  Jimmie had experienced many a thrill watching his pictures come into being on the shiny film, but never such a one as this. “So much depends upon it,” he thought as a chill ran up his spine. And much did; the fate of a man gone wrong, the safety and happiness of many he might yet spring upon unsuspectedly in the night; yes, perhaps the very lives of some might depend upon that picture. How eagerly, then, the five of them waited as Scottie rattled paper, held the white ribbon of film to the light, then began moving it dexterously through the developing solution. Hushed silence followed. Jimmie was thinking, “What sort of person is this Silent Terror? Is he short or tall, dark or light? Will he be masked? How are we to know him? What distinguishing mark does he bear that will brand him for the future? What——” “Why, Jimmie!” Scottie broke in upon his thoughts, “there’s nothing on this ribbon of yours!” “Noth—nothing,” Jimmie stammered. Then, excitedly, “Yes, sure there is. Just one picture! There at the end. It—it’s coming through!” “So it is!” said Scottie. At once he devoted all his attention to that end of the film. “Think of wasting a whole film on one little picture,” Scottie murmured. “Money well spent,” put in Tom Howe. “There’s a thousand dollar reward on that man’s head.” Eagerly they crowded together for a look as Scottie held the tiny square to the light. “He’s there!” John Nightingale whispered. “There!” Mary Dare echoed. “Wait,” cautioned Scottie the veteran. Many a picture had he seen go wrong in the making. Sensing the tense excitement about him and consumed by a desire to tease a little, Scottie held the film in the solution for what to the watchers seemed an endless period of time. “There,” he drew a long breath at last. “She should be done to a turn.” Holding the film up with one hand, he examined it through a large magnifying glass. “Jimmie! Jimmie!” he exclaimed. “I might have known it! You got only his ear. Why in time didn’t you ask the gentleman to turn around?” The laugh that followed was mirthless. Scottie had wanted to see Jimmie succeed. “An ear!” Jimmie murmured. “An ear!” Mary repeated. “Must be a profile,” said John hopefully. “Nope. See for yourselves,” Scottie held out the glass. “Only an ear.” “More than that,” said Tom Howe after a look. “There’s a shoulder and the back of the neck. There’s as much character shown in a man’s neck as in the shape of his nose. “And that ear!” he exclaimed after a closer look. “It’s priceless, that picture. There’s not another ear in the world like it. Jimmie, allow me to congratulate you.” He gripped the boy’s hand tightly. “All right,” sighed Scottie. “Since it’s important we’ll wash it, then put it in the fixin’ bath and make it permanent.” “And, Scottie,” Tom Howe put in eagerly, “just as soon as you can, make me an enlargement, big as the negative will stand. Will you?” “It’s a good, sharp negative,” Scottie admitted. “Though how that happened with a boy shooting with a pill box from the hip, I can’t see. Your enlargement will be ready first thing in the morning, Tom.” “I’ll be here bright and early,” Tom turned to go. The others followed him out into the dim, religious light characteristic of the editorial room of a great newspaper at night. “I’m sorry the picture wasn’t better,” Jimmie said as Tom Howe came out from the dark room. “You need not be.” Tom fixed his deep-set piercing eyes upon him. Tom was short and slender, yet there was that about his eyes which told each new-comer that here was a person not to be trifled with. “You got his ear and the back of his neck,” he went on. “That’s a lot. You might have got a bullet,” he added soberly. “That was a novel and daring thing to do, shooting a picture from the belt.” “But only an ear,” Jimmie protested. “What can you tell by that?” “Much,” said Tom. “Ears are neglected by most detectives. I have made a sort of specialty of them. Come over to my room and I’ll show you my collection of ears.” “Collection of ears?” Jimmie was shocked. “Oh, I don’t keep them in alcohol.” Tom laughed. “They’re not real, though they seem so at a little distance. You’ll find them interesting. Come at noon and we’ll have lunch together.” “That—Say! That will be grand!” said Jimmie. “Here’s the address,” Tom pressed a bit of cardboard into his hand. “Go up as far as the elevator will take you, climb two flights of stairs, knock sharply three times, wait sixty seconds, then knock again. If you get no response, turn and walk down again,” Tom laughed shortly, “for I’ll either be dead or shall have forgotten an appointment, neither of which has happened in five years. “And now,” he put out a hand, “good-night and thanks for letting me in on this.” “That’s all right,” Jimmie stammered. To be thanked by a truly famous young detective, that was something. Jimmie passed his father’s office on the way back. A green shade drawn over his eyes, he was pounding furiously at the typewriter keys. “Be ready in twenty minutes,” his head jerked back for a second. “We’ll make the train O. K.” Once again his eyes, behind thick glasses, were fixed on his pencilled copy. “Wonder if he knows,” thought Jimmie. He was thinking of his night’s experience. “John,” he said, after retracing his steps to the reporter’s desk, “you won’t put my name in the story?” “It would make a peach of a story,” John laughed low. “Can’t you see it? Boy—candid-camera bug—shooting from the hip—gets picture of the Silent Terror.” “Yes, but you won’t use it.” It was Tom Howe who suddenly broke in upon their talk. He had retraced his steps to discuss this very thing. “We can’t let him know we have his picture, not just yet,” he went on. “Might scare this Terror off. And we must get that man!” “Oh! All right.” With a sigh the reporter crumpled a paper in his hand. “A word from the voice of the law is all that’s needed.” “Wish there were more like you.” Tom put a hand on his shoulder. “Many a catch has been thwarted by a newspaper story released too soon. When we get that man you’ll have first chance at the story, you have my word for it.” “Thanks, old man.” John slouched down over his desk to take up once more the task of answering phone calls about a saloon brawl, a pick-pocket in the park, and some young drunks who had rammed their car into a viaduct. “Such,” he sighed, “is a reporter’s life.” As for Jimmie, he was vastly relieved. “Let that story get into the paper,” he thought, “and let mother read it and my career as a ‘rising young newspaper man’ will be at an end.” His mother was “afraid for him.” That was her way of expressing it. Jimmie was fond of his mother but he did not like to have her be afraid. Beside his father in a seat of the suburban train Jimmie glanced sidewise twice. Then he realized that his father knew all about the affair at the bridge. Someone had told him the whole story. “Father, that—” he cleared his throat, “that was what you’d say is in the nature of an accident.” “Yes,” his father seemed to agree, “an accident.” “Might have happened to anyone,” Jimmie went on, greatly encouraged. “Just anyone,” said his father. “It won’t be in the paper?” “No.” “Father, promise that you won’t tell mother. You won’t tell her, will you?” There was a note of anxiety in the boy’s voice. “No. I think not.” “Then——” “Then you will be able to continue your work? Is that it?” His father smiled. “Yes, I——” “Son,” his father broke in, “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that you should go on. You may in time make a worth-while contribution to the safety of this city’s people with your candid camera.” “Look out there!” He pointed to row after row of flat buildings speeding past them. “People live out there. Thousands and thousands of simple, kindly people. Hardly one of them feels perfectly at ease and safe. Why? Because criminals are free to roam the city streets. “As I look at it,” his tone was serious, “it is the duty of each one of us to do what he can to make those people safe. “I don’t want you to get yourself injured or killed. No father wants that. But I also don’t want you to grow up soft—to be afraid. I want you to be brave, strong. You can never be that until you have faced real dangers. Don’t be fool-hardy or reckless, but when an opportunity for a real service presents itself don’t be afraid to step in.” “Thanks. Oh, thanks,” Jimmie stammered. What he was thinking was, “I’ve got a real dad.” At that same hour John Nightingale and Mary Dare, the red-headed lady reporter, sat at a table in a basement eatshop drinking coffee and discussing Jimmie. “What sort of a boy is this Jimmie Drury?” Mary asked. “Oh, just another boy,” John drawled. “John!” Mary’s voice rose, “you know that’s not true. No boy is just another boy. What sort of boy is he?” “Wa—al,” John grinned, “he won a baseball game once. That was in his grade school days. Regular Jack Armstrong finish, it was.” “Tell me about it.” “Well, then, let me,” John grumbled. “It was the end of a series. Jimmie’s team was playing off a tie with the Holmes school for the championship. No end of excitement, you know. Last half of the ninth inning, score tied, seven and seven. Two men out and Jimmie up to bat and——” With a slow grin overspreading his thin face, John paused to lift his cup for a good long draw at the coffee. “John!” Mary stamped her foot. “Oh, yes,” John pretended to start. “Of course. What does Jimmie do but swat a home-run into the tall grass? And after running the bases what did he do?” “What?” “Kept right on running. Streaked it for home.” “Why?” “Far as I can figure it out he didn’t want anybody making a fuss over him.” “Splendid!” exclaimed Mary. “Jimmie’s popular in high school,” John went on. “And yet, I’m sure he never tried for popularity. He likes doing things, all sorts of things. If this makes him popular that’s O. K. with Jimmie. If it doesn’t, that’s O. K. too. “He was outstanding as a basketball star on his team,” he went on after ordering another cup of coffee. “But I’ll swear you’d never guess it to see him play. He didn’t do any dancing about, not a useless motion, but every now and again you’d see him have the ball, watch it shoot up and in, then hear the crowd roar. You can’t make much out of a kid like that,” he ended with a drawl. “No,” Mary agreed. “But in the end he’ll make a lot out of himself. You’ll see. I love the way he looks you straight in the eyes. So many boys look all over the lot while you’re looking at them, as if they had something to hide. Nothing like that with Jimmie.” “That’s right,” John agreed. “I look for him to go places and do things. Well,” he rose, “tomorrow’s another day. See you in the morning.” He disappeared through a narrow door that led to the depot and his train. Late as it was when Jimmie at last found himself in bed he did not fall asleep at once. The new wine of adventure had set his blood on fire. He had tried something strange. It had worked. “At least,” he thought with a chuckle, “I shot an ear. Next time I’ll do better.” Would he? What was to follow? Would they get their man? And that thousand dollar reward? Who would be the lucky one? He thought of John. John Nightingale, the reporter, was always hard up, always shabby. He borrowed money on Mondays before paydays. Then he thought of Mary Dare. She, too, was poor. She had not been a reporter very long. Her salary was small. What would not the reward do for these? “She’ll get on,” John had said, speaking of Mary, “Dare’s the right name for her. She’s not afraid to tackle anything.” Tom Howe? Well, he didn’t know so much about Tom. But suppose he got the reward himself? Instantly he thought of that telescopic lens, of screens and filters for light and of strange new films that permitted one to take pictures in the pitch dark, without a flash. In the midst of these dreamings he fell asleep. |
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