THE PASSING OF THE VOICE
A strangely tense bit of drama was being enacted in that hunting lodge
in the north woods.
Johnny, you will recall, had turned on the radio. For a space of three
minutes they listened to a familiar tune. Then, as Johnny held up his
watch, pointing to the hour of ten, the place grew so silent that the
far-away throb of an outboard motor seemed strangely loud.
“The Voice!” Johnny announced huskily.
But the voice did not sound. A moment passed; another and yet another.
The silence grew oppressive.
Then suddenly a voice boomed out with startling clearness.
But what was this! This was not the old familiar voice. And what was it
saying?
“We are sorry to announce that there will be no Voice to-night. A
terrible thing has happened.”
“The Ferret” started from his chair. The Chief and his whispering
reporter shrank into the shadows.
“The Voice,” the announcer continued, “has been—”
At that instant there came a strange sputtering.
Something had gone wrong. Was it the distant station or the radio at
Johnny’s elbow? He turned the dial and at once there came to the ears of
the listeners the faint, mournful, melodious notes of a pipe organ.
Ever endowed with a sense of what is fitting in life, Johnny allowed
this second station to continue its sweet, sad dirge.
“It is for the Voice,” he told himself. “He is dead.” At once a feeling
of infinite sadness came over him. The Voice was dead. Little enough he
knew about this strange person and yet he had come to love him, as had
hundreds of thousands of others. “He was young,” he whispered, “and now
he is dead. The beautiful world with its sunshine and flowers, its
singing birds and laughing children is lost to him forever.”
That every person in the room shared his opinion, he did not doubt. It
was a strange situation. Perhaps the very persons who had plotted the
murder, yes, and paid well for it, were in this very room. Greasy Thumb
and his confederates had committed deeds as evil in the past. They
appeared to cower now.
Then, too, there was “The Ferret.” He had always displayed an
extraordinary interest in the Voice. What did he know of him? Was he
possessed of secrets hidden from the others? Certainly at this moment he
was behaving strangely. The look on his face was a terrible thing to
see. Yet his manner was controlled. Though small of stature and mean of
feature, “The Ferret” was every inch a man. He had a brain that could
think, a heart that could feel, and a will that was ever in action.
“Chief,” he said as he advanced to the corner, “you are going to resign!
To-night! Now!”
In his righteous indignation, the little man appeared literally to
tower. He pointed at a phone.
The Chief, moving heavily toward the instrument, called for long
distance and asked for a number. He waited while the clock ticked three
minutes away, then mumbled some words too low to be understood, and
returned to his place. An hour later every radio station in operation,
and all the late newsboys were announcing to the astonished city that
the Chief of Police had resigned.
“As for you,” said “The Ferret,” turning his attention to the reporter,
“you are going to vanish. You may choose your own method. I’ve enough on
you for your double-crossing, your play between honest work and the
worst form of double dealing, to put you away for ten years. But you’ve
a good mother. I would spare her. The Canadian border is but twenty
miles away.” He pointed toward the door.
Gone was the smirking smile of the reporter who had turned traitor, as
he shuffled toward the door.
“Do you think the Chief has been crooked?” Johnny whispered, as “The
Ferret” returned to his place.
“It is not for me to say.” The little man sank deep into his chair. “The
city officials can find out. It is their duty to find out.
“All I know is that he held up his hand and in solemn oath swore to
protect my boy and every other honest boy in our great city. And he
failed! Failed!”
“You—your boy?”
“Yes. My boy. Didn’t you know? The fine boy I introduced to you that
night, who took you for that long walk—that was my only son. None ever
had higher ideals and nobler ambition than he. He was the Voice. And now
he is—”
At that instant Johnny held up a hand. A moment before he had turned the
dial back. A sound now came from the radio. The same booming voice
sounded again:
“Ladies and gentlemen, you must pardon the interruption. A thunderstorm
crippled our power station. We were off the air for a time. As we were
about to say, some time back, there will be no message from the Voice
to-night, nor, indeed, on any other night.”
“The Ferret” sank lower in his chair.
“As I was saying,” the announcer went on, “a terrible thing has
happened. An attempt was made upon this brave young man’s life, he who
was known as the Voice. Fortunately, this was an unsuccessful attempt.
His wounds are of little consequence. The assailant—”
At that “The Ferret” sprang up with a cry:
“He lives! He lives! Thank God, he lives!”
The assailant, Johnny gathered from what followed, had been captured by
a private detective employed to guard the Voice.
“The man who had betrayed the brave youth, the man known to the
underworld only as the Spy, is reported killed in the north woods.”
“Yes, thank God! He is!” “The Ferret” said fervently.
“In the future,” the announcer went on, “there will be no Voice. Those
who have promoted this noble undertaking feel that the young man, whose
name must remain unknown, should not further risk his life.
“So now it is up to you, fellow citizens,” he went on earnestly, “to
carry forward the work which he has so nobly begun!”
“They will!” said “The Ferret” fervently. “They will! This is the dawn
of a new day.”
“And for my friends, Drew Lane and Tom Howe, there will be a new deal,”
said Johnny.
“Yes,” said “The Ferret,” “a new deal; an opportunity to use the talents
they possess in the service of their city.”