The Voice on the Wire | Page 9

Two men
pounced upon him in a twinkling--only his great strength, acquired
through the football years, saved him from immediate defeat. His head
throbbed, and he was dizzy as he caught the wrist of the nearest
assailant with a quick twist which resulted in a sudden, sickening
crunch. The man groaned in agony, but his companion kicked with
heavy-shod feet at the prostrate man. Shirley's left hand duplicated the
vice-like grip upon the ankle of the standing assailant, and his deftness
caused another tendon strain! Both men toppled to the ground, now,
and before they realized it Shirley had reversed the advantage. His
automatic emphasized his superiority of tactics. He understood their
silence, broken only by muted groans: they feared the police, even as
did he, although for different reasons. He "frisked" the man nearest him
upon the ground, and captured deftly the rascal's weapon: then he
sprang up covering the twain.
"Get up! Youse guys is poachin' in de wrong district--dis belongs to de
Muggins gang. I'll fix youse guys fer buttin' in. Up, dere!" His hands
went into his coat pockets, but the men knew that they were still
pointing at them, the gunman's "cover" as it is called. They staggered
sullenly to their feet. He beckoned with his head, toward the front of
the lot. They followed the silent instructions, one limping while his
mate wrung the injured wrist in agony.
Directly before the lot stood a throbbing, empty automobile. Shirley
decided to take another car--he could not guard them and drive at the
same time.
"Down to Fift' Avnoo," he ordered. "I got two guns--not a woid from
youse!" His erstwhile amiable physiognomy, now gnarled into an
unrecognizable mask of low villainy bespoke his desperate earnestness.
The men obeyed. This was apparently a gangster, of gangsters--their
fear of the dire vengeance of a rival organization of cut-throats instilled
an obedience more humble than any other threats.
Toward the Park side they advance, one leaning heavily upon the other.
Shirley, his broad shoulders hunched up; with the collar drawn high

about his neck, the murderous looking cap down over his eyes,
followed them doggedly.
A big limousine was speeding down the Avenue from some homing
theater party. Shirley hailed it with an authoritive yell which caused the
chauffeur to put on a quick brake.
"Git out dere,--no gun play. Up inter dat car!" he added, as they
approached the machine.
"Say, what you drivin' at?" cried the driver, queruously. "Is this a
hold-up?" It was a puzzling moment, but the criminologist's calm
bravado saved the situation: as luck would have it no policemen were
in sight, to spoil the maneuver.
"No," and he assumed a more natural voice and dialect. "I'm a detective.
These men were just house-breaking, and I got them. There's
twenty-five dollars in it for you, if you take us down to the Holland
Detective Agency, in ten minutes."
"He's kiddin' ye, feller," snapped out one man.
"Don't fall fen him, yen boob!" sung out the other.
But Shirley's automatic now appeared outside the coat pocket. The
chauffeur realized that here was serious gaming. With his left hand
Shirley jerked out the ever ready police card and fire badge, which
seemed official enough to satisfy the driver.
"Quick now, or I'll run you in, too, for refusing to obey an officer. You
men climb into that back seat. Driver, beat it now to Thirty-nine West
Forty Street, if you need that twenty-five dollars. I'll sit with them. I
don't want any interference so I can come back and nab the rest of their
gang."
His authoritative manner convinced this new ally, and he climbed into
the car, facing his prisoners, with the two weapons held down below
the level of the windows. Pedestrians and other motorists little recked

what strange cargo was borne as the car raced down the broad
thoroughfare.
In nine minutes they drew up before the Holland Agency, a darkened,
brown front house of ancient architecture. The chauffeur sprang out to
swing back the door.
"Go up the steps, and tell the doorman that Captain Cronin wants two
men to bring down their guns and handcuffs and get two prisoners.
Quick!"
The street was not empty, even at this hour. Yet the passersby did not
realize the grim drama enacted inside the waiting machine. Hours
seemed to pass before Cronin's men returned with the driver, as much
surprised by the three strange faces within the machine, as he had been.
"You take these men upstairs and keep them locked up," bluntly
commanded the criminologist. "They're nabbed on the new case of the
Captain's which started to-night, I'm going over to Bellevue to see
him." His voice was still disguised, his features twisted even yet.
The men gave him a curious glance, and then