The Arrow of Fire

  CHAPTER XII FROM OUT THE SHADOWS

  Shortly after his discovery that the man who wrecked his broadcastingcorner and beat him up was, in all probability, the robber who hadmurdered Rosy's father, Johnny visited Sergeant McCarthey at the policestation. As the days passed, this station was to become a place ofincreasing fascination for this boy who was interested in everything thathad to do with life, and who had a gnawing desire to know all that isworth knowing.

  This day, however, his interest was centered on one question: Whatadditional information had the sergeant secured regarding the man who hadwrecked his station?

  "Little enough, old son." The sergeant leaned back as he spoke. "Visitedthose pickpockets in the jail. If they know anything about the affair,their lips are sealed.

  "As for those young chaps, caught looting a house, they promise evenless. Won't tell a thing about themselves; names, addresses, nothing.They're not foreigners. American stock, I'd say. It's my guess that theyhad nothing to do with your radio affair. They appear to be boys from outof town. Some of those chaps who read cheap detective stories that makethe criminal a hero. Came to this city to crash into crime. Got caught.And now they'll take what's given to them rather than disgrace theirfamilies. Can't help but admire their grit. But the pity of it all! Tothink that any boy of to-day should come to look upon crime as offering acareer of romance and daring! If only they could know the professionalcriminal as we do, could see him as a cold-blooded brute who cares onlyfor himself, who stops at nothing to gain his ends, who lives for flash,glitter and sham, a man utterly devoid of honor who will double-cross hismost intimate friend and put a pal on the spot or take him for a ride ifhe believes he is too weak to stand the test and not talk if he iscaught."

  Then Johnny spoke. He told of the murder of Rosy's father.

  "He did? The same man!" The sergeant sat up straight and stared as Johnnyfinished. "The man with the hole in his hand shot Rosy's father?

  "Let me think." He cupped his chin in his hands. "I worked on that case.Didn't get a clue. There was just one thing. After Rosy's father had beenshot, this man fired a shot into the wall. Bullet's there still, Isuppose. Few crooks would do that. Likes noise, I suppose, the sound ofhis gun.

  "You know," he explained, "we are always studying the peculiarities ofbad men. It pays. You know how a poker player judges men. When hisopponent has a good hand, he looks just so, from beneath his eyelashes,or his fingers drum the table, so. But if his hand is bad, and he'sbluffing, he looks away, whistles a tune, does some other little thingthat betrays him.

  "It is that way with the crook. Each man has some little tell-tale actionwhich brands each job he pulls. One man never speaks; he writes out hisorders. Another whispers. A third shouts excitedly. One is polite to hisvictims, especially the ladies. Another is brutal; he binds them, gagsthem, even beats them. Some prefer silence; some, noise.

  "It would seem," he sat up to drum on the desk, "that our friend with thehole in his hand likes the sound of his gun. He fired an unnecessary shotin the Ramacciotti case, and one when he raided your studio.

  "Now," he said with a sigh, "all we have to do is to search the recordsof crimes committed in this city and see if we can find other raids andstick-ups to lay at this man's door. Of course, if the perpetrator ofother crimes fired his gun needlessly, it will not prove that Mr.Hole-in-the-Hand did it, but it will point in that direction.

  "That bit of research will take some time. I'll let you know what Ifind."

  "In those other cases of that night, the safe-blowing and theatrerobbery, was there any unnecessary shooting?" Johnny asked.

  "None reported. But then, of course, it is not likely that Mr.Hole-in-the-Hand was on the scene in either case. He was busy with you.If he was in on either of these, the work was done by his gang, not byhim."

  That night a curious and startling thing happened. This affair, as HermanMcCarthey agreed later, might or might not have a bearing on the problemjust discussed.

  The detective team of Drew and Howe worked for the most part during thedaylight hours. They were assigned to the task of detecting and arrestingpickpockets. If you rode a crowded street car, attended a league baseballgame, or chanced to be on the edge of a crowd drawn together on thestreet corner by a vender of patent medicine or unbreakable combs, youmight easily sight the nifty hat and flaming tie of Drew Lane, the nattydetective. They knew more than three hundred pickpockets by sight, didthis young pair. They picked up any of these on suspicion if they werefound in a likely spot, and at once haled them into court.

  This permanent assignment left Drew with his evenings free. Because ofthis, he and Johnny enjoyed many a night stroll together.

  One of their favorite haunts was a slip which ended some four blocks fromtheir shack, and extended for several blocks east until it lost itself inthe waters of the lake. This narrow channel of water was lined on oneside by great bulging, empty sheet iron sheds, and on the other by brickwarehouses which appeared equally empty. A narrow landing extending thelength of the sheds, and fast falling into decay, offered a precariousfooting for any who chose to wander there.

  It was a spooky place, this slip at night. At the end nearest the shore,half under water, half above, a one-time pleasure yacht lay rotting away.At the far end, an ancient tug fretted at a chain that was red with rustand from time to time added to the general melancholy of the place ahollow bub-bub as it bumped the shore.

  One would scarcely say that a horde of gigantic red-eyed rats could addto the attractions or any place, let alone one such as this. Lend it atouch of joy, they did, nevertheless. This became Johnny's huntingground. Armed with his bow and quiver of arrows, he stalked rats as inother climes he had stalked wolves and bears.

  Drew never tired of seeing his keen bladed arrow speed straight and true.There is a certain fascination about such expert marksmanship. Besides,Drew hated rats. He had said many times, "A great city has two scourges,professional criminals and rats. It's every honest man's duty to help ridthe city of both."

  On this particular night Johnny and Drew had gone on one of their huntingtrips. They had put out a lure of shelled corn during the day. Game wasplentiful. In the half light of the smoke-dulled moon, many a rodentwhose eyes gleamed in the dark met his death.

  Drew had tired of the sport and had walked a dozen paces down the way.Johnny was lurking in the shadows, hoping for one more good shot, when hethought he heard a curious sound. This sound appeared to come from theshadows opposite the spot where Drew, unconscious of any danger, walkedin the moonlight.

  Then, of a sudden, a terrifying thing began to happen. A hand and half anarm emerged from the shadows that lay against the rotting shed. In thehand was a gun. This gun was rising slowly, steadily to a position whereit would be covering Drew.

  What was to be done? Johnny's mind worked with the lightning rapidity ofa speed camera.

  Should he shout a warning? There was not time. Leap forward? This toowould be futile. One thing remained. The movement of that hand was slow,sure. Johnny's fingers were fast as the speed of light. He nocked anarrow, took sudden aim, and let fly. "Silent Murder" found his mark.

  Came a low cry of surprise, then a thud.

  "What was that?"

  Drew whirled about and snatched for his own gun.

  Johnny did not dare answer. What had he accomplished? Where was the hand,the gun, the man? Nocking a second arrow, he crowded further into theshadows. What was to come next? His heart pounded hard against his ribs.

  Ten seconds passed, twenty, thirty.

  With gun drawn, Drew advanced toward him. Johnny expected at any momentto hear a shot ring out. None did.

  Once more Drew demanded, "What was that?"

  "I-I saw a hand, half an arm, a-a gun," Johnny stammered. "I shot--shotan arrow at the arm."

  "A hand, an arm, a gun?" Drew was plainly bewildered.

  "The gun was aimed at you."

  "Where?"

  "The
re. Over there in the shadows."

  Gripping his gun tight, Drew threw the light of his electric torch intothose shadows. "No one there," he muttered. "You were dreaming. But no. Iheard something.

  "And look!" he cried, springing forward. "Here's the gun. He dropped it.Fled. Thought the Devil was after him. No wonder, when you hunted himwith 'Silent Murder.'

  "But I say, boy!" he exclaimed, gripping Johnny's hand till it hurt. "Yousaved my life. I'll not forget that!"

  "We'll just take this along," he said a moment later as he picked up asteel blue sixshooter with a six inch barrel.

  "A forty-five," he said, turning it over. "Not a bad gun. And full ofslugs. Reminds me of one that nearly did for me once. Tell you about itsometime."

  At that they turned and walked quietly away from the scene of the neartragedy.

  Where was the intruder? Gone. What of Johnny's arrow? What damage had itdone? Perhaps the light of day would answer some of these questions. Atpresent it was time for Johnny to hasten away to his nightly vigil in thesquad call corner.