CALLING SQUAD CARS!
JIM COLLINS lowered his troubled head and hunched his broad, capable shoulders against the rain. Idly he kicked at a paper which lay in his path on the sidewalk and then, as his foot opened a soggy page, he stared ruefully at the headlines which greeted his eye.
POLICE DISCOVER NEW LEAD
IN HUNT FOR “ONE-EYE” TASCORI MOB.
POLICE DISCOVER NEW LEAD
POLICE RADIO ANNOUNCER COLLINS
DISCHARGED FROM HEADQUARTERS
AS INSPECTOR GRIFFITH LINKS HIM
WITH EVASIVE MARAUDERS.
There was more to it. A great deal more. It covered part of the front and slithered over to the second page in a slimy trail of water-soaked ink. Collins kicked at it once more and then resumed his aimless wandering.
For weeks an ugly cloud of suspicion had hovered over his brown head. For days his soft southern voice had borne a slight edge of worry, and then, tonight, the blow had fallen.
Collins had been seated behind his mike in the control room utilizing an idle moment to drive home the last plate in the miniature microphones he was perfecting. Through his mind had run the endless chain of remarks which had drummed in upon him. Neither detectives nor policemen had spoken to him kindly for days.
The chief had appeared beside the control board. Glaring down at Collins, he had said, “The jig’s up, sonny. You’re under arrest!”
They had led him back to the dreaded degree rooms at the rear of the building. They had placed him in a hard chair, turned a brilliant light on his face, to begin their endless chain of questioning.
Collins had shaken his head dazedly. “I can’t explain why calls go out which never appear on my record. I can’t explain why a voice like mine calls squad cars away from the scene of Tascori’s crimes. I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!” His usually soft voice mounted slightly in his earnestness.
The chief had clicked his teeth together, his jaw close to Collins’ face.
“Listen, Collins, every time ‘One-Eye’ Tascori has robbed a bank or stuck up a speakeasy, you’ve been at the mike. And every time the cars have suddenly been called away from the scene of the robbery to attend a fire which wasn’t burning, to rescue a drowning man who didn’t exist.
“I know that you use that police radio to help Tascori, so come clean. Where does he hang out? What is the name of his gang?”
For hours the inquisition had gone on but young Collins, worn and haggard by the unceasing fire of the chief’s snarling voice, had been adamant in his protest of his innocence.
Finally the chief had given up with the threat that Collins would cool his heels in jail until he cared to divulge the information. But the chief had been thwarted in that for McCarty, the other announcer, had gone his bail.
Now he was on the loose. His job was gone. His reputation was ruined. Newspaper headlines screamed at him from the racks along the sidewalk. With a meager final paycheck in his pocket he faced imminent poverty, perhaps starvation, for although he was a crack radioman, firms would hardly hire one who dwelled under a constant cloud of suspicion.
Ahead of him, Collins could see the light of a doorway below the street. He knew the place well. It was a speakeasy of considerable size. He examined the contents of his pockets with damp fingers.
The two miniature microphones he had taken from his desk clanked together lonesomely. Aside from that small check, he was broke. But he shrugged his shoulders and headed for the doorway. Though he rarely drank, he felt the need of a stimulant now. Perhaps it would aid his buzzing head.
At the head of the stairs, the crash of a pistol met him from below. Rapidly it was followed by two others. A scream and a babble of voices burst through the suddenly opened door as four men jumped up the stairs. They brushed Collins aside roughly and ran for a car which waited at the curb with running motor. But Collins had seen just enough. The man in the lead had only one eye!
The radioman’s eyes went blank for an instant as he remembered newspaper pictures of Tascori. Then, with a leap, he was to the curb, unseen by the hastily embarking men. Collins jumped into a ring of tires on the back of the car and the machine sped away through the rain.
Collins puckered his mouth. Now that he was this far, where did he go from here? Quickly he tried to fit a plan together. The machine’s rubber tires were whining over the pavement as it sped southward through the city.
Coming darkness and the increasing rain hid him from the eyes of the traffic police, but he dared not signal as the car passed directed intersections lest the men ahead might notice.
It suddenly came to him that he was weaponless, save for his two fists and his wits. Where the car was going he did not know, nor did he know his course of action when it arrived. He could only crouch in the darkness and await his chance.
There were five in the car, counting the driver. Five men who had just committed the most heinous of crimes, murder for robbery. They were the most dangerous men in the underworld, daring everything and anything. They had indirectly ruined the radioman, and so he clung to the tires and gritted his teeth against the ache which was seeping up his taut muscles.
Collins hunched down and tried to map out some plan. What if he were spotted when the men stopped the car? What if they halted at some well-lighted filling station? What if the car blew a tire? He held himself in readiness with aching arms and waited, his eyes narrow as vivid bits of this chain of events passed through his mind.
Well in the outskirts of the city, on an unlighted street, the car stopped in the driveway of a huge unlighted house which loomed dark and forbidding in the rain. Holding his breath lest a light suddenly betray him, Collins stepped gingerly away from the car and slid under a dripping bush. The headlights had been switched off at the moment of arrival, but through the rain-soaked blackness, the radioman caught the movement of figures mounting the steps to the building. Wet leather crunched against stone and gravel.
An ugly voice said, “Take the bus around back, Tony, and gas her up. Look over the motor, check the tires, and see you don’t let her fall down on us! Get going!”
The car slid back to the street and headed for an alleyway. By the light of his lamps, Collins saw four men trudge up to the high doorway. He stiffened as he glimpsed again the black patch which hid Tascori’s sightless socket.
The door slammed, and with rain trickling down inside his light topcoat, Collins crept to the side of the house. Looking up he saw a crack of light on the first floor. A light flickered through the blinds of another window.
Decisively, the radioman returned to the front. With wet hands he examined the pillars which supported the porch roof. With a grain of luck he saw that he could climb them noiselessly and swing himself to the top of the porch roof with the aid of a lattice.
Carefully he mounted the railing and reached up. He swung his legs around the post and began the ascent. It was tedious, difficult work, for his arms were tired from the long strain of hanging to the back of the car.
Cautiously he felt for the latticework, grasped the thin slats with a silent prayer that they would support his weight, and heaved his long body up and out.
Doubling suddenly, he projected himself onto the roof. Hanging with his head down he felt along the slippery shingles for holds, found them and drew himself toward the white frame of a window which gleamed dully in the blackness.
He felt in his pockets for a knife, disentangled the clasp from several coils of thin wire which he had absently picked up from his worktable at headquarters, and inserted the blade under the sill.
Slowly, lest he snap the thin blade, he pulled up. With a sigh, the window opened. The dank smell of a cold, damp room greeted his nostrils and he placed his dripping legs over the sill.
He rested his weight on one foot and tested the boards around him. Finding that none of them creaked, Collins turned and closed down the window.
At last he was inside the house, a floor above Tascori. Unarmed, yes, but confidence swarmed in upon him as he realized that luck, so far, had been with him.
At the door of the room, he pressed his ear to a crack and listened. Far below him he could hear the murmur of men’s voices. Silently, Collins opened the door and cast his eyes over the hall which lay before him. At his right, a stairway led down, allowing some of the light from below to flicker on the walls.
The sound of voices had grown louder and Collins knew that Tascori was in the room at the bottom of those stairs. Tensely he waited for all of the men to take their turn at talking.
One, two, three, and then the harsh, ugly rasp of Tascori as he derided one of the men for a clumsy piece of work.
A chair creaked and one of the men started across the room, his voice growing louder in the radioman’s ears.
Suddenly something told Collins that the man was about to ascend the stairs and he glanced up to see if a light lay above him. But the house was too old to have such a thing as remote light control, and Collins breathed deeply.
The man’s feet were stomping on the boards. He had ceased to talk.
Knowing that inky blackness lay behind him, and that the gangster’s eyes were accustomed to the bright light of the room below, Collins glanced around the corner. In his belt the other carried a heavy automatic.
Excitement tugged at the radioman’s heart, causing it to beat out of time. All the bitterness which he had borne suddenly leaped up and became strength. His strong, dark face tensed. He felt the blood throbbing in his temples until he was almost certain that the other could hear the rapid hammering of his heart. Wages of failure here would be a quick death.
The gangster reached the last step below the upper landing but a few inches away from Collins. With a lunge, the radioman snatched out and grasped the butt of that gun. It came free with a wrench.
Surprised, the other grunted and stepped back, tottering on the stairs.
Collins smashed the pistol into his startled face with such force that the gangster plunged backwards, left the stairs and with a long crash hurtled toward the bottom.
Collins plunged after him three steps at a time. A moment’s hesitation would cost him his victory. Almost as the other hit the first floor, Collins was beside him.
“Freeze!” he shouted to the others. “Grab for the ceiling!” He thrust the gun out as though the very force of it would hold the others motionless.
Tascori spat like a caged tiger. His two henchmen remained where they were and slowly raised their arms upward. Caught sitting down and with only an instant’s warning, they were helpless.
“Stand up!” cried Collins. He motioned with the gun. “Stand up and turn your faces to that wall!”
Tascori’s one eye kindled and darted to a door which was now behind the radioman’s back. He stiffened and then slumped wearily. For an instant a crafty light had gleamed darkly in that one orb, but flushed with excitement and the elation of victory, Collins had not noticed.
The three, hampered by their upraised arms, climbed to their feet. Sullenness and despair marked each face. In fact, their sudden expressions of dejection were so complete and spontaneous that the radioman might have been warned. Following Tascori’s meek example, the other two turned and faced the indicated wall.
Collins, with a glance into the automatic’s breech to make sure that it held a cartridge, strode forward. A bulge in Tascori’s hip pocket caught his eye. With intent to disarm the gangster, the radioman reached out. It had been too easy! A smile played over his face.
He had just touched the bulge when the room seemed to split apart with a roar. The wall and men spun before his eyes. A mighty hand was dragging him to the floor, relentless, dark, awful. Suddenly he stopped fighting against the force. He had never been so terribly tired in his life. Everything gave a final spin and vanished in blackness.
Tascori leered down at the motionless figure. “Nice work, Tony,” he said tonelessly to the newcomer who stood in the door by the stairs, holding a smoking pistol.
The one-eyed man was tall and gaunt with a pinched face and narrow, cruel lips. The black patch over the empty socket stood out starkly against the yellow pallor of his skin. He stooped down over the body and examined the wound in Collins’ head. The man called Tony stepped to his side.
Tascori jerked up with an explosive oath. “Bungler! You’ve just creased him!”
“I’m sorry,” said Tony, stepping back. “I shot in such a hurry.” He shrugged his shoulders and fingered his automatic. Then an idea mirrored itself on his face. “But that’s easy to fix up.” He looked down at the sprawled body of the radioman. “That’s easy.”
Without hesitating he kneeled beside Collins and pressed the still-smoking muzzle of the pistol against the radioman’s temple. Tascori grinned mirthlessly and said, “Go ahead.”
Tony adjusted the muzzle carefully and squeezed the butt safety into place. His finger started to close down on the trigger. His face was expressionless. Then he drew the gun away and grasped Collins by the hair, turning his head over so that light fell on the unconscious features.
He glanced up at Tascori. “I think I’ll do it this way this time. It’s more sure.” He laid a piece of newspaper under the brown hair. “No use messing up the rug much more.”
Again he placed the pistol against Collins’ head, but this time, its black muzzle was held under the throat. His palm came down on the butt safety again and his finger tightened against the trigger.
“Wait a minute!” blurted one of the men. “I know that guy!”
Tascori turned languidly. “Friend of yours?”
“No, I’ll say not!” snapped the gangster. “He’s the radio announcer at police headquarters! I saw him in the broadcasting room last time they dragged me into the bullpen.”
“Are you sure?” demanded Tascori. He was staring down at Collins with new interest.
“Sure! You can look right through the glass as you come in the door to the desk.” The gangster pointed down at the unconscious radioman with a bony finger. “I’d know him anyplace.”
“Hm,” muttered Tascori. “So this is our little friend the radio announcer we’ve been having so much fun with. Well, well, well. And we were going to bump him off just like that!”
He snapped his fingers and turned over the sprawling body with a disdainful foot.
“I’m sure that we can give him a much better time than that. Later this evening we’ll take him for a nice little ride.” He turned to the man who knew Collins. “Take that curtain and lash him into that chair.”
The man whom Collins had sent hurtling down the steps lurched to his feet, pressing a hand against his bleeding nose. “I’ll say we’ll take him for a ride!” He planted a solid kick in the radioman’s ribs.
Tascori had lost immediate interest in the proceedings. “Tony! Get out there and see if you can find something to eat. I’m hungry.” He sat down in an upholstered chair and picked up a newspaper.
“Huh! No wonder he’s here!” And he read the story which Collins had seen earlier in the evening. He glanced across the room to where two of his men were binding the radioman with strips torn from a cretonne curtain.
“Yes, you’ll have a very enjoyable ride, I’m sure.”
Collins awoke with the smell of cooking food in his nostrils. Pain shot through his skull as he moved, but he forced himself to lift his eyes so that he could stare about the room.
Suddenly the full portent of his presence clicked and he stiffened. When he tried to move his arms, he found that they were securely bound to the sides of the chair. He attempted to shift his legs, but they too were lashed down. He gazed for a long time at the ragged cretonne bonds, then he looked up and saw Tascori looking at him.
“Well,” said Collins thickly, “I guess you win. What are you going to do with me?” Though his voice was hoarse, his southern drawl was apparent.
Tascori stretched out his legs and smiled crookedly at his captive. “I’m going to take you for a nice little ride, my boy.”
Collins tautened and stared at the man. Those words had been spoken with a lazy southern inflection, an exact imitation of his own drawling voice!
“Yes—a nice ride,” Tascori laughed and fished a cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it, he tossed the burning match into the ashtray which stood at Collins’ elbow, where it flickered fitfully among the heaped butts.
Tony thrust his head through the door. “Okay, Chief, the grub’s on the table.”
Tascori smiled at Collins for a moment, his one eye cold and narrow. “Won’t you have something to eat with us? No?” He laughed and walked out of the room, leaving the radioman alone.
His headache had diminished somewhat and his mind was so filled with swift speculations that he forgot the clotted bullet crease above his ear. Tascori could imitate his voice! Perhaps—perhaps—
His eyes darted about the room and came to rest on two boxes which were set on a table against the wall. One he knew to be a small shortwave receiving set, very much like those which were placed in each of the squad cars.
The other was much larger. Its face was covered with meters and dials. An open switch stood beside the box. A complete radio broadcasting set of the latest compact type. Collins examined it narrowly. It was complete with the exception of the microphone. And the leads to that were coiled before it on the table top.
He suddenly realized the portent of his discovery. And a map of the city pinned above the radio broadcaster confirmed the matter. For that map had pins bearing numbers thrust into it. And the numbers corresponded to the squad cars, all in their proper districts.
It was plain now. Tascori’s plan was simple. He would select the location of his next job, and garner the numbers of the police cars in that and surrounding districts.
He would pull the switch and give the official call in the exact imitation of Collins’ voice. By tapping the shortwave receiver at the broadcaster, he would know when Collins would be at the police mike, and whether or not the police mike was silent.
Even if the police mike went to work in the middle of Tascori’s call, he would know by the sudden crackle when to quit. After giving the call, he would race with his gang to the scene of his next crime, certain of being unmolested.
Collins was suddenly calm. A resolve stronger than he was throwing new strength into his battered muscles. Coldly his brain seized upon facts and methodically placed them together.
He looked down at his side and saw the slight bulge which the two tiny microphones made in his pocket. Earlier in the evening he had discovered that several coils of uncovered wire were in his coat pocket. And his coat lay beside him on the floor where the gangsters had thrown it.
If he could attach that mike— He wrenched at his bonds. Looking down again, he saw that they were of thin cloth. He tugged again. The cloth refused to give. Collins’ heart began to sink and his resolve started to ebb.
The cloth was cretonne, almost impossible to tear. And its folds were wrapped so tightly that circulation was dead in his hands and feet. A sob of disappointment welled up in his throat. So near, yet so far, he was unable to reach that broadcasting set.
He peered out through the door. From where he sat he could see nothing of the gangsters. He could hear the buzz of their voices and an occasional clatter of a plate, but that was all.
Collins slumped forward. It was useless to try. He gave way to the pain which was shooting through his skull and the ugly ache which was creeping up his arms.
Something tugged at his nostrils. An odor he had not before noticed. Absently he catalogued it. Cigarette butts burning in an ashtray. Then he stiffened and glanced to the left.
Not two feet from his elbow stood a high ashtray. He suddenly recalled the burning match which Tascori had thrown into it. The pile of butts was smoldering red coals, showing through the gray ashes.
Hope leaped up in his breast. Cautiously, lest his chair scrape loudly on the floor, he hitched the chair toward the ashtray. Inch by inch he closed the gap. Finally, sweat standing out on his brow from the exertion, he managed to touch one of the strips to the smouldering heap.
A coal touched his wrist and he flinched. Then, gritting his teeth, he shoved the cloth back into the smoke. Gradually he could feel the cloth loosen. The burning fabric seared up his wrist, but he bit his lip and held it there.
The next instant his left hand was free! Feverishly, praying for time, he tore at the bonds of his right hand.
At any minute Tascori or one of his men might return to the room and discover him. The hand came free. He twisted his numb hands together for an instant and then snatched at his feet. The knots there were stubborn and held out for long, precious seconds against his onslaught. He gave one last jerk and his feet were free.
Unsteadily he jumped to his feet. Stinging pains shot up through his legs. He stepped gingerly forward. Then there came an overwhelming impulse to run and he gave way to it.
A door stood in back of the chair and he silently pulled it open, expecting to see another room or a hall. He darted into the dark doorway and then stopped. He had entered a closet.
Turning, he glanced wildly about the room. But the door which led to the gangsters was the only other entrance. And to cross the room to the stairs meant discovery.
Running a numb hand across his forehead impatiently, he turned back to the radios. Again he caught sight of the open switch, the unattached mike leads. On tiptoe he crossed the room, and drew the two microphones from his pocket and laid them on the table. He snatched up his coat and drew the coils of wire from it. His hands were stiff and clumsy, but they quickly wrapped the leads together.
He cursed his lack of pliers as he attempted to cut the excess wire which hung to the tiny microphone, but even though the wire was small, it hung stubbornly together.
Failing in this, he was forced to join the leads with the twenty-foot strips which composed the coils. He was about to throw the switch down when a sudden hunch took hold of him.
Taking the other small mike, he lashed it to the receiving set beside the broadcaster. It was the work of half a minute.
Then pulling out the long wires so that they would not short, he laid the two mikes side by side on the table top. Deftly he tuned the broadcasting set by its numbered dials. His hand swept out toward the switch. At that instant he heard a chair scrape in the outer room. His heart seemed to stop beating and his hand stopped in midair. With a sob he threw on the switch. He whirled to the receiver and clicked on its juice. A footstep rang against boards in the other room.
The footsteps were coming closer. Collins swept the two small mikes into his pocket, and darted back to his chair. With a jerk of his arm he threw all four wires back along the wall, almost out of sight.
Just as his hand came back alongside the chair, Tascori stepped through the open door. He noticed nothing unusual at first. In fact he hardly glanced at the radioman. He paused in the middle of the room to light a cigarette.
The slam of a door crashed through the house. Tascori started violently and he stared with his one eye fixed on the door he had just stepped through.
A heavy footfall followed the slamming of the door.
The sound came from the back of the house. Tascori spun about and whipped an automatic from his pocket. Holding it by the barrel, he darted to Collins. It was not until then that he noticed the absence of the bonds and the telltale cloth on the floor.
With an oath he brought the butt of the automatic against the radioman’s head with a terrific smash. Collins tried to dodge, but too late, and he caught the full force of the blow over his ear. Darkness crashed down upon him.
Tascori grabbed at the radioman’s shirtfront and half-dragged, half-pitched him through the open closet door. Collins sank down, to all appearances dead. A new trickle of blood was flowing onto the closet floor. Tascori closed the closet and thrust the gun back in his pocket. Quickly assuming a nonchalant air, he walked to the entrance of the room. A tall figure was approaching him.
Suddenly Tascori swore and his eye kindled. “What do you mean bursting in here like that! Get this, Giovanni, you’ll walk softly while you’re in my gang or you’ll be taking a little ride!”
Giovanni stopped and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Tascori. But I was in a hurry to tell you the news.”
“All right,” snapped Tascori. “What is it?”
Tony and the three other gangsters came up beside him.
“Listen!” said Giovanni. “It ain’t healthy to stick around here no longer.”
Tascori stepped forward. “What do you mean?”
“Just this,” Giovanni replied, “I saw a squad car parked a block down the street and I don’t like it!”
Tony’s jaw dropped. “A squad car! Maybe they know where to look for us!” He was tense with fear.
“Two blocks from here, eh?” Tascori’s face was a calm mask. “Maybe you’re right, Giovanni.” He walked to the chair which had held Collins and tapped his fingers on its back. “All right. We’ll get our stuff together and leave. We can cruise down the back alley out of sight. We can’t afford to fight any cops right now.” He started toward the stairs.
The shortwave receiver crackled.
“Huh!” said Tony. “I must have left it on this afternoon.” He started toward the table, his hand outstretched to snap the button. His fingers touched the metal. At that instant, the receiver spoke.
“Calling Squad Car Sixty-five. Calling Squad Car Sixty-five. Calling Squad Car Sixty-five.”
The voice was somewhat muffled but very crisp. It held a nasal twang.
“New announcer,” stated Tascori as he paused at the foot of the stairs. “Let’s see what he says. That’s probably the one you saw outside, Giovanni.”
Giovanni nodded his head in affirmation.
“Calling Squad Car Sixty-five,” intoned the loudspeaker. “Proceed immediately to 622 South Hanover Street. Six, two, two, South Hanover Street. Proceed to six, two, two, South Hanover Street. Prowler reported nearby. Prowler reported nearby. Proceed immediately.”
The radio fell silent and Tony was reaching for the button when it spoke again.
“Calling all squad cars in north of city. Calling all squad cars in north of city.” The voice was monotonous. “Calling all squad cars in north of city. Proceed in general direction of northern city limits.
“Proceed immediately north to intercept Tascori mob. Attention all squad cars in north of city. ‘One-Eye’ Tascori has been sighted at Dickerson and Spring Streets proceeding in general direction of Butler Square.”
The radio droned on, assigning streets to cars, laying down a perfect net to trap the reported gangster.
Tascori laughed shortly. “Dumb cops! I guess we’ll stay right here tonight. Safe enough with them chasing us all over the other side of town. Leave it on. I want another good laugh like that one!”
He tugged at the patch over his sightless eye and came back into the room. Picking up a paper, he once more read the story of Collins’ downfall. Then, lying back in an upholstered chair, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
For a good half hour he stared ahead of him, plans passing back and forth behind his narrowed eye. Suddenly he snapped out of his reverie.
The front door had slammed! Feet were heard running through the house! In the other room the gangsters threw back their chairs and jerked at their automatics. Tascori sprang up, balanced for an instant on the balls of his feet and then ran for the door.
But a drawling voice stopped him. He glanced about him and then stared at the receiving set.
“You’d better stay where you are, Tascori!” It was the voice of Collins! “Police are all around the house and in the surrounding rooms. You’re trapped! You and the rest of your mob better surrender quietly if you want to live a few weeks longer!”
Tony and Giovanni had run to the door at the sound of the voice. They stared for a moment at the receiving set. Their guns fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.
Tascori swayed slightly and then insanely he sent a bullet crashing through the closed door of the closet. He remembered where he had left Collins.
A cold voice above him jerked him upright. A Thompson submachine gun was covering him. “Drop that gun, Tascori!” The light glinted from a metal badge.
With a hoarse scream, Tascori threw up his gun and fired wildly at the upper landing.
Flame spurted from the machine gun. The impact of bullets hurled the gangster’s body to the floor. The crash of a pistol burst from the other room, and was followed by a fusillade.
The three remaining gangsters cowered against the walls, whipped.
The police chief walked down the stairs followed by two officers with the submachine gun. Four policemen stepped through the doorway and looked around. The chief glanced into the other room and then back at the stairs.
“Collins!” he called. “Where are you?”
The torn loudspeaker crackled for a moment and then was still. The chief stared at it, and then his keen eyes caught the almost invisible strands of wire which led from its back along the wall and under the closet door. He stepped to the place where they disappeared and threw back the door.
Motioning one of the officers to follow him, he entered and lifted Collins by the shoulders. The policemen picked up the limp legs and together they carried him to the upholstered chair.
As he sank back into the cushions, Collins opened his eyes. “I see you got my message.” He smiled up at the gruff chief’s face which was creased with wonder.
Flame spurted from the machine gun. The impact of bullets hurled the gangster’s body to the floor.
“Yes!” returned the chief. “You bet I did. How you got it to me I don’t know, but I do know that you’ve done a wonderful night’s work.”
Collins opened his clutched hand. In it lay the two tiny microphones, and away from it ran the small strands of copper wire.
“It was just luck,” he said weakly. “I finished these yesterday. Meant to have some fun with them at home by hooking them to our receiving set there. And when I came away from headquarters I took everything that belonged to me. Mainly these and some of this coil wire.”
“Yes!” stammered the chief. “But how in the name of blazes did you get them hooked up?”
“Got loose while I was alone in the room, snapped them onto the sets. Meant to send the message right then, but I didn’t have time. Why I attached this to the receiving set I don’t know. Guess it was just because it was built for a receiving set.
“When I woke up in the closet I heard them talking and discovered these things in my pocket.” He looked up at the chief, his drawn face was full of expectancy. “Listen. See that squad car map and that broadcasting set? There’s your mystery of the unrecorded calls. They came from that set, and Tascori,” he jerked his thumb at the prostrate body, “imitated my voice and gave out orders in the lull of headquarters’ announcements. That’s the answer. Listen, Chief, do I get my old job back?”
“Do you get your job back!” The chief started to slap Collins on the shoulder and then recalled that the man was injured. He changed the slap to a gentle pat.
“My boy, you can have the whole police force for this night’s work! Come on, now we’ve got to get you to a doctor.”