Hot Music

In one of the broadcasting rooms of Station KYK a famous dance band was setting up its instruments preparatory to a half hour’s entertainment. The players were laughing and joking, with no need for silence. The power had been switched to a little room overhead where Officer Dave Cates, official police announcer, was holding forth in code to police details all over the great city.

“Nothing further has been done by those in authority about the addition of fifty new plain-clothes men to the force,” Cates said into the microphone. “Headquarters is inquiring into the matter, however, and may be expected to give out more information at any time.”

All of which meant to the listening ears of the police:

“There have been no more developments in the Van Goss jewelry robbery of two weeks ago. Headquarters is planning to assign more men to the case.”

This was the job of Dave Cates, who was listed on the books as an officer solely because of his connection with the department. He was a verbal messenger boy, conveying the reports and orders of headquarters over the air to the police details of the city. Because plenty of red blood flowed through the small body of Officer Cates the job sometimes got very tiresome.

If only he could go out on such a case as the Van Goss robbery, he would find the action he craved. Then again, the solving of such a case with its monetary reward would bring his dream that much nearer; a dream intimately concerned with a hazel-eyed, laughing little dancer and a white, green-shuttered bungalow with a forty-foot garden plot out back.

Probably Anabelle Talbot was listening in to him now. She usually did every evening before she went out to the Salon Quintesse to dance to the music of Leo Archer’s famous band.

Cates sighed and glanced at the electric clock on the wall. “There is yet five minutes of time remaining to us,” he announced, “but since there doesn’t seem to be any more----”

He stopped suddenly. Some one had come hurriedly into the little telephone room and was talking in excited, petulant tones.

“A woman,” Cates murmured. “Now what the deuce does she want up here?” Louder, he said, “Please stand by for one moment.” Then he stepped into the telephone room.

A young woman was firing questions at the harassed telephone operator. Her clothes, her manner and her intonation, told Cates that she was a woman of culture and apparent wealth.

With her was a man in his early thirties. Tall, lean, handsome, with a cynical mouth and a complexion that tended to the sallow, Cates recognized him instantly as Leo Archer, leader of the dance band which was waiting below.

Archer was leaning indolently against the door, obviously bored by the proceedings. He stifled a yawn as Cates looked at him.

“Here he is now,” grumbled the operator, “S’pose you talk to him.”

The young woman turned swiftly. “You are Mr. Cates, the police radio announcer?” she asked.

“Yes.” Cates noticed that her face was white and distracted, that her lips were trembling. He failed however to see that first faint look of surprise in her eyes.

It was difficult for most radio listeners to reconcile Dave Cates’ rich, golden voice with his small, stocky body, his sandy hair and his freckled face.

“Yes, I’m Cates,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh!” Her exclamation was part sob. “I--I came up to tell you that I have just been robbed of a very valuable necklace and two diamond rings. I thought you might broadcast it to the police. That seemed better than--than----” Her voice trailed away.