CHAPTER XVIII A SCREAM--A SHOT
That particular Sunday was a happy one for Rosy, the bright-eyed Italiangirl. Why not? It was her birthday. She was sixteen. What is morewonderful than being sixteen? Besides, her mother had given her a newdress. It was real silk, the color of very old Italian wine, this dresswas, and trimmed with such silk flowers as only the skillful fingers ofMother Ramacciotti could form.
There were other reasons for happiness. Rosy's life had known misery andsadness. Now she had a home; very plain, it is true, but comfortable. Shehad friends. Were not Johnny and Drew her friends? Many more there wereat the radio studio. Rosy was a favorite. Her obliging interest in allthat pertained to her duties, her ready smile, won many.
Then too, her mother had said to her that very morning, "Six months more,and we will go to those so beautiful hills that are my home. Yourgrandmother awaits us among her flowers and her vines. The white-toppedAlps will look down upon us from afar. Ah! There is a country! Italy! Oh,my beloved Italy!"
Rosy had not seen Italy. Her mother had painted glowing pictures of thatland. Oh! Such pictures! Who can say which one longed most for that land,mother or daughter?
A gay time they had that day. Drew was in for dinner. They had ravioli ala Tuscany, and after that some very rare fruit cake that had come onlythe week before from sunny Italy.
So proud of her new dress was Rosy, that she needs must wear it to herwork. Her friends, all of them, must see how very beautiful it was. So,with a smile on her lips, and a dimple in each cheek, she departed,waving goodbye. Rosy, happy Rosy!
At the studio she was greeted with many smiles and heartycongratulations. In time, however, all her friends had passed to theirwork on the floor above, leaving Rosy there alone.
It was always a little dreary down at the foot of the stairs. Only anoccasional buzz at the switchboard disturbed the silence of the place.Faint, indistinct, seeming to come from another world, the mingled notesof many musical instruments floated down from above. Some tunes weremerry; some sad.
On this particular night, for no reason at all, they all reached her earstinged with melancholy. What was it? Is great happiness always followedby a touch of sadness? Was a shadow of the future stretching out toengulf her?
In one studio was a massive pipe organ. At 9:30 the organist, ascendingto the console, left the studio door ajar. The pealing, throbbing notesof this organ drifted down to Rosy.
For each of us there is some musical instrument whose notes stir us withjoy, another that awakens a feeling of sadness. To Rosy the pipe organcarried a feeling of infinite pain and sorrow. On that tragic day, whenher murdered father had been carried to his last long rest they had ledher, at her mother's side, to a great dark, damp and lofty room that wasa church. There for one long, torturing half hour she had listened to themost mournful tones she had ever known. The tones had come from a pipeorgan.
Now, as she sat listening, it seemed to her that the dampness, thedarkness, the gloom of that vast church were once more upon her.
She shuddered. Then, though the night was warm, she threw a wrap abouther 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 inher veins. Directly behind the place where she had been sitting, were twomen. One was half concealed by a door. His head and shoulders were withina closet. The other looked squarely at her.
Two things Rosy's startled eyes told her at a glance. The man who lookedat her was young. His face was like a mask. The other man had a hole inhis hand.
It was enough. Without willing to do so, she screamed. It was such along-drawn, piercing scream as one utters but once or twice in alifetime.
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, under quite different circumstances, Johnny and SergeantMcCarthey were discussing their latest problem, the derelict from NewYork.
"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. Heknows 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. Whenhe 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 thisbusiness of hunting down criminals. You heard Mills say there were nostool pigeons used in that kidnapping case we solved?"
Johnny nodded.
"To me that remark was significant. He hates stool pigeons. Everyonedoes. A stool pigeon is a person who, for pay or for immunity from arrestfor some crime he has committed, tells on some other person.
"There are men on every police force, good men too, who believe thatcriminals cannot be captured without the aid of stool pigeons.
"But how one must come to hate them when he is obliged to deal with themconstantly. Perhaps you think of stool pigeons as poor, weak-eyed,slinking creatures who can earn a living in no other way. If so, you arewrong. Some are rich, some are poor, some men, some women. All are alikein two particulars. All want something; for the most part protection forsome 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 tocatch the big one. Take an example. Some Greek runs a cheap gamblinghouse. With card games and roulette wheels he entertains laborers andtakes their money. He breaks the law. But he knows of a man who hasrobbed a bank. He is afraid of having his place raided, having his evilmeans of living taken away. He becomes a stool pigeon by informing on therobber. After that the detective uses him on many cases.
"But how must the detective feel who has dealings with such a man? Youcan't play with snakes unless you lie down and crawl.
"Little by little, the thing gets you. To associate with stool pigeonsyou 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, howlofty your aims, you step down, down, down, when you deal with stoolpigeons.
"It was so with him." He nodded his head toward the room in which thewhite-haired one was sleeping. "I happen to know. When I worked with himthere 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 Chiefbelieved in stool pigeons. He had a complicated, well guarded system ofinformers. Newton Mills was forced into this system. A man of sensitivenature 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 amwrong. 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 asknothing in return. They are my friends. They are more than that. They aretrue Americans. It is the duty of every honest citizen to inform theofficers 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 ofstool 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 ofthe house.
* * * * * * * *
The young man with a face like a mask was not one of those who love thesound of his own gun overmuch. But he was, by nature, a killer. When Rosyscreamed, indeed even as she did so, he whirled about and, withoutremoving his hand from his hip, fired one shot.
Rosy crumpled to the floor. Soon a scarlet stream began disfiguring herbright new birthday dress. Her eyes closed as in death. Her cheeks werewhite with pain.
When a throng of musicians and operators, electrified by Rosy's scream,at last came to their senses and, led by Bill Heyw
orth, came pouring downthe stairs, they found Rosy lying unconscious on the floor. Otherwise theplace was deserted.
Some time later it was found that a wire had been cut in the closet backof Rosy's chair. This wire ran through the closet to the studio above. Itwas the private wire from the Central Police Station to the radio squadcall room.