  It was night. The small clock on Tom Howe’s desk was ticking its way toward nine. Tom sat by the window. With one eye squinting through his telescope, he kept up a running conversation with Jimmie. Tom did most of the talking which was unusual for him. Perhaps this gave him an outlet for the excitement bottled up inside of him. “Something tells me things will be popping soon,” he said, shifting his position a little. “Well, let them start. We’ll be right on their tail. “Wonder if they ever thought it strange that a large sign should be put up on the storage place back of their garage and then a flood-light trained on it.” “Probably not,” said Jimmie. “There are flood-lights all over the city.” “It helps anyway.” Tom smiled. “I can see every car or truck that leaves, just as if it were day. We’ll get them if they make a move.” “And the Bubble Man?” Jimmie suggested. “Yes,” Tom’s brow wrinkled. “There’s the Bubble Man. I don’t mind admitting he’s got me worried. You see, we’re used to automatics, even machine guns, but a fellow like that—it—it’s sort of like hunting rattle-snakes for years, then coming on one of those puffing adders. You don’t know how to go after him. “But we’ll get him,” his voice picked up. “You’ll see. “And mind you!” He wheeled about. “You’re out of this.” “Aw! Say! Now——” “Absolutely out of it until after the mop-up.” Tom’s voice was steady and firm. “Reporters come in after the fight. You’ll get your story and the pictures right enough. But a fight like this is nothing for a boy.” “Oh, all right,” Jimmie agreed reluctantly. “Sometimes I think,” Tom droned, squinting through his telescope, “that it’s no sort of a thing for any decent fellow to be in this detective business. “And yet,” he paused for a space of seconds, “if some of us didn’t go in for it where’d everyone else be? Always in fear of their lives. It’s war! That’s what it is.” His voice rose. “War against crime. Not so many years ago there was a terrible war in Europe. Millions of fine fellows were killed. And yet, when you ask the boys who lived through it what they were fighting for they’ll tell you they don’t know. “But we know!” He struck the table with his fist. “In this war against crime we know we’re fighting for the safety of simple, honest, kindly people, a whole city full of them. And in the end we’ll win. We—— “There!” he exclaimed springing to his feet. “There goes their truck! Come on! This is our zero hour!” A half hour later, from his hiding-place behind a trash box in the dark alley beside the fur storage warehouse, Jimmie was witnessing a strange sight. The basement of the storage place had been built out under the alley. The outlaws, having tunneled to this basement, had made one hole up into the large storage room and another up through the alley. Now, like a pack of rats carrying away grain, they were passing up bundle after bundle of silver-fox furs worth a king’s ransom. And no one was there to stop them; at least, no one appeared to be. It was eerie, fantastic, impossible, like a scene played on the movie screen. And yet it was intensely real. By their shadowy profiles Jimmie recognized them. He could almost call the roll, Tungsten Tom, Black Dolan, Stumps Sharpe. And back of all, in the shadows, where he could scarcely be seen at all, not moving, but very real for all that, was another. Jimmie found his stiff lips refusing to form the name even in a whisper. Still he thought it, “The Bubble Man,” and shuddered. The long procession of bundles was slowing when, at last, that alley became a scene of quick action. A figure sprang out here, another there and one there. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, but Jimmie knew it was the pinch. As he sprang to his feet he saw something gleam white then saw a figure fall. Another gleam, another plunging figure. The Bubble Man was getting in his terrible work. Jimmie seemed to see the word, “Poison.” “Poison gas,” he muttered. “That man must not escape.” He sprang forward. There came a blinding burst of light. He staggered for an instant. Then, realizing that he had, without knowing it touched off the flash-bulb on his belt beside his candid camera, he made one flying leap for a pair of legs. He and the Bubble Man fell in a heap. At the same instant, with a pop-pop that could scarcely be heard, two bubbles in the mad chemist’s hands exploded. The Bubble Man lay still. Striving to regain his feet Jimmie felt once more that strange sensation of dizziness. Without so much as a groan he sank to the pavement. For an instant he saw six black tubes, three marked poison. Was there poison in those bubbles? Was he going to die? Jimmie went to sleep. Sometime later he felt himself to be climbing out of a pit filled with sliding sand. Where was he? In his own good world or another? With a heroic effort he forced his eyes open to find Mary Dare looking down at him and to hear her exclaim joyously, “He’s opened his eyes! He’s coming ’round. Thank God, it was not poison.” “Did—did they get them?” Jimmie whispered. “Every one,” said Mary. “And the Bubble Man?” Jimmie tried to sit up. “He’s dead. Couldn’t take his own medicine. Bad heart, the doctor thinks.” “That’s good,” Jimmie whispered. “We got him at last.” |
|
