JOHNNY HEARS THE VOICE
That night Johnny Thompson went in search of a man. In making this
search he met with adventure, such adventure as no person would go far
to seek.
But before that he heard a voice. And that voice, coming as it did from
the air, thrilled him to the very tips of his toes.
He was seated in the shack, the very shack you have come to know so well
from reading _The Arrow of Fire_—the one Drew Lane had rented from
nobody in particular. It was, you will recall, surrounded by brick
structures of some size. But, like some stunted little pine among a
forest of giants, a relic of the past, it had held its place during all
the changing years.
A fishing shack it had been at one time, perhaps, when the shore of the
lake was several blocks closer to the heart of the city. Now it served
as a home for Drew Lane and Johnny Thompson, together with anyone who
might have met with misfortune and come under the observation of these
youthful philanthropists.
At the moment Johnny was not thinking of philanthropy, but of crime.
“Why is it,” he was asking himself, “that men are willing to place
themselves outside the law? Why will they steal and kill? Why bring
airplanes down in the night, or snatch a package from an honest boy who
is trying to do his duty?
“Probably money,” he told himself. “But money for what purpose? To pay
rent? Buy food? Not often. Money for pleasure, gambling, gaudy clothes,
high-power cars, drink. These are what the money buys.
“Too often they wish to ape the rich. And what do the foolish sort of
rich people do but put on a big show? Huh!”
He left the subject with disgust, to wonder about other matters. He
thought again of that haunting Gray Shadow that, appearing and
disappearing, seemed to guard his destiny.
“An angel of light,” he murmured. “Wonder if I’ll ever see him face to
face. I—”
He broke off short to listen. Just before the air of the room had been
filled with the melodious notes of Titl’s Serenade. Now, as the notes
died away, without announcement someone broke in with the words:
“I am the Voice.”
“The Voice!” Johnny exclaimed. “Where did I hear that expression
before?”
But the voice was going on. It was telling the people of this great
city, at an hour when they were at home and in a thoughtful mood, just
what their city was like.
“I am the Voice.” The tones were low and mellow, a kindly, almost
pleading voice. “This is your city and my city. It is our home. We have
always lived here. We love it. And yet it is a graft-ridden,
crime-ridden city.
“I am the Voice. I must tell you of these things. I, the Voice, am
hidden away. I will be hidden. No one knows my name. The announcer does
not know, the station manager does not know. No one sees me. No one will
see me. I am only a Voice. Each night at this hour I will tell you of
our city. I will tell you many things that it is disturbing to hear; yet
you must hear them. It is my duty to speak; yours to listen.”
Johnny thrilled and trembled at the sound of this Voice. It was as if
the Voice was no real person, but one returned from the dead.
“Like the Gray Shadow,” he told himself. “So unreal.”
Though the Voice seemed unreal, the events it was to speak of next were
real enough, as Johnny was in a position to know.
“Only one little group of facts to-night,” the Voice went on, “then I am
done. A few hours ago, a known gunman was arrested. Damaging evidence
was found on his person. Two young detectives who have built up an
enviable record for themselves, brought him in. The evidence was placed
before the Chief. The Chief returned the evidence. Why? A man whispered
into his ear. Why? The gunman was released. Why?
“The young detectives have been placed in a position where they can make
no more arrests. Why?
“A certain reporter is said to have unusual influence and power with the
City Council and civic officials. Why?
“I am the Voice. I bid you good-night.”
Once more the instrumental trio was on the air.
“Who is this Voice?” Johnny asked himself. “How did he know all that?”
He thought of “The Ferret.” Now he recalled that he had said something
about the Voice. But what voice? Was it this voice? He could not be
sure.
“Have to ask him,” he told himself. At that, he was not sure he would
ask “The Ferret.” Some affairs are best left secret. This Johnny knew
well enough.
He went to the telephone and called a number. Ten minutes later he was
out of the shack and on his way to the entrance of the city’s freight
subway. He had gained permission to spend the night there. And such a
night as it was to be!