CHAPTER XXV

THE SHADOW PASSES

On the fifth day the doctor granted Johnny permission to dress and move about his room. But under no circumstances was he to “leave the room or transact important business.”

“As if I had important business to transact!” Johnny laughed to himself.

For all that, he sat a long time in a brown study. There are times for all of us when we appear to feel the shadows of tremendous events hanging over us. It was so now with Johnny. For some time he had been on the trail of something big. His old pal, Curlie, was under the shadows. He had broken the postal regulations; had opened a registered mail sack and had removed three valuable packages. One package, perhaps the most valuable of all, was missing. Until this was found, Federal operators would dog his trail. In time he might lose his position and his standing as a pilot.

Closely connected with this, as it seemed to Johnny, was the disgrace and shelving of Drew Lane and Tom Howe.

“If only we could find that man who lost an ear, the one Curlie and that girl saw,” he told himself. “If we could get him to talk; if we could bring him and Greasy Thumb with all his gang into court, we’d show some people up!” Without really meaning to, he thought of the Chief and of that whispering reporter from _The World_.

“And in time we will get that man!” he told himself with conviction. “We’ll find the crown jewels of Russia, if that is what the package truly contained. That will clear Curlie.

“And when certain people are properly shown up, there will be a new deal all around. Then Drew and Tom will be happy again. They will be back downtown, close on the heels of every crook who dares to show his face.”

He was still thinking of these coming events which appeared to cast their shadows before them, when the regular evening shadows began to fall.

It was at this hour that one who was very welcome indeed darkened the door of the shack and said, after a low bow:

“May I come in?”

“You need never ask,” Johnny exclaimed, as he recognized the caller. “The latch string is always out and the door stands always ajar for you!”

It was Joyce Mills. She took a seat in silence. For fully five minutes neither spoke. Silence is the test of true friendship. A superficial friendship is often filled with much clatter and many words without meaning. Only the tightest, truest bond of friendship grows stronger during a long period of eloquent silence.

“Johnny,” the girl spoke at last, “I miss my father terribly. Where can he have gone? Why can’t you find him for me?”

“Tell you what!” Johnny leaned forward with a smile. “You find the man who stole a registered package from Curlie Carson, and I will find your father.”

“Done!” The girl put out a slim hand. Johnny gripped it hard.

Newton Mills, this girl’s father, as you probably know, had for many years been one of New York’s best known city detectives. The life of such a man is hard. To catch criminals it is necessary to live the life they live, or so it has always been believed. This means long hours in dark and doubtful places at night. At times it means drinking and even drugs. The life had demoralized Newton Mills at last.

Johnny had found him a derelict. He had pulled this derelict to port and had for a time at least rendered it seaworthy. Newton Mills had once more worked wonders.

Now he was gone. He had vanished one fine morning without word or sign. That had been many days ago.

As he sat there now with Joyce Mills, the great detective’s capable daughter, so near him, Johnny thought of the times they had enjoyed together. Kindred spirits they had been.

“I must find him!” he said, thinking aloud.

“Yes, Johnny, you must!” The girl’s tone carried an appeal.

“But tell me.” She brightened. “What sort of a man am I to look for—this one who snatched the registered package?”

“That man? Why, somehow Curlie’s got the notion that he’s rather short and round shouldered, with curly hair and one ear missing. Queer business, that ear. Uncommon, I’d say.”

“Yes, it is,” the girl replied quite calmly. “Lost it trying to hold some one up, I believe. The man resisted. This holdup fellow was pushed off. The car started. He was caught in the fender and dragged a long way. Tore his ear right off.”

Johnny stared at her in astonishment. “So he’s a friend of yours?”

“Not quite that.

“Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “it may not be the same man. Not likely to be two men like that in the world, though.

“And Johnny.” She leaned forward eagerly. “If I find him I can make him talk!

“You may not know it, but every truly great detective holds certain men absolutely within his power. Newton Mills, my father, was a great detective. This man with but one ear is a man who fears him more than death. And I am the daughter of Newton Mills. It is only necessary that I whisper in his one good ear, and every secret of your old friend Greasy Thumb, yes, and of your whispering reporter and your Chief of uncertain character, will lie before you like an open book.

“And Johnny, I will find him!” She rose to go.

“More power to you!” Johnny, too, stood up.

“But Johnny!” A sudden thought seized her. “That was not the man who set off the bomb in the tunnel!”

“No,” said Johnny. “That was quite another person, a wild-eyed man with tangled hair.”

“That,” laughed the girl, “is next to no description at all. I know a hundred such.

“All the same, who knows but that these radicals lost their faith in the postal service at the last moment and decided to take matters in their own hands? Who will say that they might not have hired an airplane that night to bring Curlie down? There are plenty for hire. I am told that big crooks leave the city often in airplanes. Who knows but that it was their man who trailed Curlie and took the package from him? His identification of the man is far from complete.”

“But there is the note to Grace Palmer saying that the one-eared man is the man.”

“Might not mean a thing. You have no notion of the length those crooked ones will go in order to cast suspicion on one enemy or throw another off the track. Perhaps in this case they feel they have succeeded in doing both.”

“You told me a few days ago that you had been mixing a little with the radicals.”

“I have.”

“Believe in their stuff?” Johnny asked anxiously.

“No. They can’t think straight. No use following people like that.”

“But you’re still in good standing with them?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then why not keep an eye on that angle of the case? Go to a meeting. Listen to their talk. They may let something slip. If one of their members took the package from Curlie, you may find it out. If they did not get the package there will be more and more of a row about it, I’d say. They should be like a nest of disturbed bumble-bees.”

“That’s a good hunch. I’ll follow it up. I’ll get your man, be it one or the other.

“And Johnny,” the girl’s tones became almost solemn as her thoughts returned to her missing father, “you must not forget your share of the contract.”

“I will not forget. For the sake of Newton Mills and his wonderful daughter, I will not.”

The girl flushed. Nevertheless, she put out a hand, and they entered into a handclasp that was the seal of a pledge.

Then the tall, slim, dark-eyed daughter of Newton Mills, keen as a razor and hard as steel, marched down one rickety stairway and up another, and was gone.

Half an hour later it was quite dark. Johnny as he sat there alone with no lights, thought he heard those rude stairways creak. Creeping noiselessly to the window, he looked out. The light was very uncertain. But through the shadows he saw a tall figure, dressed all in gray, pass up one stairway and down the other. This the figure repeated twice, then vanished into the night.

“The Gray Shadow passes,” Johnny murmured, then shuddered, he knew not why.