It was enough. Without willing to do so, she screamed. It was such a long-drawn, piercing scream as one utters but once or twice in a lifetime.
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, under quite different circumstances, Johnny and Sergeant McCarthey were discussing their latest problem, the derelict from New York.
“Has he told you how it all came about?” Johnny asked.
“No. He won’t tell that. What’s the use? He knows I am a detective. He knows I know all that’s worth knowing.”
“Someone has told you?”
“No. They never need to. I’ve seen it before; too often. Too often!” Sergeant McCarthey’s tones were sad. For some time he said no more. When he did speak it was with the voice of one who has resolved to tell much.
“You’re young, son,” he began. “You don’t know a great deal about this business of hunting down criminals. You heard Mills say there were no stool pigeons used in that kidnapping case we solved?”
Johnny nodded.
“To me that remark was significant. He hates stool pigeons. Everyone does. A stool pigeon is a person who, for pay or for immunity from arrest for some crime he has committed, tells on some other person.