CHAPTER I

THE SQUAD CALL

It was midnight. The waters of Lake Michigan were like glass, smooth glass, miles of it, blue-black. There was no moon. The stars burned queer bright holes in the blue-black glass. The long, low craft that glided through the water caused scarce a ripple.

At the prow of this Great Lakes' freighter stood Johnny Thompson. He was gazing at the skyline of his own beloved city. Three years had passed since last he had caught the rumble of that great metropolis and had seen her lights gleaming out into the night. Now he was gliding slowly, surely forward--to what? His city, to be sure. But after that? Mystery? Romance? Fresh adventure? Who could say?

In his three years of wandering Johnny had known mystery, romance, and adventure aplenty. He had glided up dark mangrove-bordered streams at the heart of tropical America. He had crept into dungeons in the haunted castle of Haiti. He had felt the call of the barren tundras and smoking mountains of British Columbia and Alaska. He had faced the savage, hungry wolf pack, and had matched power and prowess with the Kadiak bear.

Ah yes, mystery, romance, adventure, had been his.

And yet, as he stood there watching the skyline of the city he had known so well as a boy, as her massive buildings bulked larger and larger before him, as he saw the spire-like structures that had reared themselves skyward in his absence, as he thought of the dark, little known streets, of the hidden cellars, the underground tunnels, of the wealth, the misery, the power, the intrigue, the crime of this, his native city, he could not but feel that after all he had wandered far in vain, that even here at his own doorstep was to be found romance, thrills, adventure such as he had not known in strange lands. Was he right? Only time could tell.

So he stood there dreaming until he felt the boat bump against the massive cement finger that is the city's Municipal Pier, and knew it was time to go ashore.

"Where'd you come from?"

A well set up young man, some years his senior, asked him this question the moment his feet were on the pier.

He wanted to tell the fellow it was none of his business. But he had learned caution. He looked the questioner over from head to toe.

"Some college fellow," was his mental comment as he took in the other's spick-and-span appearance. Dressed to the minute, that's what he was. "May be a young reporter."

"Just came down from the North," he said quietly. "Been hunting with bow and arrow." He whirled his leather cased bow about as evidence. "Caught this boat at Two Harbors."

"Yeah? Do you always travel that way?"

"Freight? Why, anyway, I've never waited for a fancy boat. Take the first one that will bring me where I want to go."

"Not a bad idea." The stranger's look changed. "Going over town? Bound that way myself. Mind company?"

"Not a bit."

"All the same, I wonder who he is and what business of his it is that I came from somewhere and am going somewhere else," Johnny thought, as they passed through a long, low shed, and turning to the right, headed down the pier toward the city.

For some time the two walked on in silence. Johnny was busy studying his rather sudden friend. His smart black derby, neatly creased trousers and shining shoes contrasted oddly with the blue shirt and khaki trousers that Johnny wore.

But Johnny had formed a habit of looking through clothes to the man.

"This chap," he told himself, "is no fop. Hate to meet him when he is full of fight. Don't get those shoulders, that chest, that stride drinking pink tea, nor smoking through his nose. This chap's a man. Hundred per cent. But why did he pick me up? Try to find out."

"Used to live here in this city," he volunteered. "Had a room with another boy in an old bat roost over beyond the Wells Street bridge."

"I know the place," the stranger replied. "Gone now. Tore it down. Putting up the biggest business building in the world there now."

"They are?" Johnny was taken aback. This city of his was too fast for him.

"Sure are. Quite a building yours was, too. Don't matter. Thing's in the way. Down it comes. That's the city for you."

Again there was a period of silence.

"Get a car here." The stranger stopped beside the curb. "One coming now. But where you going?"

"Hadn't thought much about it. Lots of places in a city. One night, it don't matter."

"Come on down with me. Like to see that thing you say is a bow. Can't do much with it, can you? Come along. Got an extra bunk. Not much. Good enough for one night, though. Just down here on Grand. Be there in ten minutes."

The street car rumbled by. Once more Johnny marched beside his new-found friend. And march was exactly the word.

"Walks exactly as if he were going to war," Johnny told himself. "What a queer chap! Dresses like a college dude. Trains like a prize-fighter. Walks like a soldier. Worth knowing, I'd say."

When, however, they reached a dark opening between two six story buildings and the stranger said, "This is the place. We go down. Watch your step. Shaky old stairs," Johnny experienced something very much akin to fear.

He knew enough about strange cities at midnight to be on his guard. This part of the city certainly was not the best. They were near the city's water front. The river was two blocks away. Between them and the water lay endless rows of warehouse slips, great dilapidated sheds, boats half sunken and rotting; all this and more.

As he hesitated a truck rumbled down the deserted street. It turned to the right to enter a gap of darkness that was a door to the brick structure nearest at hand.

Cheered by the thought that there was someone about, he decided to risk it.

Moving cautiously, he followed his companion down a low flight of stairs, then passed down an uneven board walk that ran close to the walls of what appeared to be a dilapidated one story structure.

Once more a stair confronted them. This time they mounted upward.

Once at the top the stranger threw open a door and touched a switch to throw on a flood of light. Johnny entered. The door was closed and locked after him.

The room his eyes took in at a glance was in strange contrast to its rude exterior. Softly tinted wall paper, shelves filled with books. Good pictures, tasty furniture. A man's place; but neat, with the neatness that comes only at the touch of a woman's hand.

"Nice place," said Johnny.

"I like it," the other smiled. "Even like where it is. Know what? This shack is older than the place where you used to live! Funny, ain't it? Just a wooden shack. But here she stands. Life's funny that way."

Johnny stared at his companion. His words did not affect him. It was what he did at this moment that counted most. Having removed his coat, he unstrapped a belt to lay an automatic pistol on his dresser. He did all this as if it were quite the customary thing, part of his day's business.

"And this," Johnny told himself with an inaudible gasp, "is neither in the movies nor in the wild and woolly West."

"Well," he told himself a moment later, "Whatever's on, I'm in for it. I'll not run."

Johnny was no weakling, nor was he a coward. When opportunity permitted he spent an hour or two each day punching the bag or swinging the gloves at some real companion. He was a lightweight boxer of no mean ability, as you who have read our other books will know. Just at present he was at his best. Boxing had been denied him, but rugged mountain trails, the camp axe, and a six foot bow had offered opportunities for training that no indoor sports could match.

Nor was Johnny wholly unarmed. He had never in his life carried a revolver, yet in the corner where he had placed it, close at hand, was such a sturdy yew bow as might have gladdened the eye of Robin Hood. And beside it were six ashen arrows with points of steel keen as a razor blade.

"But this," he told himself, "is Chicago. My native city. My home."

"You'll be feeling need of sleep," said his companion of the hour. "That's your bunk. Turn in when you wish. Don't mind a little music to lull you to the land of dreams?" He snapped on a radio which stood, until now quite unnoticed by Johnny, in the corner.

"Not a bit. Something soft and low," Johnny chuckled, "like the murmur of a mountain stream."

"No chance at this hour. Jazz is all you'll get."

Johnny disrobed to the tune of "Deep Night" which seemed appropriate to the hour.

When he had crept beneath the blankets, his strange host threw off the house lights, leaving only one dull golden eye, the radio's tiny dial lamp, gleaming.

Johnny was truly weary. The day had been long and full of the inevitable excitement of arriving. His last impression as his eyes closed and his senses drifted away was that of a great golden eye glaring at him from the dark.

Then, with a suddenness that set his blood racing, he was sitting up in bed wide-awake.

Loud, jangling, setting his ears roaring, a gong had sounded.

"Bam! Bam! Bam!" It seemed in this very room.

"Wha--what was that?" he stammered as the sound died away.

As if in answer to his query, a voice came from the radio:

"Squads attention! Squads 21 and 24 go to Jackson and Ashland at once; a drug store. Robbers breaking in there."

What did it mean? To Johnny the whole affair was but a confusion of sensations, a mild affair of the night.

Before his question could be answered the words came again. "Squads 21 and 24 go at once to Jackson and Ashland; a drug store. Robbers breaking in there."

Then, in strange incongruity, there came again the wild, fantastic rhythm of a modern dance tune.

"That," said the strange host in a quiet tone, "is a squad call. It's a thing the police have taken up. They hope to check crime that way. Forty-six squad cars are waiting for the calls. Two cars are at Jackson and Ashland now. It's a new stunt."

"I should say it was," said Johnny as he began to understand that the sound of the gong as well as spoken words had come from the radio. Once more he settled back against his pillow.

As he lay there now he kept his eyes on the profile of his host. Dimly lighted as the room was, Johnny seemed to read on the face of the man a look of alert expectancy which had nothing to do with jazz music.

"He is listening," he told himself. "Waiting for another squad call."

At once questions formed themselves in his mind. Why did this young man listen so intently? Where lay his sympathies? With the police, or with the law breaker? If with the law breaker, was he interested in some dark doings of this night? Was he listening for the call that would tell of the discovery of his band?

"Strong body. Clear eyes. Keeps himself fit. Wonder if law breakers are like that. Be interesting study. Have to--"

In the midst of his speculations he fell asleep.