  One hour later, with his small package of sweepings in his pocket and with the camera still under his arm, Jimmie found himself on the tenth floor of a down-town office building. On the glass of the door he read: Dr. Amos Andre, “That’s it,” Jimmie whispered. “The very thing! Consulting chemist.” “Doctor Andre,” he burst out before he was fairly through the door, “I want you to heat something for me. Heat it good and hot.” “To what temperature?” The doctor stared at him. “Hot enough to melt glass.” “That is easy. What have you there?” The doctor pointed at Jimmie’s paper package. “That,” said Jimmie, “is what I want to know. Shake the contents of this into one of those heating things of yours and see what comes of it.” “Very well.” The doctor took the package and followed instructions. “A hot flame now,” he murmured. “There it is. The bits of paper burn quickly and we have——” Jimmie held his breath. What would they have? Nothing? Just nothing at all? “Ah,” the chemist breathed, “you were right. There is something left. A very little glass.” “Good! Oh, good!” Jimmie was all but dancing a jig. “How—how much do I owe you?” “Nothing, my boy. Nothing at all.” “Dr. Andre, tell me,” Jimmie was in deadly earnest now, “would it be possible for one to produce a gas that would put a person to sleep but not kill them?” “Certainly,” said the chemist. “There are several such gases.” “Doc—doctor,” Jimmie stammered again, “would it be possible to blow some of this gas into a glass bubble so thin that it would burst at the slightest compact?” “That,” said the doctor, “I could not say for sure. I am not an authority on glass. I could, however, send you to a man who is. There’s the man who does my test tubes for me. He is what you might call a ‘keen’ glass blower.” “Will you send me to him?” “Certainly.” “But—but first,” Jimmie insisted eagerly, “do you think the amount of gas in a bubble like that the size of an indoor baseball would put a person to sleep—almost at once?” “It is entirely possible; in fact, quite probable that it would do so, providing the gas was compressed and if the bubble struck closely enough to the person’s face. “And is there a gas that under those circumstances would kill a person?” Jimmie drew in a long breath. “Yes. Instantly,” was the startling reply. “Thanks—oh, thanks,” Jimmie headed for the door. “But the glass blower!” The doctor stopped him. “Did you wish his address?” “Yes! Yes! Sure!” Slowly the old man scrawled an address on a slip of paper. “There it is, my son.” “Doctor Andre, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” Jimmie apologized. “You—you’ll know more very soon, I am sure.” “That is quite all right,” the old man bowed him out. “Yes. He’ll know much more,” the boy thought grimly. “But will I be here to tell him?” Arrived at the glass-blower’s place, Jimmie plied the astonished man with questions for a full ten minutes. His answers were, “Ja, I tink so!” “It might be so. Aber, I cannot say.” “Ja, some glass iss thin like paper. It break very easy. Some it is thick unt tough. Maybe you throw it on the floor unt it do not break.” “Ja. Ja.” “Nein, it cannot be so.” At last, wearied by the boy’s persistence, he said: “Wait, I show you, maybe!” After heating glass until it was in molten form, he left the room to return with a package of yellow powder. To this he applied a match. The powder burned with a blue blaze. Jimmie smelled burning sulphur. After drawing some of the sulphur fumes into a pair of hand bellows, the glass blower thrust a long tube into his molten glass, puffed the fumes into the tube, removed the end of the tube from the pool of glass and, with three quick puffs, blew a bubble of thin glass the size of an indoor baseball. With a deft twist he closed the hollow glass ball and severed it from his tube. “Now,” he breathed, “you stand there. I stand here unt I throw the glass bubble.” The next instant the glass bubble struck Jimmie’s chest. It chanced to hit a button and burst with a low pop, at the same time treating the boy to a large dose of sulphur fumes. “That—that’s the answer,” Jimmie sputtered, trying to get a breath. “Thanks—thanks a lot.” At that, to the glass blower’s astonishment, he dashed for the door and was away. When Tom Howe had been told of Jimmie’s theory, that the Bubble Man filled fragile glass bubbles with gas and burst them by throwing them at his victim, and when he had heard of the test just made, he was convinced. “That’s the answer sure as shooting,” he exclaimed. “And that is the reason we must get him. In time he will use a deadly poison gas and add murder to his list of specialties. “And that gives me an idea!” he sprang to his feet. “At least it’s worth looking into. An old woman who keeps a boarding house phoned only yesterday that one of her roomers who at times had a wild look kept his room cluttered with tubes, vials and packages of chemicals. She was afraid to turn him out. Wanted to know if we would please look into the matter. We will, and that right now.” “Oh! Yer from the Police! I’m that relieved!” said the broad-faced boarding-house keeper as Tom and Jimmie appeared at her door a half hour later. “Go right up. Here’s the key. The room’s number ten. He’s out jest now. And may Heaven bless ye if he returns right soon.” “We’ll chance it,” Tom replied grimly. One whiff at the room suggested a laboratory. Three minutes of looking convinced them that they were in the chemist’s den. “Here are fragments of glass bubbles,” said Tom. “That’s proof enough. But where does he keep his poison gas?” Stepping to a door he opened it. “Ah! A dark closet.” He threw on his flashlight. “There,” he breathed. On the shelf were six black, steel tubes. Stepping quickly forward, he turned one about, then caught a deep breath. On the back side of that tube was a label marked: “Poison.” “God grant that we are in time,” he whispered. “Let’s see.” He turned the other tubes about. “Three labeled, and three unlabeled. We’ve got to get that man. We’ll set a watch but he may suspect, may escape us. He——” A step sounded in the hall. Jimmie dodged as if to miss a glass bubble. Tom clicked something, in his pocket. It was only the landlady. “He’s that wild lookin’ at times,” she murmured. “What is there to be done?” “Nothing at present,” Tom Howe replied in as steady a tone as he could command. “We’ll have him watched.” “Will ye, now?” The woman heaved a great sigh of relief. “May Heaven bless ye fer that now.” It was impossible for Jimmie to read Tom’s thoughts as they left the place. His own feeling was one of intense relief. He had faced the Bubble Man once and had heard his sharp order: “As you are.” His gas bubbles had been harmless then. But what about now? “I have something I want to do tonight,” Jimmie said to his father late that afternoon. “For how long?” His father gave him a sharp look. “All night.” “I hope,” his father’s face took on a worried look, “that you’re not going into anything dangerous. You know, son, we can’t help worrying about you when we don’t know where you are, mother and I.” “I know,” Jimmie replied slowly. “But this time it is nothing dangerous. I shall sleep in the men’s lounge until midnight. After that I’ll be in the office of a publishing firm on the third floor of a building watching what goes on across the street and, perhaps, shooting a few pictures.” “That doesn’t sound very dangerous. O. K., son, I’ll see you in the morning.” Jimmie’s plan was to watch the section of street that lay back of that fur-storage place. If anyone was tunneling toward that building he must enter and leave from that side. But how? Through the door of a vacant building? Through a basement window? Perhaps, and perhaps not. He wanted to know. There were, however, other matters to be attended to before he took up his night’s work. “Let me see,” he thought. “Scottie should be back. And there’s that picture we took with the trap last night. Boy, oh, boy! How life does whirl about us.” “And we’re to meet Tom Howe at seven, John, Mary and I. The big story’s sure to break soon. And such a story!” He hurried away to find Scottie. |
|
