“Squads attention! Squads 8 and 11 go to 22nd and Wabash. A man robbed there.”
The message was repeated. Then again, quite as if nothing had happened, the violin resumed its lovely melody.
“That’s the way it goes at that station,” said Drew. “Funny part is that the gong sings a sweeter song to us than the violin. It’s a great service, son; a great service.
“Of course in time we’ll have our own station; broadcast the calls on a low wave-length. Only people who get the squad call will be the boys in the squad cars. Know how it works, don’t you?”
“Not very well.”
“Simple enough. Someone reports a robbery, a burglary or what have you, to the police by phone. The report is relayed to headquarters. Headquarters gives it the once over. Is it important? Out it goes on a private wire to the radio station. ‘Hold everything!’ the radio squad report operator signals to the other studio people. Then Whang! Whang! Whang! the report goes out.
“More than forty squads of police, with loud-speakers in the tops of their cars, are listening, waiting. Number 9 is called. The squad car whizzes away. Two minutes later they are there. Burglars have laid down their tools to find themselves staring into the muzzle of an officer’s gun. A bank robber has pulled off a slick daylight affair, only to walk right into the waiting arms of a detective squad summoned by the radio. I tell you it’s great.
“But after all,” his voice dropped, “we’re not getting them very fast, not as fast as we should. It’s the professional criminals we don’t get. We—”
“There! There she goes again!”
Once more the squad call sounded. This time it was the robbery of a store by two men who fled in a green sedan.