  A heavy fog had come sweeping in from the lake. Lights from street lamps glowed dimly like great, bleary eyes. Store windows were mere blankets of pale white light. Jimmie Drury hated fog. He was thinking as he crossed the Madison Street bridge: “Perhaps the devil is a monster breathing out fire, but when his fires are banked he must breathe out cold, gray fog which is worse. He——” Just then the thing happened. A shadowy figure stepped from behind a steel girder of the bridge. A husky voice said: “As you are!” Jimmie’s figure went rigid. Involuntarily his right hand gripped something hard and round in his right side pocket. Something struck his chest. There was a blinding flash. Then Jimmie went down like an empty sack and out like a match. When he came to he found himself the center of a curious group surrounded by fog. A policeman was bending over him. His first sensation was one of surprise that he was still alive. Then, like an electric shock, a thought came to him: “Did—did he get it?” he stammered. His hand went to his belt. “No,” he answered his own question, “he didn’t get it. But did I get him? That’s the question.” “Poor dear,” sighed a bespectacled old lady at the edge of the crowd, “he must be delirious. It’s the shock.” “Back, all of you,” the policeman interrupted her. “Give him air.” “Fog, you mean,” Jimmie laughed. “I—I’m all right, officer. I—” He tried to rise but sank back dizzily. “Take it easy,” the officer advised. “Officer,” said Jimmie, “do you know Tom Howe?” “Tommy Howe, that keen young detective? Who of the force don’t know him?” The officer laughed hoarsely. “Get him on the phone at the State Street Station right away if you can.” Jimmie’s tone was eager, tense with excitement. “It—it’s terribly important. Tell him to meet me at the Daily Press offices. By the elevator, sixth floor.” “And who shall I say you might be?” inquired the officer. “Jimmie Drury. You must know my father,” the boy replied eagerly. “He’s Howard Drury,——” “Chief sports editor of the Press. Sure, I know him. And you’re his son, right enough. The resemblance is plain. Right, my lad—But, say!” the policeman’s tone changed. “Don’t I get in on this? It was me that found you. Don’t forget that.” “Sure! Oh, sure you do!” Jimmy exclaimed. “And now,” he strove again to rise, “with you—your help I can walk.” “Right! Up you come. And now, clear out, all of you!” The officer waved a hand at the crowd that, like a fade-out in the movies, vanished into the fog. “All—all right, we’re off.” Jimmie swayed dizzily, then, with the grip of a strong hand on his arm, made his way slowly back across the bridge. At the far side of the bridge they halted for a moment at a call-box. “What did you say your name was?” asked the officer absent-mindedly. “Jimmie Drury, of the Press.” “Ah, yes, of the Press,” the officer mumbled. Then, into the receiver, “That you, Mike? This is Denny Sullivan. And is Tom Howe there? He is? That’s good. Put him on the wire.” There was a moment’s wait during which Jimmie ran his fingers carefully over something black and hard hanging at his belt, then indulged in a sigh of satisfaction. “That you, Tom?” the officer boomed. “This is Denny Sullivan.” “Yes, Denny.” “Say. There’s a boy here. I picked him up on the bridge a bit ago. Says you’re to come to the Press offices, sixth floor by the elevator. What do you know about that?” “His name? Why, it’s Jimmie Drury.” “What’s that? Oh, you will? You’ll be over at once? That’s good.” “What do you know about that?” Denny Sullivan exclaimed as he hung up. “Tom says he’ll be right over.” “I knew he would,” Jimmie smiled. “Well, we’ll be getting on up,” said the officer. “Give me your arm.” Passing through double doors, they made their way up an inclined runway, crossed a long corridor, turned right, caught an elevator and were whisked away to the sixth floor. There, after passing down one more corridor, they came to a large room where desks, chairs, and typewriters of all descriptions loomed out of the darkness of the place. On their approach a tall, slender man rose slowly from his place beside a bank of telephones. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s you, Jimmie. And,” with a laugh, “pinched again! What did he do this time, Denny?” He turned to the officer. “Went out like a bad electric bulb,” said the officer. “And no cause at all, unless it was a sudden flash of light. “You see,” Denny went on, “I had just reached the bridge when that flash came. First I thought it might be a shot. But there was no sound. I made a dash for it. And there was this boy. I——” “It was that man!” Jimmie, no longer able to control himself, broke in. “The one they call the Silent Terror.” “The Silent Terror! No!” John Nightingale, the young reporter stared. “It couldn’t have been!” “But it was! I just got a glimpse of him,” Jimmie insisted. “He said, ‘As you are!’ I felt something hit my chest, not very hard and I thought, ‘I’ve been hit. Perhaps I’m going to die.’ Then everything faded.” “But the bright light?” said John. “Oh, that—that was my idea.” Jimmie grew excited. “You know I’ve been experimenting in every sort of way with my candid camera.” “Yes, I know. You——” “Last thing I tried,” Jimmie broke in, “I hung the camera on my belt with a flat flash-light beside it. I put a flash bulb in the light. Then I connected up an electric push button that would open the camera and shoot off the flash all at the same time.” “And I suppose,” John Nightingale drawled, “that you went right out and hunted up this Silent Terror and said, ‘Beg pardon. Let me take your picture.’” “No! No! It wasn’t like that,” Jimmie laughed. “That was an accident; what father would call a ‘fortunate coincidence.’” “But you were ready for him,” John insisted. “That’s foresight.” “I was ready for anything interesting that might happen ten feet from where I stood. But think!” Jimmie grew excited again. “I may have the picture of the Silent Terror right here in my little candid camera. Won’t that be something.” “It will indeed,” said John Nightingale, visibly impressed. “But here is Tom Howe, the ace detective.” His voice changed. “What do you know, Tom? Our young cub reporter has met the Silent Terror face to face, and lives to tell the story.” “What!” said Tom Howe, who, save for his deep-set, piercing eyes, looked little the part of a detective. “And he thinks he took his picture,” the reporter added. “If he did,” Tom said soberly, “he has done a real service to his city. We’ve got to get that man and get him quick. At present, in some way quite unknown to us, he is putting people to sleep at a distance and robbing them on the streets. But criminals are never satisfied. In time he will double the dose, whatever it is, and his victims will never come to life. It is always that way with crime.” “But how about the picture?” he demanded, turning eagerly to Jimmie. “It—it’s not developed yet,” Jimmie stammered. “Come on. We’re in luck,” the reporter exclaimed. “Scottie just went back to the darkroom. Took some pictures of the fight out at the park—to illustrate your father’s write-up, you know,” he explained to Jimmie. “He just went back to develop them. Come on, we’ll all go back to the dark room.” “What’s all this?” put in a soft feminine voice. “Oh, hello, Mary Dare,” John Nightingale exclaimed. “Been doing night life in the great city?” “Out on a show that somebody thought should be exposed.” The young, red-headed lady reporter, who looked little more than a girl, laughed merrily. “But what’s the big excitement?” “Jimmie thinks he got a picture of the Silent Terror with his candid camera,” John explained. “Come on back with us and we’ll watch this Silent Terror come out on the film.” And so the five of them marched toward the magic dark room of a great city newspaper where many a picture destined to condemn a guilty man to the electric chair or set an innocent one free has first seen the red glow of the photographer’s magic lamp. |
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