Read Ebook: The Arrow of Fire A Mystery Story for Boys by Snell Roy J Roy Judson

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Ebook has 1005 lines and 32954 words, and 21 pages

idual who occupied a small space before the switchboard at the foot of the stairs. And that person was none other than Rosy Ramacciotti. Since Johnny had been told that Rosy was in need of work, he had hastened to secure this position for her.

He had thought at first, because of her father's most unhappy death, she, too, might be afraid. When he suggested this to her he was astonished by the snapping of her black eyes as she exclaimed:

"Me afraid? No! I am Italian. Did you not know that? We Italians, we are many things. Afraid? Never!"

So Rosy presided at the switchboard. Each night, during the hour that preceded Rosy's departure and Johnny's taking up of his duties, they enjoyed a chat about many, many things.

Nor did Drew Lane object; for, as he one night explained to Johnny, his relations with the Ramacciottis were based on little more than a charitable desire to be of service to someone.

"You have heard, I suppose," he said to Johnny one evening, "that there is a society that looks after the families of policemen who lose their lives in the service. That is a splendid enterprise.

"There are also many societies in existence that take care of the interests of criminals and their families. That too, I suppose, is all right.

"But where is the society that cares for the women and children made widows and orphans by the bullets of gangsters, burglars, and robbers? Never heard of one, did you?

"Well, some of us fellows of the Force decided to do what we could for these.

"I learned of the Ramacciotti family. They had inherited a small candy store and a large debt. They were paying sixty dollars a month flat rent, and going bankrupt rapidly.

"I helped them sell out the store. Then I found these two shacks. Used to be fishing shacks, I suppose, twenty-five years ago. Tried to find the owner. Couldn't. So we moved in anyway. I pay for my room and morning coffee. The furniture is Mrs. Ramacciotti's.

"I found her a small kitchen and dining room down street, where she serves rare Italian dishes, ravioli a la Tuscany and the like. They are doing very well, and are happy.

"Happy. That's it," he mused. "Everyone in the world has a right to be happy. It's our duty, yours and mine, to be happy, and to do the best we can to help others to their share of happiness."

"So that was how Drew came to live in such a strange place, and to be interested in these unusual people." Johnny thought about this for a long time after Drew had gone. His appreciation of the character of this young detective grew apace as he mused. His interest in Rosy and her mother also increased.

Shortly after his discovery that the man who wrecked his broadcasting corner and beat him up was, in all probability, the robber who had murdered Rosy's father, Johnny visited Sergeant McCarthey at the police station. As the days passed, this station was to become a place of increasing fascination for this boy who was interested in everything that had to do with life, and who had a gnawing desire to know all that is worth knowing.

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

"Little enough, old son." The sergeant leaned back as he spoke. "Visited those 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 even less. Won't tell a thing about themselves; names, addresses, nothing. They're not foreigners. American stock, I'd say. It's my guess that they had nothing to do with your radio affair. They appear to be boys from out of town. Some of those chaps who read cheap detective stories that make the 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 their families. Can't help but admire their grit. But the pity of it all! To think that any boy of to-day should come to look upon crime as offering a career of romance and daring! If only they could know the professional criminal as we do, could see him as a cold-blooded brute who cares only for 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 his most intimate friend and put a pal on the spot or take him for a ride if he believes he is too weak to stand the test and not talk if he is caught."

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 Johnny finished. "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 been shot, this man fired a shot into the wall. Bullet's there still, I suppose. Few crooks would do that. Likes noise, I suppose, the sound of his gun.

"You know," he explained, "we are always studying the peculiarities of bad men. It pays. You know how a poker player judges men. When his opponent 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's bluffing, he looks away, whistles a tune, does some other little thing that betrays him.

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

"It would seem," he sat up to drum on the desk, "that our friend with the hole in his hand likes the sound of his gun. He fired an unnecessary shot in 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 records of crimes committed in this city and see if we can find other raids and stick-ups to lay at this man's door. Of course, if the perpetrator of other 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 I find."

"In those other cases of that night, the safe-blowing and theatre robbery, 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 by him."

That night a curious and startling thing happened. This affair, as Herman McCarthey agreed later, might or might not have a bearing on the problem just discussed.

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

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

One of their favorite haunts was a slip which ended some four blocks from their shack, and extended for several blocks east until it lost itself in the waters of the lake. This narrow channel of water was lined on one side by great bulging, empty sheet iron sheds, and on the other by brick warehouses which appeared equally empty. A narrow landing extending the length of the sheds, and fast falling into decay, offered a precarious footing 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 rust and from time to time added to the general melancholy of the place a hollow bub-bub as it bumped the shore.

One would scarcely say that a horde of gigantic red-eyed rats could add to the attractions or any place, let alone one such as this. Lend it a touch of joy, they did, nevertheless. This became Johnny's hunting ground. Armed with his bow and quiver of arrows, he stalked rats as in other 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 rid the city of both."

On this particular night Johnny and Drew had gone on one of their hunting trips. They had put out a lure of shelled corn during the day. Game was plentiful. In the half light of the smoke-dulled moon, many a rodent whose 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 he thought he heard a curious sound. This sound appeared to come from the shadows opposite the spot where Drew, unconscious of any danger, walked in the moonlight.

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

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

Should he shout a warning? There was not time. Leap forward? This too would 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 an arrow, 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 the shadows. 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 moment to 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--shot an arrow at the arm."

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

"The gun was aimed at you."

"Where?"

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