For each of us there is some musical instrument whose notes stir us with joy, another that awakens a feeling of sadness. To Rosy the pipe organ carried a feeling of infinite pain and sorrow. On that tragic day, when her murdered father had been carried to his last long rest they had led her, at her mother’s side, to a great dark, damp and lofty room that was a church. There for one long, torturing half hour she had listened to the most mournful tones she had ever known. The tones had come from a pipe organ.
Now, as she sat listening, it seemed to her that the dampness, the darkness, the gloom of that vast church were once more upon her.
She shuddered. Then, though the night was warm, she threw a wrap about her shoulders. Her fingers trembled.
“That door,” she thought. “I will go up and close it.”
She had risen and was turning about when, of a sudden, her blood froze in her veins. Directly behind the place where she had been sitting, were two men. One was half concealed by a door. His head and shoulders were within a closet. The other looked squarely at her.
Two things Rosy’s startled eyes told her at a glance. The man who looked at her was young. His face was like a mask. The other man had a hole in his hand.
It was enough. Without willing to do so, she screamed. It was such a long-drawn, piercing scream as one utters but once or twice in a lifetime.
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, under quite different circumstances, Johnny and Sergeant McCarthey were discussing their latest problem, the derelict from New York.
“Has he told you how it all came about?” Johnny asked.
“No. He won’t tell that. What’s the use? He knows I am a detective. He knows I know all that’s worth knowing.”
“Someone has told you?”
“No. They never need to. I’ve seen it before; too often. Too often!” Sergeant McCarthey’s tones were sad. For some time he said no more. When he did speak it was with the voice of one who has resolved to tell much.
“You’re young, son,” he began. “You don’t know a great deal about this business of hunting down criminals. You heard Mills say there were no stool pigeons used in that kidnapping case we solved?”
Johnny nodded.
“To me that remark was significant. He hates stool pigeons. Everyone does. A stool pigeon is a person who, for pay or for immunity from arrest for some crime he has committed, tells on some other person.
“There are men on every police force, good men too, who believe that criminals cannot be captured without the aid of stool pigeons.
“But how one must come to hate them when he is obliged to deal with them constantly. Perhaps you think of stool pigeons as poor, weak-eyed, slinking creatures who can earn a living in no other way. If so, you are wrong. Some are rich, some are poor, some men, some women. All are alike in two particulars. All want something; for the most part protection for some form of petty vice or crime. And they all crawl. How they do crawl!
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand. It’s using the little criminal to catch the big one. Take an example. Some Greek runs a cheap gambling house. With card games and roulette wheels he entertains laborers and takes their money. He breaks the law. But he knows of a man who has robbed a bank. He is afraid of having his place raided, having his evil means of living taken away. He becomes a stool pigeon by informing on the robber. After that the detective uses him on many cases.
“But how must the detective feel who has dealings with such a man? You can’t play with snakes unless you lie down and crawl.
“Little by little, the thing gets you. To associate with stool pigeons you must do the things they do. You begin to drink. You do other things. You break the law. But the law forgives you, for you are working for it.
“Can’t you see? No matter how high your ideals were in the beginning, how lofty your aims, you step down, down, down, when you deal with stool pigeons.
“It was so with him.” He nodded his head toward the room in which the white-haired one was sleeping. “I happen to know. When I worked with him there was no finer man on any force. A college man, born to his task, enthusiastic for it from his youth; no one promised more. But his Chief believed in stool pigeons. He had a complicated, well guarded system of informers. Newton Mills was forced into this system. A man of sensitive nature and much native honor, he went down fast.”
“And you—”
“I have never used a stool pigeon in my life. I never will. Perhaps I am wrong. Crime must be punished. It’s a matter of method. I have informers, but they are all honest citizens. They tell what they know, and ask nothing in return. They are my friends. They are more than that. They are true Americans. It is the duty of every honest citizen to inform the officers of the law when he learns of any flagrant violation of the law. Perhaps if every citizen did his full duty, there would be no need of stool pigeons. Who knows? I—
“There’s the telephone,” he broke off suddenly. “Go answer it, will you?”
Johnny sprang through the door and disappeared into the dark interior of the house.
* * * * * * * *
The young man with a face like a mask was not one of those who love the sound of his own gun overmuch. But he was, by nature, a killer. When Rosy screamed, indeed even as she did so, he whirled about and, without removing his hand from his hip, fired one shot.
Rosy crumpled to the floor. Soon a scarlet stream began disfiguring her bright new birthday dress. Her eyes closed as in death. Her cheeks were white with pain.
When a throng of musicians and operators, electrified by Rosy’s scream, at last came to their senses and, led by Bill Heyworth, came pouring down the stairs, they found Rosy lying unconscious on the floor. Otherwise the place was deserted.
Some time later it was found that a wire had been cut in the closet back of Rosy’s chair. This wire ran through the closet to the studio above. It was the private wire from the Central Police Station to the radio squad call room.
Johnny Thompson was not at the telephone for more than the space of one minute. When he returned to the porch where Herman McCarthey sat placidly smoking, he was choked with emotion.
“It’s Rosy,” he said in a scarcely audible voice, “Rosy! They have shot her!”
“Who?” Herman sprang to his feet.
“The crooks!”
“Where?”
“At the radio station.”
“Why?”
“No one knows. A wire was cut. The private wire of the police. She was shot. No one was seen by anyone but Rosy.”
For one distressing moment they stood there silent. Then a voice came from the half darkness of the house door.
“The bullet!” that voice said. “Have they found the bullet?”
No one answered. They were too greatly astonished. Standing there in the doorway, before Johnny and Herman, looking like a ghost, dressed in a white bathrobe as he was, and with white hair flying, stood Newton Mills, the derelict detective.
“I say!” his voice rose shrilly insistent. “Have they saved the bullet?”
“Here!” said Herman McCarthey a trifle shakily, “let’s have a light.”
“There! That’s better.”
He peered into the face of Newton Mills. The face was wan, ghastly. But the eyes! a fresh fire burned there.
“They didn’t tell you, did they?” Herman said, speaking quietly to Johnny.
“Tell me?”
“The bullet.”
“They didn’t say anything about a bullet.” Johnny was at a loss to know what it was all about.
“You must call them,” said the gray detective. “Tell them to preserve it carefully.”
“I will call them at once.” Herman McCarthey’s tone was that used by a subordinate officer to his chief. He went to the telephone immediately.
He got Drew on the phone, talked with him for a little time, then ended by saying, “We will drive in at once. Yes, at once.”
“She’s not dead. The doctor says there is hope.” There was relief in his tone. “She has been conscious for a brief time. The man who fired the shot was a youth with a mask-like face.”
“A mask!” Johnny exclaimed.
“You have heard of him?”
“More than that. Seen him. He and another crook nearly waylaid me on the Drive.”
“You have the best of me. I never saw him. But I fancy the fellow has a record. Question is, what were the rascals about?
“And the other man,” he exclaimed quite abruptly, “was the man with a hole in his hand! He was the one who beat you up. Matters appear to have come to a head. We will put all these together and arrive at something.”
“And the bullet?” It was Newton Mills again.
“I was unable to learn anything. However, I cautioned them to save the bullet.”
“Good!” muttered Mills.
“We are driving to the city at once,” said Herman. “Shall you go with us? May I ask you to assist us in this case?”
Newton Mills’ slight form stiffened perceptibly. “I will gladly do all I can.”
Johnny understood. He loved Herman McCarthey for his generosity, his foresight, his extreme benevolence.
“It may save this man Mills for a great service,” he told himself, “and who knows better than he how to bring these inhuman ones to justice?”
In an incredibly short time Newton Mills was clothed and ready to go. He took the seat beside Herman McCarthey. Johnny sprang into the back seat. The motor purred and they were away.
As they sped toward the city Johnny sat hunched up in one end of the seat, the greater part of the time immersed in deep meditation. From time to time Newton Mills leaned over to speak to Herman McCarthey. Johnny caught snatches of the conversation. Always it had to do with bullets.
“Bullets?” Johnny said to himself. “What can one learn from a spent bullet?”
So they sped on through the night. As the hand on the dial of the great illuminated clock that overlooked the city pointed to 1:00 they slid into Grand Avenue and came to a stop before the shack.
As they passed the Ramacciotti cottage on their way to the shack, Johnny noted that the place was illumined by a single tiny lamp.
“Rosy is dead!” was his melancholy thought. “That is the light of the death watch.”
This was not true. Rosy was in the hospital. Her mother had gone to her bedside. That she might not be obliged to re-enter her cottage in darkness, she had left the light.
Drew awaited them in the shack. The tragic story was soon told. The birthday party, the new dress, the return to work, the silent house, the strange men, the hand with a hole at its center, the face that was a mask; the scream, the shot—no detail was omitted.
“And now,” concluded Drew, “the poor girl hovers between life and death.”
“And the bullet?” insisted Newton Mills excitedly.
“It has been removed. I have it. Here it is.” Drew dropped a pellet of lead into the trembling hand of the old-time detective.
Johnny shuddered and turned away at sight of it.
Holding it between thumb and finger, as a jeweler might a pearl, Newton Mills examined it with a critical eye. He turned it over and over. He studied it from every possible angle.
“The forceps,” he commented at last, “have done harm, but not too much.”
“This,” he said, turning it over once again, “is a precious thing.”
Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew forth a small leather pouch. From this he poured a handful of coins. He put the bullet in their place, wrote a few words on a slip of paper and thrust it after the bullet.
“There must be no mistake,” he murmured as he drew the strings of the pouch tight and put it back into his pocket.
As if to say, “Money is of little consequence,” he scooped up the coins and dumped them loose into another pocket.
Then Herman McCarthey, Drew, and the strangely reclaimed derelict sat down to discuss the various aspects of the case and map out plans.
As for Johnny, he felt a need for solitude. He left the shack, made his way to the street level, and there wandered amid the shadows that are a city street three hours before dawn.
For a long time he found himself incapable of thinking in a rational manner. The whole affair had come to him with the force of a blow on the head. That such a thing could have happened in a city in a civilized country seemed incredible, monstrous.
“A girl!” he fairly cried aloud, “A mere child in a birthday dress. She is at her post of duty. She sees a hand, a face. She is frightened. She screams. She is shot!”
In an instant his mind was made up. He would leave this city. He would leave all cities. Cities were all bad. Man has made them. Man is evil. God made the country. God is good.
“But no!” he cried. “I will not leave. I will never, never go from this city until those monsters are trapped like the beasts they are, and punished!”
Calmed by the firm resolve, he returned to the shack. There he listened quietly to the council of seasoned warriors as they mapped out a campaign in which he was to have a definite part.
When at last they all tumbled down upon bunks or in great chairs for a few winks of sleep, Johnny’s eyes did not close at once. He was still thinking of the man with the hole in his hand. He had conceived a great and, beyond doubt, a just hatred for that man.
Upon what was this hatred based? Three counts. First, he had beaten Johnny up when his back was turned. He had not given him the least shade of a fighting chance. No person had so much as attempted this before. It should not go unpunished.
Far mightier was the second count. This man with his accomplice, the youth of the masked face, had shot a defenseless girl, and for no better reason than that she had screamed. The shot might prove fatal. For this, whether the girl died or not, these men deserved the electric chair.
Third, and most important of all, based not at all upon revenge, but upon a desire for the good of all,—these were dangerous men. The man-killing tiger in his jungle is not more deadly. For this reason they must be speedily brought to justice.
Has anyone in all the world ever known better reasons for wishing to accomplish a given task than Johnny had as he entered upon this new field of endeavor?
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 Iwilldo!
“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.
When Drew Lane returned to the shack an hour later, he was treated to a great surprise.
Seated in his most comfortable chair was a slender girl of some eighteen summers. Her hair was dark; her eyes, of the eager sort, were brown. Drew had never seen her.
As he entered the room she sprang up.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“He? Who? Why—” Drew was astonished.
“You have him locked up. They told me at the police station that you would know where he is. Where is he?” Her voice rose to a shrill note.
“Why, I—” Drew’s mind was in a turmoil. Who was this whirlwind? Whom did he have locked up? At that moment, no one.
He looked into those eager eyes. He studied those high cheekbones, that sensitive mouth, and read there the answer to at least one of his questions.
“Why! You—you are Newton Mills’ daughter.” He sat down quite suddenly. “He—he never told us—”
“That he had a daughter? He wouldn’t. He’s that way.” Her tone went cold.
“Sit down, won’t you?” Drew offered her a chair. “What’s your name?”
She ignored the chair, but answered his question. “Joyce Mills. Where is my father?”
“Your father? The last time I saw him he was going out of a door. He’s been assigned to a case, a rather big case. Has to do with what he calls ballistics. He—”
He came to a sudden pause. The girl’s face was a study. Surprise, doubt, joy, sorrow, laughter, tears; they were all there, registered in quick succession.
“A case! A case!” she fairly shrieked. “And I thought he was in jail.”
She crumpled into a chair.
“Well,” said Drew quietly, “he might have been. But he isn’t. And he’s not likely to be. So you can set your heart at rest on that.”
Having regained her self-composure somewhat, she leaned forward as if expecting to be told more.
Drew humored her. He told, so far as he knew it, the whole story of the downfall and the redemption of Newton Mills.
“Oh!” she breathed. “And you saved him. You and that boy!”
“Johnny Thompson saved your father,” Drew smiled. “The rest of us only helped a little.”
She rose and advanced toward him.
There is no telling what might have happened. But at this moment the subject of their conversation, Newton Mills himself, opened the door and entered.
“Joyce!” he exclaimed. “You here?”
“Father!” There was an indescribable touch of something in her tone that caused the tense muscles of the man’s face to relax. “Father, I had to come.” She laid a hand on his arm. “And now you have a case, a very hard case. He has told me. I must stay and help you.”
“No! No! You must not!” The words came like a startled cry from the lips of the veteran detective.
“But, father, I used to help you.”
“Yes, yes. That is all in the past. This case is a dangerous one. It has to do with desperate characters. It may mean death. I cannot take you with me. You are too young.” He said these last words as if he were speaking of going to the grave.
Dropping into a chair and cupping his chin in his hands, he sat for some time thinking. As he thought the blood vessels swelled and throbbed on his broad temples.
“I have it!” he exclaimed at last, springing up. “Your cousin Doris Mills lives in Naperville. She is married. They are fine people. I haven’t a doubt of it, though I have never seen them. You must go there. When this affair is over, I, too, will come. We will have an enjoyable time together.”
The girl, who had measured the emotions that flowed through his being, did not say, “I will go,” nor yet, “I will not go.” She said nothing.
After opening a leather bag and fumbling about among his belongings, her father handed her an envelope.
“The address is on that,” he said.
At once he appeared to forget her. Having taken some small articles from his bag, he thrust them deep in his pocket. One was a very thin automatic pistol.
One glance about the room, a halting puzzled stare at the pistol and arrow hanging over Drew’s bed, then he was gone.
“He was always like that.” There was a look of tenderness and a smile on the girl’s face.
She turned again to Drew. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “I must find Johnny Thompson and thank him, too. It was terrible when father lost interest in everything, and took to forgetting in that horrible way.”
“He’ll be all right now, I think,” Drew replied.
“But I must help him!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and walking the length of the room. “I must! I will!”
“I am afraid,” said Drew in a quiet tone, “that this is no task for a girl.”
“Girl!” She gave him a look. “I’m eighteen. As long as I can remember, I’ve been helping him.
“When I was thirteen we went to live in the worst corner of New York. Department orders for him. Mother wouldn’t go. Grandmother is rich. She’s in society. Mother’s in society. Society folks don’t go to live on a street where they’re all Sicilians. I went. I made him let me come.
“Learned the language, I did. Played around with the kids. Found out things. Say! I found out things he’d never have learned any other way!”
“Maybe so.” Drew’s tone was still quiet. “But this is not New York.”
She looked at him for a moment in silence. When she spoke it was with some effort. “Big cities are all alike. I know!”
Dropping into a chair she remained silent for a time. Then she said in a changed voice:
“Tell me about this case.”
Because he was beginning to like this girl, Drew told her. “And we’ll get them,” he concluded. “Justice is an arrow of fire. It burns its way in time to every evil heart.”
Joyce took in every word. Then she asked a question:
“Where is Mrs. Ramacciotti?”
“In the cottage just ahead of this shack.”
“Take me there.”
Drew led the way.
The instant the girl entered Mrs. Ramacciotti’s cottage she began talking. She spoke in Italian, and Mrs. Ramacciotti, smiling for the first time since the tragedy, answered her in Italian.
“I’ll leave you,” said Drew. “I have some things to do.”
“Please do.” The girl sat down.
The two, the tall girl and the stolid Italian mother, talked for a solid hour, always in Italian.
When they had ended, the mother said, “If you are going to this place, you will not be safe. They will kill you. Unless I give you this, they are sure to murder you.” She drew from the folds of her dress the square of cardboard and pointed to the secret number in red.
“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “I understand. How perfectly grand!”
“And, Miss,” Mother Ramacciotti ran her hand across her face, “your hair, it is dark. Your eyes also. There is this which comes in bottles. Fine ladies who want to seem tanned, they use it. You speak so good Italian. Put this on hands and face. They will think you are Italian. It is better so.”
“Thanks a lot,” Joyce responded, “I will.”
Joyce Mills did not go to Naperville. She went instead to a drug store and then to a men’s furnishing store. After that she went into a barber shop and got a hair-cut.
As night began to fall upon the city, she took a car on Madison Street and went west. She dismounted at Ashland Boulevard and walked slowly toward the south.
Some twenty blocks from the shack, in a south-westerly direction, well out of the city’s business section, and just off a broad boulevard, there was a club. This was a very unusual club. Entrance was by card. The man at the door was old and very wise. He had lived in Sicily in the days of the Mafia.
The place went by the name of the “Seventy Club.” It is not certainly known what the “seventy” stood for. There are those who said it was the club of seventy thieves. Others insisted that there were more than seventy members and that not all were thieves. Be that as it may, the police held no cards of admission, and were granted entrance only when accompanied by search warrants.
On several occasions the police had entered. Always they had found no cause for complaint. At the front of the place was a lobby and reading room; at the back, pool tables and other tables for card playing. In the center was a grill, where excellent food was served.
Men, for the most part of dark complexion, shot pool and shuffled cards at the back. They dined, often with ladies, in the grill and went to smoke in the lobby.
The manager, a short, broad-shouldered man, with deep set, gleaming eyes, presided at a desk near the door and scrutinized all comers.
To this man, on the very night of which we are speaking, there came a youth. This youth was dressed in a suit of modest gray. He wore a dark tie, a gray shirt and black shoes. He was dark complexioned with dark eyes and close cropped hair. He was very slender of build. His fingers were extremely long; his feet small.
In his hand this boy bore a card. In one corner of the card was a secret number done in red ink. Truth is, everyone who entered here possessed such a card, marked in just this manner. Without the card, they did not enter.
The manager questioned the boy in his native tongue, studying him the while. The boy replied politely in the same tongue.
The manager scribbled a note, gave it to him, then nodded toward the door at the back of the lobby.
The boy went back. Half an hour later he might have been found dressed in a dark brown suit trimmed in gold braid, clearing dishes from the tables in the grill. He had been given a position as bus boy.
The building in which the club was located rose only a single story from the ground. Did it have a basement? To all appearances it did not. The heating plant was situated back of the billiard room. There were no outside entrances to the place save the one at the front. There were no stairways leading down.
The grillroom possessed one slightly unusual feature. Six telephone booths, standing in a row, occupied one corner of the large grillroom. One would have said that one, or at most two booths, would have sufficed for such a place. But no; here were six. And, if one judged by the number of people who entered the booths, one might have said there were not too many, for people were constantly entering and leaving them.
Two things were strange about these booths. They were not constructed as other booths are. True, they were just as broad and just as tall; but they contained far less glass. The windows were narrow and high. In fact, once a person was inside and had closed the door, nothing at all could be seen of him.
This, one would say, was an improvement, for who wishes to be seen grinning and gesturing at a telephone, as one is forever doing?
The other feature was far more startling. It was a thing you might not notice until you had dined there many times. Did the new bus boy take cognizance of it on that first night of service?
If one were to hazard a guess one would answer, “He probably did.” That guess, however, might easily be wrong; for, during the entire evening the boy rendered faultless service. He did not drop a dish, spill a glass of water, nor do any of those things one is so likely to do when startled.
The peculiarity of these six booths was that they did not always disgorge the identical persons who had entered them.
Now such a thing will seem strange under any circumstances. If a short dark man dressed in brown enters a telephone booth, and three minutes later a short blonde man in gray comes out, it might seem a curious circumstance. But when a short, broad, dark complexioned man in a blue suit enters and, after five minutes, a tall blonde lady in a pearl gray dress emerges, it is enough to cause the most phlegmatic person to stare.
As for the guests, they paid not the slightest attention to the succession of transformations that were being made in these booths. They went right on laughing and talking, drinking coffee and munching salad, just as if nothing unusual was happening in the world.
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.