  Soon Roger felt that he had given the gases time to flow down, to produce at least inertia or coma. He must not dally too long. He scrambled up the rain-drain as he had previously done. Down the front fire escape of the candy factory he scuttled. No one seemed to be near, as he gave a hasty survey. Then Roger stiffened, on the lower stage of the fire escape. On the other side of the street some one emerged from a doorway. Hearing the man walk rapidly across, Roger dropped, landing in a crouch that broke his fall. He meant to accost the person openly, and risk consequences. “Stop!” he shouted. He got almost as great a shock as had come from the flash of the short-circuited telescope. “Rog’!” “Tip!” He recovered from his daze. A cold horror stole over him. Potts, their handy man, around there. And no one else. Or—was another inside? More probably, smelling gas, Potts had retreated the way he had come, escaping. “What are you doing here?” Roger demanded. “Watching. Grover bid me to.” “Well, we will soon know. He’s due at ten.” Roger pretended he had something in his coat pocket. “You’re covered, Potiphar. Don’t try to escape.” “Me?” in surprise. “Are you batty?” “Somebody short-circuited the telescope after seeing me wire to it, to be sure no one got in to attack me. You’d know how to do that!” “Oh, yeah?” There would be a way to tell whether Potts was aware of the gas. “Easy to prove you’re innocent. Let’s go in and search.” Briefly, not entirely, he stated the case, omitting the gas. Potts drew back. “We ain’t—armed. I see through your scheme, with your hand in that empty pocket. Nix. I go in when we get a cop or somebody.” He might know about the gas and that would account for his lame excuse. It was not like Potiphar, Roger thought, to shirk danger. “All right. But I’ve got to get in and shut off that gas.” He had to let Potts go, just in case there was any other inside the fume-filled lab. Roger, running to the drug store, where an ex-service man was on duty as he remembered, begged him to find an old gas-mask. The man hunted through some things in a back room, and gave Roger the proprietor’s old war trophy, which Roger, with his aid, adjusted. Thus protected, and aware that Tip still waited, he ran in with no fear of setting off electrified alarms, dashed up to the second floor by aid of a flashlamp picked up in the office, seeing no one. The gas he shut off hurriedly and then he set the thermostat lever back in case the tanks held more unexpelled fumes. Throwing wide all the windows on the ground floor, he wished that they had current for the fans to blow out more quickly the gases. Potts, waiting, wanted to quarrel about Roger’s suspicions; but Roger sent him to the drug store to return the mask and call the lighting company, tell the rough conditions and get an emergency squad in to re-fuse and seal their input boxes. Grover came along about the same time that the truck finished and departed. Quickly, on the sidewalk, Roger recounted the situation. With current on, in spite of the company’s annoyance at this tampering with sealed boxes, Roger, smelling less gas than would be dangerous in a momentary invasion, set fans going and rushed out. On the pavement they discussed conditions. Roger could not help feeling that Potts was to blame, had been, in spite of all loyalties, in face of past good conduct—Potts had been his adversary. “He was the one who put the record on my home recorder, with the fire-call on it already.” “How’d I know?” flared Potts, “I—it was with the unused ones.” “Oh, yeah?” Roger threw back at him his former grunt. “Tip could have substituted an exposed film for the unused ones, so that we developed the animals. He could have taken the film to the zoo and got the kangaroo, maybe with an ape. We can check,” he insisted. “He could have transferred the first culture meant for the rats to the place behind Doctor Ryder’s racks.” “For that matter, Grover could of did any of them. He could have as much cupola as me.” “Cupola?” broke in Roger. “He means ‘cupidity’,” remarked Grover, “thinking about the Eye.” “But he says he found it. Admits it. And Mr. Clark vows he had blundered, and threw away the good gem,” persisted Roger, sure of his incriminating clues. “Who says the gem was left in India? Who had the sense to pull fuses, to stop our devices? Who else but somebody trained by you, Grover——” “Well, you was trained, too,” cried Potts, angry. “The gas is expelled by now,” Grover had not lost his cold, serious expression. “There is desperate need for action, more than for recrimination. Let’s go in.” They sat in the office. Roger recounted the clever warning with his watch charm on its big chain, given by Doctor Ryder, and all the mystifying, or incriminating conversations and occurrences, including a fuller account of his experience in the dark-room. “I suppose the poor mice are gassed,” he muttered, finally. But Grover was not listening. “Tip,” he stood up, “help me push this desk aside.” Potts did as bidden. “No shot was fired in here,” Grover snapped. “When Astrovox was later assaulted. What happened, Roger? Don’t you know? And you exploded a torpedo to call attention to a certain place and away from some other?” Roger was all at sea for a moment. “Astrovox was leaving. The other fellow didn’t know that.” Grover had caught some clue or hint, somewhere. He was as active, as alive, as if he had never been a cold, precise, restrained scientist. “Some one wanted us all to run here. As he produced the summons, Astrovox ran in. The man realized that he was recognized. Poor Astrovox! Well, he will recover. And—see there!” He pointed to a brown, scorched spot under the far edge of the desk as it had been before. “A foot, on an explosive, such as your torpedo, Roger. Evidence out of sight. Evidently had no time, later, to remove the burn, but did remove the exploded detonating cap. Rubbed his shoe over it. See the scorch? Test and you will get something like a gunpowder reaction. Maybe you can scrape up dust that would test out with the nitric acid to show the stains of explosive gases.” Of a sudden he straightened up. “The acid test!” Roger, and Potts, gaping, had no way of following the swift deductions which the Mystery Wizard, on the trail at last, made. “Roger—no, Potts, you do it—run out and bring a taxi. Roger, you go up and watch in the stock-room, but keep out of range of any missile sent through the skylight.” He began writing as Tip rushed out and Roger obeyed. On his way, as Potts came racing back, Roger heard, “Go to that address. Bring every shoe you can dig up. And get what’s written below, on your way back.” He locked the door after the man departed. Roger heard the alarms being re-set. Then his older cousin joined him. “What told you?” Roger knew that the Mystery Wizard was, at last, living up to his name. “Claws-on-glass. Think. That was one big error. You have told me the truth.” Roger was baffled. He saw nothing that he had said which linked up with the queer, sizzly, scrapey, frying and clicking sound. Grover, with the upper floor extension plugged in, made call after call. “Grover Brown, calling Chief of Police—hello—that you? Chief, we’re going to have a round-up at the lab.” The usual calm was nil-minus. “Will you?—Glad if you come with the men—I will ask you not to let the men be seen—Wait at corners, across the street—Watch the skylight of our roof for a blue signal—Yes, then come in a hurry—Good-bye.” To Roger’s stupefaction he repeated almost the same instructions to the men from Tibet, adding, “And—I promise to return to you the genuine Eye of Om—Good-bye.” “But what told you, Grover?” Grover glanced at his wrist-watch. “The one clue that no one else could furnish.” He stood erect, alert, his eyes glinting. “We’ve got work to do. Let’s get going!” |
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