The Arm of the Law

he chief engineer of one of the larger Chicago broadcasting stations was only trying to be a good fellow when he engaged the nervous young violinist in conversation. He didn't know that potentially he was saving a man's life.

The violinist was Dr Philip Weintraub, a clever young Chicago dental surgeon with a musical bent who was making his debut over the station that night. The engineer noticed his tension and tried to help by talking casually about anything that came to mind. He mentioned his amateur radio station.

"It seemed pretty much like a postman's holiday to me at first," said Dr Weintraub later, "but then he began to explain some of the varied and enticing phases of his hobby. Within half an hour the bug bit; I, too, would be a ham."

It turned out that of the two careers launched that night, radio and music, the ham radio one was the more successful. After a time in which Philip Weintraub struggled grimly with the elusive "dits" and "dahs" of the radiotelegraph code he finally found himself seated between a jolly little man of sixty and a boy of thirteen in the Chicago office of what was then the Federal Radio Commission, waiting for his official code test. In due course his license arrived, and the powerful station he had installed in his penthouse apartment made its baptismal transmission.

Simultaneously there appeared a radio widow in the Weintraub household. At first Evelyn Weintraub was a bit annoyed when her husband spent so much time with his new hobby. But soon she, too, became interested and in time even learned to tune the receiver.

As for Philip Weintraub, it seemed he couldn't get enough radio. Not content with operating outside office hours, he installed a second, smaller, station in his office. There he would make an occasional contact at odd moments. Often his wife would be listening to him on the home-station receiver.

It was this station he was operating one cold Thursday evening in late January. At home Evelyn Weintraub was sitting by the fireplace listening.

"I'll be a little late for dinner tonight," he had said as he left that morning. "Want to try out the new speech amplifier."

"Oh? And what will I be doing? Waiting for you while dinner gets stone cold?" Evelyn was dark haired, with a sultry beauty that glowed with the effort to be stern. But there was a teasing note in her voice that belied her scolding words, and her husband only smiled with quiet affection.

"You'll be sitting here listening to me as usual," he said, kissing her. As he went to the door he called, "I should be through by eight o'clock. Don't forget to listen!"

At seven twenty-five Phil Weintraub sat down at the operating position and began twisting the dial of his receiver. The large office building was almost deserted. Down in the street the life of the city moved along, its smoke and steam rising in the still, cold air. Inside a few late workers hastened to finish their daily chores. An occasional straggler or two lingered in the solitary corridors.

A voice moved smoothly into the loudspeaker. "CQ--CQ--CQ," Phil heard. "Hello CQ--calling CQ. This is W9JJF calling CQ."

Weintraub smiled with satisfaction. Here was his chance to try out with the new rig. Everything was "on the nose"! The final adjustments had all been made. The new speech amplifier possessed tremendous gain; with it full on he could modulate the transmitter from all the way across the room.

W9JFF said, "Go ahead," and Phil threw the switch. For a brief minute he spoke into the microphone and then stood by. There was the Iowa station all ready to talk with him.

"Good evening, old man," W9JFF said. "Thanks for the call. Your signals are coming in here QSA 5 R 9 this evening--very fine business indeed."

They exchanged greetings, reports, and had just reached the usual topic of weather when there was a knock at Dr Weintraub's door. "Wait a minute," he said. "I'll have to see who it is. Stand by for just a minute."

Leaving the transmitter running and the microphone alive, he rose and swung open the office door. Two men stepped in, two particularly tough and dangerous-looking men with guns in their hands, guns that were pointed straight at the dentist's stomach.

"Put up your hands," the larger of the two ordered thickly. Phil noticed through his astonishment that this one, older and more heavily built than the other, was the leader. The second man was nervous, even afraid. The big fellow pushed his way into the room forcing Weintraub against the desk.

After the first moment of stunned astonishment Phil's mind began to function again. "I don't keep money here in the office," he said. "It's all gone to the bank."

"Shut up!" the bandit snarled. "Are you alone here?"

"Yes, I am, but-----"

"O.K. Hold still." He pushed his gun into the doctor's ribs and ran a hand swiftly over his clothing. He found Weintraub's wallet in an inside cost pocket and with one motion transferred it to his own.

The gunman spoke to his companion. "Look in that box there," he said, nodding toward a green cashbox lying on the desk. "See if there is anything in it."

The younger man's hand shook as he reached for the box. His face was white, and his lips were taut with fear. He was badly frightened.

"Don't be scared, Joe," the older gunman encouraged him. "This guy can't hurt you. See, I got him covered." And Weintraub flinched with pain as the bandit shoved the muzzle of the pistol hard into his abdomen.

The kid was young, and his face was weak. He plunged his hand into the cashbox, but all it contained was a few stamps.

"You can have 'em," the older thug grunted. He emptied Weintraub's pocketbook onto the table.

"Why, you--------" he roared. "All you got here is five bucks!"

"I told you I didn't have any money here," the dentist replied steadily.

"Why, for a plugged nickel I'd--------" He raised the gun threateningly. "But that ain't what we came for anyway. Where do you keep your gold?"

"My gold? What do you mean---gold?"

"The stuff you fill teeth with, ya dope." The bandit's eyes were tight with strain.

"I haven't any left--it's all used up," Weintraub replied anxiously.

"Stop stalling! Come on--give. Where is it?"

"I tell you I haven't got any more. See, the cabinet's empty." The cabinet was hastily ransacked, but there was nothing there.

"You----- I'm gonna give it to you!" the gunman grated. The muzzle of his gun jerked up, and Weintraub saw death in those piggish eyes.

Then the younger hoodlum edged forward. "No, Joe, not that. D-don't do that. We---we done enough already. Come on, let's get out of here."

"We-ell, O.K.," the leader acceded unwillingly. "But we gotta tie this guy up first. Here, give me a hand."

There was a sharp curse, scuffling, a thud. . . .

The sensitive microphone, still running, picked up the noises; through the amplifier and out over the air they went as had all that had gone on before. W9JFF, frantic but impotent, listened with his heart pounding madly. Evelyn Weintraub sat numb with horror as the action moved swiftly forward.

The sounds of the struggle subsided. The harsh voice of the leader, breathing hard, was heard again. "Lock him in that closet."

"What if he croaks in there?" asked another, a husky, uncertain voice.

"Let him croak," was the answer. "Let's get out of here."

But Evelyn Weintraub was not hearing that. Into her horror had pierced the thought that her husband needed her, that at any minute she might hear a shot that would mean his life. With that thought her muscles worked again. She ran to the telephone, dialed the police. The call went to the squad cars. "Calling Car 16. . . . Calling Car 16. . . . Holdup at 3860 West Harrison Street. . . ."

It was after seven o'clock on a cold evening in January, but there were crowds on the street. There are always crowds on the streets in Chicago, worldly-wise, incurious folk, impervious to surprise. But that evening the crowd stopped and stared in amazement. For down the street, running madly, they saw a young woman without a coat or hat but with an expression of horror on her face.

Around the corner to West Harrison she ran, around the entrance at 3860. Then up the stairs she flew, outdistancing the police. The office door was open, the office itself deserted. She leaned against the desk for a moment, regaining her breath. Then she saw the closet door. It was locked, and the key was gone. Inside there was a faint scraping. "He's in there!" she screamed, and wrenched frantically at the doorknob. Her futile fists were hammering desperatlely at the door panels when a pounding of feet sounded outside, and two squad-car patrolmen dashed in.

It was a matter of moments before the door of the airtight closet came off its hinges. The gag and the ropes were removed, and Weintraub, already half suffocated, gasped air back into his lungs.

"Where are they?" he demanded when he could talk again. But the bandits were gone; they had ransacked the office and disappeared.

"You'd be a widow right now if you hadn't heard those holdup men and reported it," the police sergeant told Evelyn Weintraub. She was still sobbing softly from the fear and shock that had gripped her but she lifted her head then to smile thankfully at her husband.

Dr Philip Weintraub smiled back. Then his eyes shifted to the gleaming microphone perched alertly on its slim stand. He walked, a bit unsteadily, to the operating table. "W9SZW signing off and clear with W9JFF. Good night, old man."

His fingers reached down, and he threw the big switch.