CHAPTER XV

JOHNNY FINDS A MAN

That night Sergeant McCarthey visited Johnny in his cubby-hole by the big radio studio.

"Hello, boy," he said, putting out a big, brown hand for a shake. "Mind if I sit down awhile? Sort of like to see how the calls go out."

"Not a bit," Johnny smiled. "Glad to have company. Little dull lately. Robbery, shooting, burglary, shooting, holdup; that's about the way it goes. Nothing really new." He laughed a short laugh.

"Say!" the sergeant exclaimed, "You've got to hand it to this old burg. That stuff goes out all over the country. Everybody gets it. And they say, 'What a terrible town!'

"But it's not a bad town. I've lived in others. I know. They're all alike. Difference is, others cover it all up. We don't. You'll see. When we shout enough, the crooks will begin clearing out. You--"

Johnny held up a finger. He listened. He wrote. He banged his gong. Then--

"Squads attention! Squads 36 and 37. Robbers in the second apartment at 1734 Wabash."

"That's the way it goes, is it?" said the sergeant. "Pretty quick work. When we get our own station it will be snappier. And only the squad cars will get the calls. Special low wave-length."

For a time they sat in silence. Then Johnny's telephone buzzed.

"Another call?" McCarthey asked in a low tone.

"Just a report on that last call." Johnny's eyes twinkled. "Got 'em. Got 'em four minutes after the call went out."

"Good work. No wonder they hate you, those crooks. This place should be guarded."

"It is." Johnny laid his hand on his bow.

"Drew told me about that thing and the way you handled it down there by the slip. Wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't told me.

"By the way, I've been making a little study of that man's history, the one who shot Rosy's father, the one that beat you up."

"Find anything?"

"Following the hunch about his liking the sound of his gun, and the descriptions given in other robberies, I believe he's responsible for several bad bits of business.

"This much we know from the case of Rosy's father. He's a Sicilian. A tall fellow, and heavily built. Not dark for his race. Got a low, narrow forehead, and blue eyes very close together. He's never been caught. Probably sneaked into our country from Canada or Mexico. Send him back where he came from if we get him. And we'll get him!"

"I hope so," said Johnny, with a furtive glance toward the door. "I mostly manage to keep wide awake. But it's late by the time I'm through. If I should get drowsy, and he walked in again, well--"

"This place should be guarded," the sergeant repeated. "I'll suggest it."

"No, don't bother."

"I'll lend you a gun."

"Guns make such a lot of noise. Old Silent Murder here will do as well."

"Guess I'd better be going." Herman McCarthey rose. "Got to catch my train."

"Train?"

"Yes. I live in the country. Little village; one store, one church, post office, few homes. Need the peace I find there to go with the rush of the city and this business of hunting crooks. It's good to wake up with a breath of dew in your nostrils, and the robins singing their morning song. Nothing like it."

"No," said Johnny, "there isn't." He was thinking of the woods by his fishing hole in the far away North Peninsula, where the song sparrows fairly burst their throats with melody.

"Good night," said Johnny.

"Good night, son." The sergeant was gone.

* * * * * * * *

The State Street Police Court with its humorous Punch and Judy judge became a place of great fascination to Johnny. In the past he had dreamed of courts where trials dragged through weary months; where prisoners languished in jail; and a man might be sentenced to five years of hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. How different was this court where a pretty lady might steal a dress she did not need, and never go to jail at all.

The very poor, Johnny soon learned, were treated with consideration. Their poverty was not forgotten.

"And yet," he said to Drew one day, "I can't help but feel that there would be less stealing if some of these first offenders scrubbed a few floors in the workhouse."

"There are many things to be considered," was Drew's reply.

And then one day, as he stood in that State Street court room, all eyes and ears for what was taking place, Johnny made a great discovery. He found a man.

This man was not brought to court. He came of his own accord, to plead the cause of another.

He was not quite sober, this man; indeed there are those who would have said he was drunk. And yet he spoke with precision.

Though there was about him an indescribable air of youth, this man's hair was white. His face was thin. Some of his teeth were gone. His clothes were well-worn, yet they showed immaculate care. His linen was clean. "Shabby gentility" partly described him; but not quite.

"Judge," he said, tilting first on heels, then on his toes, "Judge, your Honor, you have a man in jail here. He was fined twenty-five dollars for being drunk." He paused for breath. "Judge, your Honor, he can't pay that fine. He isn't a bad man, Judge. He drinks too much sometimes, Judge. Let him go, can't you, Judge?" The man's voice took on a pleading note.

"What's this man's name?" The judge studied the stranger's face.

"Judge, your Honor, his name is Robert MacCain. He isn't a bad man, Judge. Let him go, will you, Judge?"

"He's a pal of yours?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"You drink with him sometimes?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"You took a little drink yesterday?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"And last night?"

"And last night. Yes, your Honor."

"How does it come you were not arrested with this pal of yours?"

"Your Honor," again the stranger tilted backward and forward from heel to toe, "Your Honor, I try at all times to be a gentleman.

"Let him go, Judge. Will you?"

"Are you a lawyer?" The judge leaned forward to stare at him.

"No, your Honor. But I know more law than your Swanson or Darrow or--"

"You should have been a lawyer. What are you?"

Again the stranger went up on his toes. "Your Honor, for seventeen years I was a detective on the police force of New York. I ranked as a lieutenant, your Honor."

"This fellow is a romancer," Johnny whispered to an attorney who stood beside him. "He doesn't know truth from lies."

"He is telling the truth," was the astounding reply. "I know him. He was rated high."

The lawyer scribbled a sentence on a slip of paper. He handed it to the judge.

This movement did not escape the stranger.

"Your Honor," he pleaded, "don't let any of this get into the papers. I have a mother eighty-six years old. It would kill her."

"What is your name?"

"Your Honor, my name is Newton Mills."

"Newton Mills?" The judge started, then stared in unfeigned astonishment. "You are Newton Mills?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing, your Honor."

"Yes, you are!" The judge braced himself on the arms of his chair. "You're drinking yourself to death. You are breaking your mother's heart.

"I'll tell you what I'll do." He reached for an order blank. "I'll send you down there with your pal. You'll have a chance to sober up."

At once the face of Newton Mills became a study in pain. "Don't do that, Judge. Don't do it. It will break my mother's heart. I haven't done anything bad, Judge. I'll quit drinking, Judge. I promise. Don't do it, Judge. I'll quit. I promise, Judge."

There had been a time when, quite a young boy, Johnny Thompson had made friends with a homeless dog. At another time he had found a half grown kitten starving under a barn. After much trouble he had caught the kitten. It had scratched him terribly, but he had clung to it and had carried it home to give it a chance.

Something of the same feeling came over him now. Only this time he had found, not a dog, not a cat, but something more precious--a man.

"You--your Honor," he stammered, scarcely knowing what he was saying, "if your Honor please, I'd like this man."

"To what purpose?" The judge stared.

"To give him another chance."

"Can you?" Once more the judge leaned far forward in his chair.

"Drew Lane is my friend. We live together. With his help I can."

"Done!" said the judge.

"You heard what he said!" he exclaimed, turning to the astonished Newton Mills. "You promised to stop drinking. This young man will see that you do stop."

Never in all his life had Johnny seen such a look of despair as came over the face of the old-time detective. He had made that promise a thousand times. He had never kept it. Now here was someone with the mighty arm of the law behind him, who said, "You must!"

He glanced wildly about the room, as if looking for means of escape. Then with a look of utter weariness he murmured:

"Yes, your Honor."