As often happens when men have a good piece of work well off their hands,Drew Lane and Newton Mills went to bed almost at once, and were soon fastasleep.
Not so Johnny. He sat in a chair thinking. The room was dark. That didnot matter. The men he had most feared were in prison and in thehospital. One was dead. He had not seen the dead man, nor his accomplicewho surrendered. As one will, he had assumed that one of these was theman with a hole in his hand. What could be more natural? Those two, theyouth of the mask-like face, and he of the hole in his hand, had beentogether on every other occasion.
As Johnny thought the thing through now, the whole affair seemed clear.On the night he had been attacked in the studio, this gang had planned torob a theatre. Two had come up to silence the radio. Another pair hadpulled off the robbery.
On the second occasion they had not dared to enter the radio studio, sohad planned to cut the private wire of the police. In doing this they hadfrightened Rosy, and shot her, either without purpose or to cover theirescape.
On this, the third night, they had feared to approach the radio station.Without doubt they knew that now the station was strongly guarded. Theyhad disregarded the peril of a squad call and had staged the robbery withall hands on board.
In drawing these conclusions, Johnny may have been partly right. In onematter he was completely wrong. The man with the hole in his hand had notbeen captured.
As Johnny was thinking of retiring he touched a pocket. The pocket gaveforth a crackling sound.
"A letter," he thought. "Meant to mail it. Forgot. May as well take it tothe box now."
As we have said, Johnny believed the entire gang that had been troublingthem were in jail. He had no fear of the dark and empty street. Indeed,as he walked the two blocks that lay between the shack and the mail box,he was thinking of that dark fishing hole on the far shores of Lake Huronwhere the black bass lurk.
He did not note the two men who lay in hiding beneath the shadows of theRamacciotti cottage. Nor was he conscious of their presence as theypussyfooted along after him. Only when he was within ten paces of themail box did he turn his head half about, to see them out of the cornerof an eye.
It was with the greatest difficulty that he suppressed a start.
"The bullets!" he thought. "They know. They are after the bullets."
What should he do? Like a flash a plan of action came to his mind.Quickening his pace a little, he allowed his left hand to drop to hisside, revealing the letter. At the same time his right sought the innerpocket of his coat.
Arrived at the mail box, he put up both hands, as one will; one to liftthe metal flap, the other to drop the letter. All this was true to form,except that he dropped two parcels instead of one.
As he turned about he was seized from behind. A car glided to the curb.Three men sprang out. He was overpowered, gagged and thrown into the car.
Just as the motor purred a shadowy figure sprang from the darkness, toleap upon the spare tires which this car carried, and cling there as thecar sped away.
"Well," Johnny thought grimly, "they have me; but they won't get thebullets. The trial will go on."
The next instant he received a shock. As the light from a passing autoflashed upon them, the man at the wheel of the car shifted his positionand Johnny saw his hand. He was the man with a hole in his hand.
As the car sped swiftly westward, Johnny realized that he was, in thelanguage of gang-land, being "taken for a ride."
His heart stood still. He felt a sudden chill pass over him and theterror of it all came to him. To-day, to-morrow, perhaps the next day hisbullet-ridden or fire-charred body would be found beside some desertedroad. That was how they did it. They were possessed of no heart, nocompassion, no conscience. "Dead men tell no tales."
No greater falsehood was ever uttered than this. Dead men have told manytales. More than once a dead man's tales have brought men to the gallows.But gangsters have not learned this. They are a stupid lot.
One fact consoled Johnny. These gangsters wanted something. They wantedthe telltale bullets that were capable of sending their fellow gangster,him of the masked face, to the electric chair or to prison for life.These they would have at all cost. They undoubtedly expected to find themon Johnny's person.
"They will question me," Johnny told himself. "I can stall; hold themoff. They may torture me!" He shuddered and turned his thoughts to otherchannels.
He thought of that slim, dark-eyed girl, Joyce Mills. Drew had told himall about her. He was sure he would have enjoyed knowing her. Frank,friendly, fearless, she would have made a great pal. He regretted nothaving seen her. Had she gone to her cousin's in Naperville? Somehow hedoubted that. She had said she could help her father; that she _would_.She had seemed very determined about this. Was she trying to help? How?He had seen no sign of it.
At that moment they approached the end of a street. A blank brick wallloomed darkly before them. Of a sudden, above the blur of white caused bythe car's lights, there appeared a spot of vivid red which formed itselfinto an arrow of fire, then as quickly lost form and vanished.
At the same instant the car swerved sharply to the right and missed aniron post by a narrow margin.
The man sitting beside the driver seized the wheel with a curse.
The driver muttered something about the "arrow of fire," then settleddown once more to steady driving.
The thing puzzled Johnny. At the same time it cheered him. He had notforgotten the words of Drew Lane: "Justice is an arrow of fire." Itseemed to him that he felt the presence of someone hovering near him,someone who cared and would help if such a thing were possible.
The shadowy creature that had sprung out to attach itself to the sparetires when the car started, still clung there.