_Found_
Technicalities Feehan was directing the hunt for Kohinoor McCarthy, the
missing third baseman of the Bears, even though it appeared to the two
women that he was wasting time. His easy confidence and certainty that
McCarthy would be found inspired something of the same spirit in Mrs.
Clancy and in Betty Tabor, and they found themselves enjoying the light
summer opera to which he had taken them, and later had laughed at his
quaint, droll tales of baseball and stories of his own experiences
during his long years of travel with the team.
Feehan had found an appreciative audience at last, and it was half
after eleven before he broke off suddenly and announced that at
midnight he was to get reports of the results of the search and offer
his own services in the effort to find the missing player.
"I will telephone you when I reach the office whether anything has been
ascertained," he promised, as he left them at their apartments. "After
that I will not disturb you until seven o'clock, unless McCarthy is
found. We must find him and get him to the station to catch the train
at 6.35 or our effort is wasted in so far as baseball is concerned,
although, of course, that will not cause us to cease our efforts."
"You'll telephone me the moment you have news?" asked Miss Tabor. "Any
time--I shall not sleep much, any news--good--or bad."
Feehan found the office force in the throes of getting out an edition,
and he sidled through the hurrying, jostling office force to the city
editor.
"Any news?" he asked quietly.
"Hello, Technicalities. Nothing yet. You take the case."
Feehan hurried to his desk, instructed the telephone girls to connect
all reporters working on the McCarthy case with his desk, then
extracted a mass of papers from various pockets and commenced to study
and compile his unending statistics.
The reporters engaged in the search were under instructions to report
at once any trace of the missing player and to report once an hour
their whereabouts and progress. Every five or ten minutes one
reported, and Feehan, laying aside his work, answered the call and
suggested new lines of investigations.
Two o'clock came. The office was growing quieter. Weary news
gatherers slipped into their coats and departed quietly. Copy readers
and editors completed their tasks and went away.
Three o'clock came, and Feehan was busy tabulating the statistics of
some player in a far-off league, when the telephone rang. By some
inspiration he knew a trail had been found and he reached for the
instrument with more haste than he had shown, his seventh sense
spurring him on.
"Hello! Yes--that you, Jimmy?"
"I've hit a trail."
The voice was that of little Jimmy Eames, the most tireless and
persistent member of the force of news hounds employed by the paper.
"Where?" Feehan was as calm as if only recording a fly out.
"North Ninetieth Street Police Station," said Eames rapidly. "I picked
up a clue over on the other side of the city--inside police dope. Man
taken there last night in taxi. I'm off for there."
Feehan pocketed his statistics and prepared for action. His voice had
ceased to drag. He uttered commands in sharp, quick words. Briefly he
detailed to each man as he called on the telephone the nature of
Eames's discovery. "Get to North Ninetieth Street Station."
Thirty-five minutes after Eames flashed the first word to the office,
Cramer, the star police reporter, announced over the telephone.
"McCarthy is in the black hole at North Ninetieth street. Orders from
captain. No one permitted to see him. Not booked. Sergeant in charge
don't know what he is accused of."
"Get him out. Report in ten minutes."
"Two hours and a half to get him out and put him on that train," Feehan
muttered.
It was twelve minutes before Cramer called again.
"Sergeant says he dares not turn the fellow loose. Don't know he is
McCarthy. Says orders are strict to keep him and to keep everyone away
from him."
"Is he hurt?"
"Turnkey says he has cut in head and bruised, but all right."
"Pound him--pound the sergeant; make him act. Scare him! Who is the
captain?"
"Raferty."
"I'll reach him by 'phone." Feehan hung up the receiver. "Joe," he
said to the night man, "raise Minette, the office lawyer. Lives
somewhere up that way. His home is only a short distance from Judge
Manasse's house. Ask him for a writ of habeas corpus or something."
Feehan was rapidly calling numbers. In fifteen minutes he had aroused
Captain Raferty.
"Raferty," said the little man, "sorry to disturb you, but you've got a
man in the black hole in your station that we want."
"Can't be done. Orders to hold him."
"Orders from whom?"
"Higher up."
"How high?"
"None of your business."
"Raferty, I'm going to the top," said Feehan quickly. "If that man
isn't out by six o'clock, you'll be broken."
"What's all this fuss about some skate?" Raferty was alarmed. "It
ain't any of my business. I'm told to hold him and not book him and I
do it. What have you got it in for me for?"
"You'd better get to the station and get that man out or you'll have
this sheet all over you," threatened Feehan, transformed. "I'm going
higher now."
He cut off the spluttering police captain in the midst of a snarling
complaint, half whine, half defiance.
Half an hour of hard work brought the indignant superintendent of
police to the telephone. He curtly declined to interfere, denied all
knowledge of any such prisoner, and hung up the receiver while Feehan
was expostulating with him.
The mild mannered, gentle little reporter was rising to the emergency.
He wiped his forehead free from the beads of sweat and looked at his
watch. It was two minutes to five when the night man reported again.
"Minette's on his way to the station," he said. "He'll try to get
Judge Manasse to order the release, and he is carrying ten thousand
dollars in securities as a bond."
"Good," said Feehan rapidly. "Give me Gracemont 1328," he called
quickly.
"Going after the mayor?" inquired the night man casually. "He'll be
sore as a boil. Orders are not to disturb him after midnight."
"I've got to get him," said Feehan. "We can't fall down now after
we've located McCarthy."
There was no reply to the call for the mayor's telephone number, and
while waiting, Feehan slipped to another telephone and called the hotel
at which the ball players lived, asking for the Clancy apartments.
Betty Tabor answered the summons.
"We've found him," said Feehan. "He's alive and well."
"Where is he?" asked the girl breathlessly.
"He's in a cell at the North Ninetieth Street Police Station--about
half a mile from your hotel. I want you to do something."
"What is it?" she asked. "Hurry--I haven't undressed. Is there
anything I can do?"
"Yes," he said. "He's locked up and we're tearing the town to pieces
trying to get him out of the station. It may be an hour--and he must
catch that train. Can you arrange at your hotel to have a fast taxi to
take him to the railroad station when he gets out, if there is a chance
to catch the train?"
"Wait--yes, yes," she said eagerly. "The manager here has a fast
machine that he has been letting me use. I'll get it. The garage is
only a few doors."
"You'll take him yourself?" he said in surprise.
"Yes," she said. "I must hurry."
Again and again Feehan urged the telephone girl to try to get a reply
to the call for the mayor. Beads of sweat stood upon his face, as he
begged her to try again and summoned the manager to his assistance. He
glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes to six o'clock.
"I must get him," he told the telephone girl for the dozenth time.
"Sorry--no one will answer," she said wearily. "I've tried--wait a
minute, there's someone now."
"Hello," said a hearty voice.
"Your Honor"--Feehan's voice was pregnant with pleading--"this is
Feehan, the baseball writer."
"Hello, Feehan," came the quick response. "Why aren't you with the
team, or did you just get in to honor me with this early call?"
"Your Honor," pleaded Feehan, recalling suddenly that the mayor was an
ardent baseball "fan." "I've been searching for McCarthy. He's in the
North Ninetieth Street Station, held without being booked. I've been
trying for hours to get him out so he can join the team."
"What charge?" demanded the mayor sharply.
"No charge. He is being held to keep him from playing. If he doesn't
catch this morning's train the pennant is lost."
"Here's where I make a pinch hit, then," said the mayor sharply.
Feehan heard the receiver bang down. With a sigh of relief he hung up
his receiver and grinned at Joe.
"He's a baseball fan," was all the explanation he offered.
An anxious wait ensued, then Cramer telephones:
"McCarthy just got out, mayor's orders. Pretty well bunged up, but
says he can play. He's gone with some girl in an auto. She was
waiting for him."
Feehan glanced at his watch. It was 6.23.
"Twelve minutes for two and a half miles," he muttered. "They'll just
make it."
And with a sigh he picked up his scattered sheets and muttered:
"Let's see, what did this fellow Houseman hit last season?"