ready to fight at a nod
Was Officer Cates of the wave-length squad.
Which, after all, wasn’t so far out of the way. For certainly young Dave
Cates, official announcer for the police division of radio station KYK,
was far from being an Adonis. He had a measure of pugnacity, and he had
a splendid voice.
Cates was talking now before the microphone in the police room over the
studio of KYK. Smoothly his voice went out to the world:
“The rush order on the new uniforms for the men of the Dolliver Street
detail has been filled and the uniforms have been sent out. Orders are
that they be put on as soon as received.”
Not particularly interesting to thousands of the idly curious who
chanced to be tuned in, but decidedly interesting to listening police
details all over the great city. To them the code dispatch meant this:
“Big Ed” Margolo is free, having been acquitted of the murder
charge against him. Dolliver Street detail must guard against
resumption of gang war between Margolo and “Red” McGuirk.
As the announcer was about to go on talking his alert ears caught the
buzzing of the muffled telephone bell in the adjoining room.
“Please stand by for one moment,” he said, and stepped into the phone
room.
“What is it, Henry?” he inquired. “More dope from headquarters?”
The telephone operator grinned. “Headquarters--my neck!” he grunted.
“Just another dame callin’ up to rave about that voice of yours. Wants
to know if you’ll send her an autographed picture of yourself.”
Dave Cates shrugged. It almost seemed that nature atoned for her
lavishness in giving him a golden voice by crediting him with a bulldog
jaw, a wide mouth, and a pug nose that sported five freckles. His eyes,
level and blue, were his only redeeming feature.
It had been his eyes as well as his voice that had induced Captain
Henessey to recommend that he be put on the pay roll as the first radio
officer the department ever had.
But there it ended. Cates longed for the life of the cop on the beat,
but his physical qualifications were below standard. In his heart he
kept locked away an ideal of romance, but it hardly seemed likely that
the ideal would ever materialize. They all liked his voice, but they
turned away from his face.
“Tell ’em to go jump a fence,” said Officer Cates. “This is no picture
gallery we’re running here, nor is it a lonely hearts department. If
those babies think they’re kidding _me_, they’re tuning in on the wrong
station.”
He turned on his heel to go back to the broadcasting room, but paused as
the phone rang again. Henry plugged in and took the message, then spun
around in his chair and jerked off his “ear muffs.”
“Some guy just called in to say if you didn’t lay off broadcastin’ you’d
get bumped,” he said excitedly. “He----”
“You’re kidding!”
“The hell I am! He meant business, too, by the way he sounded.”
Young Officer Cates wasn’t particularly surprised. The code warnings had
proved very successful in producing quick action on the part of the
police and checking activities on the part of the criminals. It was only
natural to suppose that, sooner or later, the warning would come.
“The son of a gun!” he said slowly.
But he was not afraid. The sudden tenseness of his stocky body was
merely the tenseness of a fighter before the gong. Some excitement might
even develop out of this warning. An anticipatory glint appeared in the
blue eyes.
“The son of a gun!” Cates repeated. “Tell him to go jump two fences,
Henry.”
* * * * *
Casually Cates sauntered back to the microphone.
“Police division of station KYK still going strong,” he said lightly.
“It gives me great pleasure at this moment to acknowledge a phone call.
This call just came in from an unknown gentleman who suggested that we
stop broadcasting, while the stopping was good. I don’t like to
disappoint the gentleman, but this division will continue to be on the
air at the same time every night.”
And so was the challenge of organized gangdom caught up and hurled back
by a stocky, freckle-faced officer, who was more than willing to prove
himself.
Calmly he continued with the various messages. That he was no longer
broadcasting in code, the police knew by his utterance of the word,
“classified.”
These items were numerous. A lady had lost a tan-and-white collie dog
somewhere between 13th Street and Southland Road, and would pay a
substantial reward to any one returning the dog.
A young man in a gray suit was now at headquarters awaiting
identification. The young man was a victim of amnesia--didn’t know his
own name or anything about himself.
Finally, some heartless crook had stolen the pocketbook of an old man
who was on his way from Maine to California to see his dying daughter.
Any small contributions that would help to put the old man on his
journey would be welcomed.
Then Dave Cates glanced at the electric clock on the wall, above the
green light.
“And so this brings to an end our broadcast for this evening,” he
concluded. “This is the police division of station KYK signing off at
exactly eight thirty. Good night.”
Cates stuffed the sheets of paper into his pocket, lighted a cigarette,
and went out to the elevator.
The elevator boy grinned admiringly. “Evenin’, Mr. Cates,” he said. “I
heard you broadcast three nights ago. Gee, it must be swell to be an
announcer, and have nothin’ to do but talk.”
Officer Cates grinned. “It might be worse, Billy,” he admitted. “Yes, it
might be a whole lot worse.” To himself he added, “And it might be a
heck of a lot better.”
Cates emerged from the elevator at the ground floor and went into the
street, moving with the brisk step that characterized him. At once, a
nattily dressed young man detached himself from the passing throng and
stepped up to Cates. The young man’s right hand was casually thrust into
his topcoat pocket.
“Don’t make any funny moves or you’ll get drilled,” he cautioned, low
voiced. “See that car at the curb? Well, hop into it.”
The little announcer stiffened with the chill that went over him.
Evidently they were losing no time in making good their threats. Cates
knew it would do no good to make a break, for the young man would shoot
instantly and melt away in the crowd. His eyes, dark and menacing, gave
that warning.
Cates eyed him steadily. “What car?” he asked, trying to gain time.
“You know what car!” snarled the gunman. “This green limousine here. Get
goin’.”
Officer Cates shrugged. He stepped toward the car. Then a miraculous
thing happened.