Grasping his automatic, without waiting to draw on his coat, he had dashed out of the shack, down one rickety stairway, up another, and raced. By good chance he had run squarely into a police squad car.
“Step on the gas, Mike!” he shouted, springing into the car. “East on Grand, then north on Lake Shore. Something gone wrong at the broadcasting studio!”
The motor purred, the gong sounded as they were away at sixty miles an hour.
“Heard it,” Mike shouted above the din. “Guess your young friend dropped his ‘mike’!”
“Worse than that,” Drew came back. “I’ve heard that happen. This was different. Worse! Ten times worse!”
That he was telling the truth you already know.
And that was how it happened that Drew and the squad appeared on the scene, exactly six minutes after the destroyer had completed his work of demolition.
“Hey! What’s this? Who’s here?” bellowed Mike O’Hearne, the head of the squad, drawing his revolver and leading the way.
“He—he’s gone!” The terrified operator rose shakily.
“Who’s gone?”