GUNMEN’S METHODS.
Cates was looking forward with considerable eagerness to Friday
night. Any man likes to have _the_ girl see him at his best work, and
certainly the radio cop excelled as an announcer. Carefully he planned
his broadcast so that there would not be the least hesitation on his
part. Everything must go like clockwork.
There is a saying about the best-laid plans. Friday afternoon Cates
complained bitterly to Miss Anabelle: “Can you beat those commissioners?
Never for a moment did I think they’d get around so quickly to switching
the microphone to the new location. I’m not going to take you out there
because the place is too dangerous, so we’ll have to call off the
exhibition.”
Apprehension showed in the hazel eyes at the mention of danger. She
wrote: “Where is the place?” Informed, she wrote again: “I understand.
There will be other times, so don’t feel bad about it.”
When Cates had gone, Miss Anabelle gazed very thoughtfully down at her
tablet, then made a memorandum of the address.
All things seemed to break that evening. The radio cop went out to the
old garage early to get things ready for the first evening’s broadcast.
Glancing out the window, he saw a big man come out of the house Margolo
had rented, and go across the street to a drug store. A second glance
told Cates that it was none other than Big Ed himself.
Immediately the cop announcer left things as they were and hurried after
the gangster.
At the store Cates bought a package of cigarettes while Big Ed was
telephoning. Distinctly he heard the gangster say:
“Bring my car out and make it snappy.”
The nimble brain of Officer Cates began to click. Something was up or
Margolo wouldn’t call for his car in such a hurry. Cates moved to the
magazine stand as Margolo emerged from the booth and hurried out of the
store.
Suddenly a plan occurred to Cates. It was daring in conception, but the
more he thought of it the more plausible it seemed. Anyway, he’d take a
chance. Quickly he went into the street, and strode along in the
direction from which Margolo’s car must come.
There was a sharp corner there by the fruit store. Necessarily the car
must come around that corner. Cates cautiously drew back into a doorway
and waited.
Presently headlights gleamed. The big car slowed for the corner. Cates
caught a glimpse of the driver. Yes, the chauffeur was the youth to whom
Cates had lent ten dollars.
The car was the green limousine that had nearly taken Cates on his death
ride. This evidence made it pretty definite to Cates that Margolo was
the man who had ordered his death.
Dave Cates slid out of the shadow. In a bound he was on the running
board, had yanked open the door, and was pressing his gun into the side
of the startled driver.
“Drive to the Warren Avenue station,” he ordered.
“What the hell!” exclaimed the youth. “Say, ain’t you----”
“I am,” Cates nodded, “but we won’t talk about that now. Drive to
the station, kid, and make it fast.”
At the Warren Avenue station Cates turned the youth over to the desk
sergeant.
“I’m Dave Cates, radio announcer,” he explained. “No charges against
this kid, but hold him till I notify you.”
To the open-mouthed youth Cates said: “Don’t get worried, kid. We’ll
talk this over later. Now peel off that livery, because I’m going to
need it.”
As he dressed rapidly in the chauffeur’s uniform, Cates thanked the gods
of luck that Margolo always made his drivers wear livery. In this rig,
that was a very fair fit, the chances were good that he could escape
detection. Cates had a suspicion that Margolo didn’t talk much with his
drivers.
* * * * *
Out to the car, Cates ran, and started back to Margolo’s house.
The gangster was waiting impatiently with three of his men. “Long enough
gettin’ here!” he snapped. “What the hell was the matter?”
“Traffic,” muttered Cates, hoping that he imitated the voice of the
former driver.
Margolo didn’t appear to notice. With two of his men he got in the back
seat. The third man got in front and leaned over the seat to join the
low-toned conversation.
“Out by Jimmy’s,” ordered Margolo.
Cates nodded and started the car. For a moment he wondered where Jimmy’s
was, then remembered it was a cafe out in the west end of the town, a
meeting place for underworld leaders.
The radio cop suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t pleasant to contemplate what
would happen if Margolo discovered his identity.
As the car neared Jimmy’s, the men became silent. Cates could watch
Margolo in the rear-vision mirror. The gangster’s swarthy face was grim;
his thin lips were twisted in an ugly snarl.
“Slow,” he commanded.
Cates throttled the car to about ten miles an hour. Thoughtfully he
stared at the lights in front of the cafe. Something was going to happen,
but----
Cates soon found out. A man strolled from the cafe and called laughingly
to another man inside. A second figure appeared in the doorway.
“Now!” gritted Margolo.
Four guns barked. The man in the doorway pitched forward, rolled to the
sidewalk, and lay still.
Horror and rage stirred Dave Cates. All in a second he realized that he
must carry this thing through until Margolo dismissed him--that if he
made the slightest suspicious move the four guns would bark again.
Cates stepped upon the accelerator and the big car leaped away.
“Back to the house,” ordered Margolo, his voice as calm as if he had not
killed a man. Then with a hard laugh: “McGuirk won’t do no more braggin’
now.”
Cates’ face was very grim as he bent over the wheel. The low-lived
murderer! Strike with deadly precision and then run from the law! Well,
he wouldn’t strike much more--not if Dave Cates had anything to say
about it.
At the house Margolo got out and fastened his glittering gaze upon his
driver. Cates was thankful for the shadow cast by the visor of his
chauffeur’s cap.
“Take this car back to the garage,” ordered the gangster, “and remember--it
wasn’t out tonight. If the cops ask you, you didn’t see nothin’ nor hear
nothin’. See?”
Again Cates nodded, not daring to trust his voice. As he drew away from
the curb he glanced at his watch. Almost eight--time to be getting up to
the microphone. That thought came to him mechanically. It is the
unforgivable sin for a radio announcer to be late. What should he do?
The capture of the gunmen was of first importance. Should he go directly
to the Warren Avenue station and notify the police there? No, because
that was a small detail, with only one or two reserve men. It would take
too long for the desk sergeant to summon the men on the street. Too, it
would take too long to telephone the other details.
It was three minutes to eight. Deciding, Dave Cates pulled to the curb,
leaped out, and raced back toward the old garage, careful to go by a
back way so that Margolo’s men would not see him.
At the doorway a small figure rose out of the gloom. Dave Cates’ hand
flashed to his armpit. Then, “How’d you get here?” he gasped.
Already she had anticipated his surprise, and had written her message.
Barely Cates made it out:
“I wanted to see you broadcast, no matter how dangerous the locality
might be. Please don’t be angry.”
Angry! How could he be angry with her for anything? Even now a warm glow
suffused him at the thought that she was willing to share danger with
him. Still, because the ideal in his heart was a precious and fragile
thing, he dared not hope too much.
“All right,” he cautioned, “but be sure not to make any noise.”
He just made the room as the faint green light flashed, telling him that
station KYK had switched its power to him. He placed a chair for Miss
Anabelle to one side, where she could watch, then quickly stepped to
the microphone.
“Good evening, folks,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “This is the
police division of station KYK to which you are now listening.”
He paused, and the department listeners understood that he was going
into code.
Slowly, distinctly, the radio cop continued: “Bed isn’t the worst place
in the world after a man has worked hard all day. A sale of springs and
mattresses is now taking place at 47 River Street. Wonderful bargains if
bought _now_.”