CHAPTER XX

A CARD FROM THE UNDERWORLD

Long before Johnny and his companions were awake, newsboys were shouting:

"Extra! Extra! All about the radio studio murder!"

The newspapers, as is their custom, had exaggerated a little. Rosy had not been murdered. She was not dead. Yet, so slender was the thread that held her once abundant life to this earth of ours, it seemed that a breath of air, a thought, might snap it, as the lightest feather may snap the spider's web.

Her mother, sad faced, patient, resigned to the many sorrows that fate, or what is worse than fate, crime, had bestowed upon her, sat at the girl's side.

From time to time in her mind's eye she saw the sunny hills of her native land, and seemed to catch the gleam of perpetual snows on the Italian Alps. This vision lasted but a moment. Yesterday, as she had talked with Rosy, it had seemed very near, very real indeed. But now it was far away.

"Rosy! My Rosy!" she murmured, as a stubborn tear splashed on her toil-worn hands.

Then, as if powerful hands suddenly seized her by the shoulder and stood her upon her feet, she rose from her chair. The tear was gone. Gone, too, was the expression of pain from her face. In its stead had come a look of sudden, stubborn resolve. Her eyes glistened like cold stars.

She left the hospital to board a street car. At her cottage she dug deep into an ancient Italian trunk. From its depths she extracted a single square of cardboard. At the center of the card was a name; in one corner an address, in another, done in red ink with a pen, was a number; that was all.

With this card in her hand, she marched to Drew's shack and knocked.

No answer. She pushed the door open. No one there.

She returned to her cottage. There, for a full half hour, she sat in silent meditation. At the end of that time she spoke aloud to the empty room:

"Yes, I will do it. If it is the last thing I do, that I _will_ do!

"They have killed my husband, who was a good man. Now they shoot my Rosy, who is a good girl. Yes, I will do it!"

With the air of one who has formed a purpose from which she will not deviate, she thrust the card within the folds of her dress.

The card was a secret token. The number on that card was a password. It belonged to the underworld. It admitted one to secret places. How had the Ramacciottis come into possession of this card? Who can say? When people speak a common language in a foreign land, strange things will happen. It was enough that she had the card. She meant to use it; had purposed to deliver it to Drew. Drew was not there. Very well. She could wait.

* * * * * * * *

Newspaper reports of the bold attack, of the ruthless shooting, roused the usually apathetic public. Two thousand dollars in rewards were offered. A thousand humble men in all walks of life became, overnight, zealous detectives.

"They have gone too far. This must end! We must put a stop to it all!" These were the words on every honest person's lips.

But how? Who were the culprits? Where were they to be found?

These questions could be answered best by the city's detective force. And this force, in the person of Drew Lane and Herman McCarthey, together with those recently drafted ones, Johnny Thompson and Newton Mills, were doing their best to answer them.

The Chief of Detectives had granted Drew Lane a leave of absence from his position as pickpocket hunter in order that he might work on this special case that had assumed such a personal aspect for him. The pickpockets, however, could not be neglected. It was necessary for the team of Drew and Howe to dissolve partnership for a time. Tom Howe was given another partner while Drew Lane joined Sergeant McCarthey.

They were gathered in Sergeant McCarthey's office at the police station. For his broad sheets of paper the sergeant had substituted oblongs of cardboard not unlike playing cards.

"Here are the clues, the possibilities," he said, thumbing the cards with nervous fingers. "You will recall," he said to Drew, "that when those miscreants beat Johnny up in the radio studio, three cases were reported which might have a bearing on the case; that is, they happened within a half hour of the time the boy was slugged.

"In the first place, let me say that this last instance, when the girl Rosy was shot, appears to eliminate one possibility. You remember I had a sheet on which I proposed to record the names of those who might have wrecked the radio station on that first occasion because their criminal ventures had been interrupted in the past by radio squad calls.

"That's off, I guess. This time the man with a hole in his hand was engaged in cutting wires. That's all he meant to do. The shooting was an accident. That makes it certain that he wanted the radio silent. Why? He was afraid a squad call would go through. If he cut that wire the police report could not come in, and the squad call could not go out.

"Now here." Once more he thumbed his cards, as the others leaned forward eagerly. "Here are the records of last night's doings in gangland, during the half hour after Rosy was shot.

"Card No. 1. A daring theatre holdup on State Street. It was to have been a rather large affair, involving several thousand dollars. Fortunately, it did not come out so well. The greater part of the money had been spirited away by the proprietor fifteen minutes before the robbers arrived. They got only about seven hundred dollars.

"This robbery was pulled off by two heavy-set men of dark complexion. They made a fruitless attempt to locate the balance of the money by going to an office in the basement. Had a squad call gone through they might have been caught. The cutting of those wires saved them."

"The man with the hole in his hand and old Mask Face are their men!" Johnny exclaimed impetuously.

"Not so fast." The sergeant held up a hand. "There was another case. A fur store was robbed. More than ten thousand dollars in furs is gone. They jimmied the back door and hauled the stuff off in a truck.

"A watchman in the building adjoining saw them working. Suspecting something crooked, he called the police station. Had a squad call gone through, these men, too, would have been caught. They were not.

"There you have it!" He leaned back in his chair. "What do you say? Does our friend Hole-in-His-Hand belong to the holdup gang, or the fur store robbers?"

"Well," said Drew thoughtfully, "you've got to go back to that other night when the radio station was wrecked and Johnny was beaten up. There were three cases that night, weren't there?"

"Three. A robbery by two boys in an empty apartment, a stickup of a theatre and the dynamiting of a safe.

"I think," the sergeant went on, "that we may drop the two boy robbers. They don't seem to fit into the picture. But how about the others?"

"They go in pairs," Drew spoke again. "Two theatre stickups go together. Men who dynamite safes are likely to rob a fur store. Those go together. Two and two."

"Sounds like sense." The sergeant pinned two cards together. "We'll play 'em that way. But after all, the question is, where do the radio station wreckers belong?"

"With the theatre stickups," said Drew. "The dynamiters and fur robbers," said Johnny. "They require most time for their work."

"You can't both be right," the sergeant grinned. "All I have to say is, you'll have to scurry round and find out.

"This is our job. It's a mighty big one. And the reward is large. Not alone the two thousand dollars, but tremendous acclaim by the people awaits your success."

All this time Newton Mills, the veteran, had sat listening in silence.

"But the bullets?" he exclaimed. "How about the bullets?"

"What bullets?" The sergeant looked at him in surprise. "There was but one shot fired. You have that bullet."

"On this last occasion, yes. But on other occasions, no. When the girl's father was killed a random shot was fired. When this boy was beaten up," he nodded toward Johnny, "a shot was fired. These bullets doubtless remain where they lodged. You are aware of the fact that through the use of forensic ballistics we have been able to convict many criminals. The bullets in this case are likely to prove of vast importance."

"And are you equipped to handle that side of the case?" asked the sergeant.

"Equipped?" The veteran, Mills, opened his hands. They were empty. "We will need tools and instruments."

"I have an expense account and access to the station equipment. You may draw upon these in my name. I will write you an order. Anything else?"

"One--only one more thing." Newton Mills appeared to hesitate. "I--I shall need an assistant. I should like this boy." Again he turned to Johnny.

"How about it?" The sergeant's eyes were on Johnny.

"If I may be excused from my duties at the station," Johnny said eagerly.

"I'll arrange that."

"So now you are fixed." The sergeant turned once more to Newton Mills.

"We will begin work at once."

The veteran left the room. He was followed by Johnny.

That was the manner in which Johnny became the assistant of a veteran detective whom he had saved from disgrace. The enterprise promised adventures of a fresh and interesting character. Johnny entered upon it with unlimited enthusiasm.