  As he rode down town next morning Jimmie carried the precious old camera with the unusual flashlight picture, taken by the trap in the old house, in a case safely strapped over his shoulder. “The way Kentucky mountaineers carry their guns,” he assured himself. “No one can take it from me.” As a thought came to him with sudden shock he whispered, “Glass bubbles.” Then, digging deep in his pocket he brought forth the card of Dr. Amos Andre, the little old chemist who had a laboratory all his own and who was interested in heavy water. “I’ll go and see him as soon as I can,” he told himself. “I am sure he is a man who can be trusted. He’ll be able to tell me whether there’s anything to my theory. And if there is, I’ll take it to Tom Howe.” At that, feeling quite pleased with himself for doing the old gentleman who wanted to know all about heavy water a friendly turn, he folded the card and stowed it carefully away in a small pocket of his coin purse. There it was to remain until what John Nightingale would have called the dramatic moment, had arrived. He was keenly disappointed to find when he reached the office that Scottie had been sent out of town on a special assignment. “Won’t be back until late in the day,” he was told. “One of the other boys will do anything you want done.” “Ho kay,” said Jimmie. But it was not O. K. Not by a long shot. Only Scottie should be entrusted with that precious film. So the camera still hung under his coat while he looked into other matters. Following out a hunch that had come to him the night before, he got Tom Howe on the phone. “Tom,” he said, “you told me about a mysterious tapping. What place was that?” “Not so loud,” Tom cautioned. “Phones sometimes have ears. On Washington between Honore and Hawthorne.” “I’m going over there at the noon-hour,” said Jimmie. “Got a hunch.” “Right,” said Tom. “Let me know what you find out.” The discovery he made in the block on Washington Avenue was startling enough. Hurrying back to the office he begged an hour’s leave of absence. The leave granted, he got Tom on the phone, then raced away to his sky-scraper room. “Tom! Tom!” he exclaimed quite out of breath from climbing the stairs, “Know what? That tapping is in the same block as that fur storage place.” “Sure! I knew that!” Tom smiled. “And a half million dollars worth of fox skins are stored there,” Jimmie breathed. “What? How do you know that?” Tom was on his feet. “I’ll tell you,” said Jimmie. He proceeded to tell his story of the Silver Fox King. “Jimmie, you’re a wonder!” Tom exclaimed. “Beginner’s luck,” Jimmie grinned. “But, Tom!” he demanded, “Don’t you think those crooks are tunneling to get those furs?” “Undoubtedly,” Tom agreed. “They’ll come up through the cement floor of the fur storage vaults, then take the skins out to the alley to load.” “And if a fellow was to be watching at some window across the street he might see how they made the entrance to that tunnel of theirs.” “He might.” “And if there was light, he could get a picture of them.” “At that distance?” “With my telescopic camera.” “Perhaps. But it would be necessary to exercise the greatest care, Jimmie.” Tom was very much in earnest. “We must catch this entire gang with the goods on them. We simply must. We——” He broke off short for at that moment his phone jangled loudly. Jimmie heard him say in a casual tone, “Yes?” Then, excitedly, “That right? Again! Subway to the Washington Street station? I’ll be right down.” “It’s the Silent Terror!” he exclaimed as he dropped the receiver. “He’s struck again. In broad day-light, not five blocks from here.” He reached for his coat. “May I go with you?” Jimmie’s voice rose. “Yes—yes, certainly.” “And may I take this?” Jimmie asked. “Yes, sure.” Tom did not even look. Jimmie dropped a small clothes brush into his pocket. A moment more and they were on their way. At the outer door Jimmie seized a newspaper and threw a nickel at the boy as he ran. They arrived at the subway quite out of breath. A row of blue-coats kept the crowd back, but Tom Howe and Jimmie passed at once. The subway had been cleared. Three policemen stood over a small, gray-haired man who apparently was struggling to regain consciousness. “The—the pay—pay—roll,” he murmured thickly. “Is—is it gone?” “That’s all right,” one of the officers reassured him. “Tell us what happened.” “I—I was taking the pay-roll from the bank when some—something happened. I—I saw a hand. I heard a voice, and—and then I must have had some sort of sinking spell.” “Same old story,” Tom said in a low tone to Jimmie. “The Bubble Man,” Jimmie said. “What’s that?” Jimmie made no reply. “Tom,” Jimmie gripped his arm, “will they mind if I sort of brush around the floor?” “Who? They?” Tom nodded at the officers. “No, I guess not. But why——” “Don’t ask me. I’ll explain later.” Dropping on hands and knees the boy began brushing the floor in a wide circle. He used Tom’s clothes brush. When at last his circle had narrowed to a spot the size of a man’s hat he placed a single square of newspaper on the polished floor of the subway and appeared to brush an invisible something onto the paper. Truth was, his arduous brushing appeared to have caught only three insignificant bits of paper, one of them a fragment of a chewing gum wrapper. “There,” he sighed, as, having folded the bit of newspaper neatly, then wrapped it in another square, he thrust it into his pocket. Tom was too busy asking questions, examining the victim’s clothing and looking for possible clues to pay any attention to his actions. When at last they walked out into the street, Tom said, “Same old stuff! No information worth considering. But we’re going to get that man. We’ve got to do it.” |
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