CHAPTER X A ROYAL FEAST
That evening at nine o'clock Johnny was given a delightful surprise. Atthe same time some of the questions that had been revolving about in hismind like six squirrels in one cage were solved.
He had returned to the shack at six. Weary from his exciting day, he hadstretched himself out on his cot and had at once fallen asleep.
Awakened by someone entering the room, and startled by the darkness thathad settled upon the place since he fell asleep, he was about to cry outin alarm when the place was flooded with light and he found Drew Lanesmiling down upon him.
"Have a good rest?" he asked.
"Fine. And you? What luck this afternoon?"
"No luck at all. But that's what one must expect. You can't get 'em everyday. If you did you'd soon be out of a job. All the crooks would bebehind the bars.
"Not that I'd care," he hastened to add. "There are a lot of occupationsmore congenial. If I didn't have a conscience that keeps me hunting men,I'd take up commercial aviation. There's a job for you! I can fly. Have ahundred and ten hours to my credit, and never a crack-up."
"Think they'll ever use airplanes in hunting criminals?" asked Johnny,sitting up.
"Might. Couldn't do much right in the city. But if a gang was supposed tobe leaving town; if the car they used was well marked, you could do a lotwith a plane; soar about, watching a hundred roads at once."
"Had anything to eat?" Drew asked, as Johnny rose and busied himself withhis toilet.
"Not since noon."
"My treat to-night. And you'll like it. Mrs. Ramacciotti has some raviolia la Tuscany on the stove."
"What's all that?"
"You'll see. Just get on your collar and tie. We'll want plenty of timefor a feast before you go back there to get beaten up again. Or are yougoing?"
"Think I'd stay away?" Johnny gave him a look.
"No, I didn't. But if I were you I'd sit with my back to the wall."
"Do more than that. Take 'Silent Murder,' as you call him, along." Henodded toward the bow that stood in the corner.
"Too slow. Better get a gun."
"Slow! Sometime I'll show you. That studio is all of twenty-five feetlong. Door's at one end. My cubby-hole's at the other. Let anyone trygetting to me after this!" He picked up an arrow and felt its razor-likepoint. "Silent murder," he mused. "About right, I guess."
To Johnny's surprise he found that the feast Drew had alluded to was justten steps from their own door. Down one low flight of stairs, up another,and there they were in the shack that stood before their own and frontedthe street.
A large, dark-skinned woman of middle age greeted them with a smile thatwas genuine, and a handshake that was "all there."
"This is Mrs. Ramacciotti," said Drew. "Without her and Rosy this citywould be a dreary place."
Rosy stood by the table dimpling and smiling her thanks.
Johnny had seen Rosy before. Now, however, she was dressed for theoccasion, and one good look at her made him think of cool meadows, shadyorchards, blushing russet apples, and all the rest.
"I don't blame Drew," he told himself.
They were invited to take seats before a small square table covered witha cloth of snowy linen. At once a steaming platter was set before them.
"But what's on the platter?" Johnny asked himself. "Dumplings in meatgravy?"
It was far more than that. The finest of chicken meat, run through agrinder, some fine chopped veal; carrots cut fine, and who knows whatelse of viands and seasoning had been mixed together and used as thefilling for small, turnover pies. These had been boiled for half an hourin salt water. After that they were smothered in rich gravy. A layer ofmeat pies, then one of gravy, then pies again until they stood a foothigh on the platter.
But then, who can describe ravioli a la Tuscany? It is the proudest dishof Italians, and they are an exceedingly proud people.
For a full half hour the time was spent between small talk, and mucheating.
As Johnny pushed back his chair with a sigh of regret, Mrs. Ramacciottiput her hand to her hair, and said in a sympathetic tone:
"Your head. What could have happened to it?"
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Drew. "Some gangster beat him up lastnight."
"Oh, the miserable ones!" Madame spread her hands in horror. "But why? Heis only a boy."
"I'll tell you," said Drew. He proceeded to tell of Johnny's unusualadventures.
"And the only thing we know," supplemented Johnny at the end, "is thatthe man has a hole in his hand. I saw that. I--"
But what was this? Rosy had uttered a low scream, then had dropped into achair. Her face had gone white.
"Now! Now!" her mother said, placing a protecting hand across hershoulder.
"You see," the Italian mother's face took on added character as she spokein a low, clear, steady tone, "her papa was shot by a man. He wantedpapa's money. He would give. But he not always understand. He move hishand to pocket. Always he did so when he was nervous. This man shoothim--dead! Rosy, she see this man. See hole in the hand. Same man? Whatyou think? Mebby so."
Johnny and Drew stared at one another.
Johnny was thinking, "So the man who beat me up was a murderer!"
"You never told me this before," said Drew, speaking to Mrs. Ramacciotti.
"No. I did not know you then. You did not work on the case. The man, hewas never found."
"Well," said Drew as his lips drew together in a tight line, "now weknow, and we have a double reason for getting the man with a hole in hishand. And we will get him. Never fear."
This unfortunate interruption of their party ended in a prolongedsilence. In the end the two boys expressed sincere thanks for thesplendid feast and begged to be excused.
Rosy, with an effort, summoned one of her sweetest smiles of farewell. Asshe stood there framed in the door, a brave little orphan of gangland'smaking, Johnny could not help feeling that their common tragic interestin finding the man with a hole in his hand was destined to bring themvery close together in the days that were to come. Nor was he far wrong.