Far away a police whistle shrilled, but Doyle was too intent to be distracted. Subconsciously he heard an automobile coming down Rose Street, and strained his eyes for the glimmer of light that would be reflected into the garden in the rear. It came — and with it a shock that rocked the bungalow to its foundations. A thudding roar of high explosive, a crash of wood and the tinkling of glass, a lurch of the floor under Doyle’s heels. The bomb must have blown in the whole front of the house.
The surgeon was shouting Doyle’s name. Outside Slatterly’s whistle was going, answered by a dozen more from right and left — and again, this time positively, Doyle saw a movement in the garden. The man was on the right hand side, twenty feet away, flattened against the hedge.
With a bound Doyle went through the window. He expected a shot. There was none. As he struck the ground the man turned and ran like a rabbit. The hedge at the rear of the garden checked him. Doyle made a flying tackle. One hand caught a coat tail, and held it. The two rolled through the hedge and into the garden beyond.
Once Doyle was hit on the head with a blackjack, he thought, for he saw a million stars. Then he had the man in his arms — a feeble, squirming, scratching armful of skin and bone, and not the tall giant he sought! Savage with disappointment Doyle twisted two thin wrists together and snapped on handcuffs, then snapped his flash light into the prisoner’s face.
He had caught a boy about eighteen. A rat. The pallid skin and the pupils of the eyes, tiny as pin points, told their own story.
“Who are you?” Doyle growled.
“Beany Gra— Aw, what’s it to you?”
“Come through!”
No answer. Doyle jerked his prisoner upright and felt the bump on his head. His scalp was bleeding slightly. He swung his flash in a circle to discover the weapon. A thirty-two caliber automatic lay at the foot of the hedge which had stopped its flight when the kid flung it away.
“Come clean— Who were you told to plug?” demanded the detective.
No answer.
Heavy feet pounded across the grass. Doyle lifted his flash light onto the figure of a patrolman who came charging forward with ready club.
“Nobody passed me!” the latter sung out. “Oh — hello, Slats! Where did you get that?”
“What are you doing with this precinct, Bill?” retorted the detective.
“Oh, two platoons are out. Wollson posted us around two blocks with orders to close in if anything broke. How’d he get through?”
“Oh, while some of you turned your backs to keep the rain out of your eyes,” snapped the detective. “Know him?”
“Yeah. Belongs down by the water front.”
“Gunman?”
“Naw. Nothin’ but a sneak thief. Hangs around with some of Voticelli’s bunch, when they’ll let him. Is Wollson here yet?”
“How’d I know?” Doyle growled.
He was sore. To surround the block with cops was just what might have been expected of the lieutenant. Had the killer come himself he would have noticed the uniformed men and retreated. The detective shoved the captured pistol into his pocket. He was sorry for the kid, and wanted to break his neck at the same time.
“Thought you’d show ’em you was a real rod, huh?” he grunted, and led the way into the house.
Lights were flashing up as the police gathered after a futile chase of the car from which the bomb had been tossed. Already Wollson was busy passing the buck. His heavy voice reached Doyle, bawling out the men for being blind, for being slow, for letting the tall killer slip through their fingers. The front room was a wreck when Doyle entered it. At the sight of the prisoner the lieutenant’s complaints ceased.
“You’ll talk, rat,” he growled. “Doyle, you did good work. Lucky I thought of moving Freeman out of here, huh?” Proudly he surveyed the shattered walls. “If the bomb had exploded on the porch instead of on the ground outside, nobody’d be left,” Wollson expanded.
“We might send for an ambulance,” Doyle suggested, more amused than otherwise at being robbed of the credit for his scheme, but anxious that the secrecy of Freeman’s whereabouts be preserved. Wollson went to the telephone. He ordered the ambulance, but instead of hanging up, remained at the phone. The bulky shoulders were tensed.
“What do you mean?” he snarled over the wire in a tone that made Doyle’s heart sink. “Freeman ain’t even here! Of course he ain’t hurt! Yeah? No. No, I’ll take care of it.”
He turned, and though his face was purple on this occasion his boast that he never became excited was made good. Angrily he glared at Doyle.
“The hospital got word just now that this house had been bombed and Freeman was dying and calling for his daughter,” he accused. “She left to come here. Is this more of your smart Alec stunts? Sending Freeman to the infirmary in your name was your idea!”
“But she knew her father wasn’t here. That I—” Doyle stammered, aghast.
“She did, and she came out just the same!” shouted Wollson. “Thought you was dying, likely. Who the hell would care if you had! It’s a plant! She’s gone! My witness! My witness is gone!”
“The kid I caught hung around Voticelli’s,” snapped Doyle, his mind racing. Myra had been grateful to him. Because she thought he was dying she had hurried to come. He was responsible if anything happened. Gone. A phone call. A taxi waiting for a girl to leave the hospital in the rain. All so simple, and so diabolically, coldly clever. The bombing of the house had been a play for two victims. Because Doyle had had the effrontery to match wits with the killer it had succeeded in part.
“The kid you caught! The hell with him!” snarled Wollson. “I got to get out every man to watch the streets. Fat chance of doing anything, at that! As for you — g’wan home and go to bed! You’ve done everything for us in this case that you can. G’wan! Get out of my sight!”
Led by Wollson, the policemen raced for their cars. Numb with despair, Doyle followed them as far as the sidewalk. As the tail lights sped away he stood alone, shivering in the rain.
The kid came from Voticelli’s! A miserable clew, but all he had.
Chapter VI
The Phony Extra
The impulse to race to the Hongkong Café and extract a confession from Voticelli at the point of a gun was all but overpowering. Not the certainty that such an attempt would be futile, that it would begin with a sneering denial, and end by his shooting the gangster, or being shot by him, restrained Doyle. He was seeing red.
What held him in his tracks, what made him turn at last and walk to the telephone, was the fact that whatever the gangsters or the killers desired to do with Myra Freeman had already been done. If the killer had her, she was already dead, but if it were an accomplice there was a chance — a faint chance — that she had merely been kidnaped. If she were still living, haste and violence on the part of the police would only serve as her death warrant. Her abductor would be forced to slay her to protect himself.
To attempt to trace her, with all the city to search, was a futile task. Wollson would have a policeman on every corner, would not neglect to keep Voticelli’s headquarters under close surveillance. Search it he would dare not, for the same reasons that restrained Doyle. To save the girl the forces of the underworld must be taken in flank, their alliance with the killer broken up.
How long Doyle stayed in the rain he never knew. Perhaps not longer than five minutes, but into them he crammed the mental effort of a year. He was limp, exhausted, when he called the Herald office and got Bill Peck.
Bleakly Doyle related the latest sensation in the case. The excitement of the reporter who cried that the news deserver another extra, and who yelled for the night editor to listen in, left the detective cold. He was willing to give the news that would sell a lot of papers, but he was doing it so that the Herald might be more willing to do a favor for him.