CHAPTER XXIII

MANY BULLETS

For Johnny Thompson the events of that day were full of interest. They provided him with a whole volume of speculations.

While Newton Mills was returning to the shack for certain articles in his kit, Johnny had been sent to a seed store. There he purchased two hundred small cloth sacks. In this manner he missed meeting Joyce Mills. Since her father did not as much as mention her name, he was not even aware of her existence.

Armed with a hammer and several small chisels, they went first to an unoccupied store-room.

Having presented his papers to the janitor, and procured the key, Newton Mills led the way into this dingy cavern where dust lay thick and cobwebs festooned the walls. This room had known tragedy. It was here that Rosy Ramacciotti had seen her father shot down. Johnny fancied that if one were to brush away the dust, he might still find blood stains on the floor. He did not brush away the dust. Instead he shuddered.

Then, so that his mind might be occupied with brighter thoughts, he set himself at the problem of picturing the place as it was before the tragedy. Bright lights, gleaming show cases, boxes of candy, their colorful wrappings lending a note of cheer to the place, and behind all this, smiling, happy to be of service, Rosy.

"And after that," he thought, "there--"

His thoughts were interrupted by Newton Mills, who was speaking aloud.

"The cash register was about there. Rosy's father had just waited on a customer. He would not be far from this spot. The man with the gun must have advanced from the door, but not too far. He would aim so. The bullet would take this direction. It lodged in that wall."

During all this time the veteran detective went through a small dream which took him about from place to place. He now marched across the room at an acute angle from the door, put his hand to the wall, felt about, then uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.

"The medium sized chisel, please." He held out a hand toward the boy.

Johnny supplied the required instrument.

After prodding about, first in the plaster, then in a wooden lath at the back, the detective gave vent to a second sigh as a leaden pellet dropped into his hand.

"Here we have it," he murmured. "And not badly preserved. It should present no difficult problem."

He placed the bullet, which had been fired at Rosy's father several months before, in one of the white cloth bags. To this bag he attached a tag. He wrote a number on the tag, recorded the same number in a small notebook, and scrawled a few words beside the number; then, having placed both notebook and bag in his pocket, he turned to go.

"That is all here. We will go next to your radio studio." He led the way out of the gloomy place.

At the studio they searched the padded walls until they located the bullet that had been fired on the night when Johnny was beaten up.

This bullet was also secured, placed in a bag, labeled and recorded.

"We will return to the police station." Once more Newton Mills led the way.

They spent the remainder of that day in a vacant basement room at the police station. To Johnny their occupation seemed passing strange.

First they filled a barrel with cotton waste. Next they went to a room in the station where a great number of used arms were stored. These had been taken from hoodlums, suspects, and police characters. With his arms full of pistols of all possible descriptions, Johnny returned to the basement.

For four hours after that, they practiced the same bit of drama over and over. Newton Mills loaded a pistol and fired it at the barrel of waste. Johnny retrieved the bullet from the waste. This bullet was bagged, numbered and recorded. After that a different pistol was fired, and the identical process repeated.

Darkness fell before they finished. As Johnny left the basement he fancied that he still heard the sharp crack of small fire-arms.

"We will return to the shack," said Newton Mills. "No. First we will go to the laboratories."

They took an elevator, mounted five floors, then entered a room. The walls of the room were lined with all manner of instruments. With some of these Johnny was thoroughly familiar. Others were of a sort of which he knew nothing.

Newton Mills requested the loan of two microscopes, some prisms, a curious type of camera and various odds and ends of equipment. These he wrapped in a bundle. He tucked the bundle tightly under his arm.

"To-morrow," he said as they descended to the main floor, "I shall not require your services."

Johnny was disappointed. His curiosity had been roused by the strange occupation of that day; it had been redoubled by the package under Newton Mills' arm. He had hoped that the morrow would reveal the purpose of it all.

"But now," he told himself with a sigh, "I am left out."

During the three days that followed, Newton Mills never left the shack. He rigged up a curious affair made of microscopes and prisms. With this he studied bullets. Bullets, bullets, and more bullets were studied, measured, compared, and studied again.

He ate little, drank much black coffee, took numberless tiny photographs, sent these out to have them enlarged, then pored over the numerous enlargements, hours on end.

Since he had no part in this, and understood it not at all, Johnny returned to the radio studio and his squad calls. In this he found slight comfort. Rosy was not there.

From time to time he made inquiries regarding the girl. She was holding her own, that was all. Time alone would tell whether or not this bright world of sunshine and shadows, of moonlight, springtime, birds' songs, and budding flowers was to exist longer for her.