Free Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

looked around. The chief glanced into
the other room and then back at the stairs.
    â€œCollins!” he called.
“Where are you?”
    The torn loudspeaker
crackled for a moment and then was still. The chief stared at it, and then his
keen eyes caught the almost invisible strands of wire which led from its back
along the wall and under the closet door. He stepped to the place where they
disappeared and threw back the door.
    Motioning one of the
officers to follow him, he entered and lifted Collins by the shoulders. The
policemen picked up the limp legs and together they carried him to the
upholstered chair.
    As he sank back into
the cushions, Collins opened his eyes. “I see you got my message.” He smiled up
at the gruff chief’s face which was creased with wonder.

    Flame spurted from the machine gun. The impact
of bullets hurled the gangster’s body to the floor.
    â€œYes!” returned the
chief. “You bet I did. How you got it to me I don’t know, but I do know that
you’ve done a wonderful night’s work.”
    Collins opened his
clutched hand. In it lay the two tiny microphones, and away from it ran the
small strands of copper wire.
    â€œIt was just luck,” he
said weakly. “I finished these yesterday. Meant to have some fun with them at
home by hooking them to our receiving set there. And when I came away from
headquarters I took everything that belonged to me. Mainly these and some of
this coil wire.”
    â€œYes!” stammered the
chief. “But how in the name of blazes did you get them hooked up?”
    â€œGot loose while I was
alone in the room, snapped them onto the sets. Meant to send the message right
then, but I didn’t have time. Why I attached this to the receiving set I don’t
know. Guess it was just because it was built for a receiving set.
    â€œWhen I woke up in the
closet I heard them talking and discovered these things in my pocket.” He
looked up at the chief, his drawn face was full of expectancy. “Listen. See
that squad car map and that broadcasting set? There’s your mystery of the
unrecorded calls. They came from that set, and Tascori,” he jerked his thumb at
the prostrate body, “imitated my voice and gave out orders in the lull of
headquarters’ announcements. That’s the answer. Listen, Chief, do I get my old
job back?”
    â€œDo you get your job
back!” The chief started to slap Collins on the shoulder and then recalled that
the man was injured. He changed the slap to a gentle pat.
    â€œMy boy, you can have
the whole police force for this night’s work! Come on, now we’ve got to get you
to a doctor.”

The Grease Spot

THE GREASE SPOT
    T HE battered phonograph horn which served as a loudspeaker on the
grimed wall rasped out the police message.
    â€œCalling Car Seventy-five. Calling Car Seventy-five.
Proceed to Tenth and Lynch Boulevard and investigate report of wreck.”
    Bill Milan uncoiled an incredible pair of long legs and
stood up, reaching for his hat. His fat mechanic, Joe Pagett, scowled.
    â€œYou ain’t going, are you, Bill?” growled Pagett.
    â€œSure I am. Don’t think I’m scared, do you?”
    â€œNo. Sure you ain’t scared, Bill. But just the same,
when the bulls tell us that it means a year in the can, I’m thinkin’ it ain’t
such a shiny idea to answer those wreck calls.”
    â€œWell, we’ve got to keep in business, haven’t we?”
    Joe Pagett nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got to keep in business,
but just the same, I don’t think the cops were fooling when they told us to lay
off their private radio system. The chief sounded pretty sore.”
    Bill Milan slapped his hat on a head of tangled blond
hair and grinned.
    â€œIt’s worth the chance anyway, isn’t it? If we don’t
pick up all the wreck business we can get, Bill Milan’s Wrecker, Inc., is going
to go all-fired