by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER IV JOHNNY CALLS THE SQUADS
It was night: ten o'clock. Johnny stood atop a ten story building,looking off and down. A thousand white lights shone along an endless way.Like great black bugs with gleaming eyes, countless cars glided down thatglistening boulevard. To the right, shimmering waters reflected thethousand lamps. And at the edge of this water, on a yellow ribbon ofsand, a host of ant-like appearing creatures sported. These were humanbeings, men, women and children, city cave-dwellers out for a breath offresh air and a dip in the lake before retiring for the night.
"How happy they are," he murmured to himself as their shouts of joy camefloating up to him. "And how happy they should be. The great Creatormeant that they should be happy. And for the most part they have earnedhappiness, a brief hour of pure joy after a day of toil.
"'One in three hundred,'" he recalled Drew's words, "'One in threehundred is a crook.'
"Ah well," he sighed, "catching the crooks, and so making those otherssafer, happier, freer to enjoy their well earned rewards: that's our job.And it's a big one."
These last were no idle words. Only a day had passed since his long talkwith the young detective, Drew Lane; yet even in that brief span of timehe had found for himself a part in the great work, in the task ofdetecting crime. A very, very small part it was, but a real one all thesame.
He smiled as he thought of it now. In half an hour he would enter thedoor at his back, would pass through a rather large room in which stoodall manner of band and orchestra instruments, and then would enter averitable cubby-hole of a place. In this closet-like room was a chair, atelephone, a large police gong set on a steel post, and a microphone.When these were rightly placed there was room for Johnny to squeezehimself into the chair, that was about all. Here, for two hours aroundnoon, and again two hours at midnight, it was to be his task to sitwaiting for the rattle of the telephone. Every jangle of that telephonewas to set him into brief but vigorous action. In a word, he formed thelast link between the unfortunate citizen who was being robbed,burglarized or attacked, and the police squad that stood ready to come tohis aid.
Johnny had landed this part-time job, which he felt sure would prove morethan interesting, just as he had secured all else in life, by going afterit. He had spoken to Drew. Drew had spoken to a police sergeant. Thesergeant had said a word to a captain. The captain, being just the rightperson, had spoken to the manager of the station. And there you are.
"And here I am," Johnny said to himself. "And, for the glory of the goodold city I have always loved, I am going to pound that police gong as noone ever has, and to such good purpose that someone higher up will say:
"'Good boy! You deserve something bigger and better.'" He threw back hishead and laughed. "Then," he sighed, "maybe they'll make me anhonest-to-goodness detective."
Meanwhile there was the telephone, the "mike," and the gong. He had takenhis training at noon. Now, from 10:30 P.M. to 12:30 A.M. he was to go italone.
As he reached the door to his cubby-hole, a tall, red-headed youth roseand stretched his cramped legs.
"Quiet night," he murmured. "Ought to have it easy."
"Thanks. Hope so, for the first night at least." Johnny eased himselfinto the chair and the red-headed youth departed.
A quiet night? Well, perhaps. Yet for Johnny, all unaccustomed as he wasto his new duties, it proved an exciting one.
The very place itself, a great broadcasting station at night, was filledwith interest and romance.
The large studio before him was not in use. More than a score ofinstruments, horns, bass viols, cellos, snare drums, basso drums and allthe rest stood there, casting grotesque shadows in the half light.
Beyond this, through glass partitions, he could see a young man. Sittingbefore an elaborate array of lights, plugs and switches, this man put outa hand here, another there, regulating the controls, directing thecurrent that carried messages of joy, hope, peace and good will to thevast invisible audiences out in the night. He was the station operator.
In the studio beyond, only half visible to Johnny, the men of a jazzorchestra performed on saxophones, trap drums and who can say what otherinstruments?
"And I am now part of it all!" Johnny thought to himself. "I--"
But now came a buzzing sound, a red light flashed.
"A call!" he exclaimed in an excited whisper. "My first night call."
Placing his finger on a button, he pressed it twice. This told theoperator in the glass cage to stand by, ready to give him the air.
"All right," he spoke into the phone, then gripped a pencil.
His pencil flashed across the paper.
"Got you," he said quietly. "Repeat."
His eyes followed the lines he had written.
"O.K."
Now, striking the gong, he spoke into the microphone: "Squads attention!"His own voice sounded strange to him. "Squads attention! Robbers breakingin at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36 assigned."
Repeating: "Robbers breaking in at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36assigned."
Once more, save for the ticking of his watch and the faint throb of thejazz orchestra penetrating the padded walls, his cubby-hole was silent.
"Queer business," he murmured.
He tried to picture what was happening ten miles away at 6330 DrexelBoulevard. Burglars had been breaking in. Who had reported them? Hepictured neighbors looking through a darkened window, seeing the burglarsprying up a window. He saw the neighbors tip-toeing to a telephone,notifying the police.
"And then the Chiefs call to me; my call to the squad. The burglars areinside by now. And here comes the squad. Clang! Clang! Clang!
"They are not the first arrivals. Nearby residents have heard the squadcall. In dressing gowns and slippers they have rushed outside.
"But the burglars?" he mused, settling back in his chair. "Did they getthem? Who knows? If they were professionals, wise to all the tricks ofescape, probably not. If they were amateurs, first-timers, boys who sawromance in crime, probably they were caught. And Drew says oneprofessional is worth ten first-timers in jail. The first-timer may neverrepeat. The professional will never do anything but repeat. It's hisbusiness, his _profession_. And what a profession! Bah! I'd rather--"
Again the buzz; the light. This time it was a shooting at Halsted and22nd Streets.
"Drunken brawl." The affair did not interest him. He put it through withneatness and dispatch; then he resumed his meditations.