“FIND THAT MAN”
Drew walked down the corridor, turned to the right, entered the third
door to the left, waited for Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson to enter, and
then closed the door. Dropping into one of the three hard-bottomed
chairs the narrow, box-like room afforded, he sat looking out of the
window, first down the cement paved court, then far up to the tenth
floor where were many barred windows.
“What does it mean?” Johnny asked at last.
“Mean?” Drew Lane pointed to the bars above and across the court. “It
means that the fellows behind those bars (and we put some there, too)
are going to have it soft compared with us.
“They got thirty days, maybe sixty. But when that’s over, they are free.
But we—we have an indeterminate sentence.
“Court duty!” He threw out his hands in a gesture of disgust. “Know what
that means? It means that you stand all day with your back against the
wall, keeping guard against disturbances that never come.
“You listen to well-dressed young men tell the judge that their
well-dressed young wives will not try shop-lifting any more, if he’ll
let them off.
“You see ten or twenty colored men brought in for shooting craps or
drinking moonshine.
“And all the time the court room smells of garlic and sour beer.
“If you’re sent out at all it’s to bring in a witness who has forgotten
to appear. And that takes about as much brains as a six-year-old child
has, and not half as much courage.
“Oh, I know,” he ended bitterly. “Some one has to do it. But why Howe
and me?”
“Why did he do it?” There was pain as well as disgust in Tom Howe’s
voice.
“The Chief? Yes, why?” Once more Drew Lane lapsed into silence.
After that the moments ticked themselves away and not a single word was
spoken.
Through Drew Lane’s mind many dark thoughts were passing. The Chief had
thrown them down. That seemed certain. Why? He could form no answer.
The fact that they had made no report for three days was not the reason.
He was sure of that. The same thing had happened many times before, and
there had been no protest.
It had been generally understood that he and Tom Howe were to be free
lance detectives for the city.
This freedom they had welcomed. And, happy in it, they had done their
best to deserve it. They had studied the city and the ways of evil doers
as a factory foreman studies his plant. They had familiarized themselves
with hundreds of faces. They could actually call hundreds of
pickpockets, tin-horn gamblers, stick-up men and general hoodlums by
name.
Not that they were friendly with them. Quite the reverse. They were
constantly on their heels. Making it hard for them to do wrong. Making
it easy to do right? Yes, if any sincerely wished it. But how few ever
did!
“Professional criminals.” How those words had been borne in upon them.
What else would such “professionals” do but rob and steal?
“And now,” Drew said aloud, bitterly, “all the months we have spent in
preparing ourselves for the great task of city detectives is lost!”
“Perhaps not,” Tom said hopefully. “The Chief may put us back after a
week or two.”
“Not he!” Drew’s tone carried conviction. “Did you see that look on his
face?”
“Yes,” sighed Tom. “But why?”
Yes, that was the question, why?
Dark forebodings took possession of Drew Lane’s mind once more. He knew
full well the power of the forces of evil in this great city. There were
millions of dollars at stake. A man such as the Chief, sitting in a
place of high authority as he was, might be rich if he but turned his
back upon the gambling houses and peddlers of poison labeled strong
drink.
Until now, Drew had admired and respected his Chief. Had the lure at
last grown too strong for him? Had he fallen?
He knew the Chief’s great ambition. In a moment of relaxation he had
taken the boy into his confidence.
“Drew, old son,” he had once said, “when I was a boy of sixteen I was
not very strong. Like the great Roosevelt, I was sent west for my
health. For one whole year I lived on the range. I came to love it.
“You know, the wild, free life. The cattle feeding. The sunset across
the green of spring, the brown of summer. The tents, the roasting
steaks. The wild, free out-of-doors.
“And, in winter, the big, roomy ranch house. Cards, dances, and all the
good times. I want enough money to retire on a ranch like that. Who
wouldn’t?”
“Yes,” Drew sighed, “Who wouldn’t? But the price!” He sighed again.
“It looks easy,” he mused. “Just turn your back. Hundreds have done so
before you.”
“Johnny Thompson,” he said quite abruptly, “who is the meanest man in
the world?”
“A professional criminal.”
“No, Johnny, you’re wrong.” Drew’s smile was sad. “No, Johnny. The
meanest man is the one who turns traitor to the cause he has sworn to
serve.
“Who is it that we remember with real hatred when we think of our
American Revolution? Is it Cornwallis?
“He is not the man. Benedict Arnold, the traitor, is the man.”
“Yes,” Johnny agreed, “that’s right. But you don’t think—”
“Stop!” Drew Lane held up his hand for silence. “This is no time for
thinking out loud. We must wait and see.”
“Waiting is not my long suit!” exclaimed Johnny, springing to his feet.
“I am long on action. And why not? I am free. You have been free lances
for the city. I am a free lance on my own. I can go where I please.”
“Yes,” agreed Tom Howe. “Until the long arm of the Powers of Evil
reaches out and gathers you in.”
“But until then,” Johnny went on, not one whit abashed, “I shall do my
utmost to solve these mysteries. Did Greasy Thumb and his gang rob the
Air Mail? If so, what were they after? And did they get it?”
“And one thing more,” said Tom Howe with a smile of genuine admiration.
“What became of that Air Mail pilot?”
“That’s right,” agreed Johnny. “Looks like that is the first real
problem. Find that man and perhaps secure a witness who can explain
everything.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the others in unison. “Find that man!”