And so was the challenge of organized gangdom caught up and hurled back by a stocky, freckle-faced officer, who was more than willing to prove himself.
Calmly he continued with the various messages. That he was no longer broadcasting in code, the police knew by his utterance of the word, “classified.”
These items were numerous. A lady had lost a tan-and-white collie dog somewhere between 13th Street and Southland Road, and would pay a substantial reward to any one returning the dog.
A young man in a gray suit was now at headquarters awaiting identification. The young man was a victim of amnesia—didn’t know his own name or anything about himself.
Finally, some heartless crook had stolen the pocketbook of an old man who was on his way from Maine to California to see his dying daughter. Any small contributions that would help to put the old man on his journey would be welcomed.
Then Dave Cates glanced at the electric clock on the wall, above the green light.
“And so this brings to an end our broadcast for this evening,” he concluded. “This is the police division of station KYK signing off at exactly eight thirty. Good night.”
Cates stuffed the sheets of paper into his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and went out to the elevator.
The elevator boy grinned admiringly. “Evenin’, Mr. Cates,” he said. “I heard you broadcast three nights ago. Gee, it must be swell to be an announcer, and have nothin’ to do but talk.”
Officer Cates grinned. “It might be worse, Billy,” he admitted. “Yes, it might be a whole lot worse.” To himself he added, “And it might be a heck of a lot better.”