  At a quarter of six next evening, at the request of the Fire Chief, Johnny was lurking in the shadows back of the building on Randolph Street that housed such a strange collection of commodities: chemicals, diamonds, juvenile books, novelties and Knobs, the suspected firebug. Earlier that day a phone call had tipped off the Chief. According to the call, Knobs Whittaker would bear a little extra watching that night. While putting little faith in this tip, the Chief had no desire to neglect the least clue which might assist in bringing to an end the series of disastrous fires which were reflecting great discredit upon his department. Acting upon the tip he had stationed men at every point which Knobs had been seen to frequent. Johnny’s station was this building. He had come around behind to have a look at possible exits there. Having satisfied his mind in this matter, he was about to make his way back along the wall to the street when he was halted by the sudden sound of a truck entering the alley. Slinking deeper into the shadows, he waited. To his surprise he saw the truck back up at the door of the very building he was watching. “Going to take something away,” was his mental comment. This thought was at once abandoned when he noted that the light truck was already loaded to capacity. Climbing down from the seat, the driver and his assistant walked to the door. Finding it locked, the driver beat a tattoo on it with his fist. “What’s wanted?” demanded a voice as a head was thrust out of a window to the left of the door. “Open up!” growled the driver. “Got a consignment of chemicals for you.” “What you coming round this time of day for?” “Came all the way from Calumet. Had a blow-out.” “There’s no one here but me,” said the young man, reluctantly unbarring the door. “Boss is gone. Chief clerk’s gone. His assistant is gone. I’m only a sort of apprentice. Haven’t any authority.” “Well, we can’t dump the goods in the street, can we? It’s going to rain.” “No, I suppose you can’t,” said the young man, scratching his head doubtfully. “Suppose you’ll have to dump them in here until morning. You’ll have to come round then and check up on them.” “That’s jake with me.” The apprentice began clearing a space at the back of the shop. The carters tumbled off bags and boxes, to pile them in the cleared space. After this had been done the steel night doors were closed and the truck drove away. “They drive as if the devil were after them,” thought Johnny. Without quite knowing why, he lingered for a time back there in the deepening shadows and as he lingered he caught an unusual sound from one of the rooms above. “That’s odd, sounds like something heavy being rolled over the floor; a piano, or—or maybe a safe. Wonder why anyone would be doing that this time of the day?” As it had grown quite dark by this time, he moved around to the front. From the moment the matter had been called to his attention, this building with its strange assortment of occupants had held a profound interest for Johnny. He suspected Knobs of holding an interest in the Novelty Company, in truth suspected that floor of being his hangout. He was more than interested in the diamond merchant’s place, too. Indeed, he felt that somehow there must be a connection between Knobs and the diamonds. “Perhaps he means to steal them?” he told himself now as he lingered in the shadow of the building. “But then, there are the burglar alarms. How is he to get around them? Well, we’ll see.” An eddy of air sweeping up the street showered him with dust and paper scraps. “Ugh,” he grunted, as he made for the door of the building to escape this little whirlwind, “we’re in for a blow; perhaps rain.” “Fiddle!” he exclaimed a moment later, “I promised to go to Forest City with Mazie to-night. Carnival! Last of the season. Told her I’d do it if nothing turned up. But something has turned up, at least the Chief thinks it’s going to turn up.” And just then things did turn up; at least one thing did, and not so small either. Treading on air, as if afraid of disturbing the spirit of his dead grandmother, there came tripping down the stair no less a person than Knobs Whittaker! “Put ’em to sleep with a brick and argue with ’em afterwards,” Johnny seemed to be hearing poor old Ben Zook saying. Knobs was carrying a square black satchel in his hand. His right hip bulged. He did not see Johnny, who stood well back in the shadows. Just as his feet touched the ground floor, as if drawn by a rocket, Knobs shot straight up from the floor to at last topple over in a heap. Johnny’s good right hand had spoken. He had obeyed the instructions of old Ben Zook. Knobs’ sleep lasted for scarcely more than ten seconds; long enough, however, for Johnny to explore his hip pocket and draw forth an ugly-looking blue automatic. When Knobs opened his eyes he looked into the muzzle of his own gun. The art of escape is sometimes cultivated to such a degree of perfection that it becomes automatic. The street door was open. With a motion that could scarcely be called rolling, leaping or gliding, the prostrate man went through that door. Before Johnny could block his escape, or even press the trigger of the automatic, Knobs was gone. One thing was against the fleeing one, however; he had left his gun and his black case behind. “Evidence here,” Johnny whispered to himself. “Valuable evidence, beyond a doubt.” Then, following a rule he had laid down for himself: “Always do the thing that’s least expected,” instead of following the man, he picked up the black bag and sprang lightly up the stairs and out of sight. He did not stop at the first landing, nor the second; but continued to the third, where, after hurrying down the hall, he threw back the iron shutters of the hall window, tossed the bag out, and jumped to the flat roof below. After that he lost no time in making his way down a fire escape to the ground. After a hasty glance up and down the alley, he gripped the handle of Knobs’ automatic with his right hand, and carrying the black bag in his left, walked with a leisurely and nonchalant air down the alley and out on the side street. To all appearances the street was deserted. Apparently no one had seen him emerge from the alley. He was thankful for that. Hardly had he walked a dozen paces on that street when there struck his ears a cry that had grown familiar: “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” “Fire!” he said to himself. “I wonder where now?” He was to know soon enough. There is something strange about a city street. Though it be deserted from end to end, let one cry of “Fire!” ring out upon its deserted stillness, and within the space of thirty seconds it is thronging with people. It was so now. In a moment the place was swarming with people. Johnny Thompson did not join the throng. He was far too wise for that. The black bag he carried contained something of vital interest to that smooth villain, Knobs. Knobs would want it back. Nor would he be alone. There might be twenty of his gang in that crowd. For them to surround Johnny and beat him up in such a mob would be a simple enough matter. He would leave no chance for that. Turning, Johnny sped down an alley, crossed a street, shot down a second alley and, reaching the river, he raced along the wall that lined its banks, climbed the bridge, then to the back of a building, paused once more to listen, then climbed the stairs to his room. “Shook them!” he puffed as he bolted the door and carefully placed the black bag under the bed. His next move was to throw back the steel blinds to his own windows and to look in the direction of that building on Randolph Street that he had just left. The sight that met his eyes brought an exclamation to his lips. “Pant!” he called, “Pant! Wake up! If you want to see a fire that is one, come here!” Tumbling from the cot where he had been sleeping, Pant stumbled toward the window. Then he, too, stared in wonder. “Talk about quick burners!” exclaimed Johnny. “Did you ever see anything quicker or hotter than that?” “No,” said Pant solemnly, “I never have.” The building, filled with chemicals, diamonds, books and novelties, was a white hot furnace. Johnny had seen blast furnaces, open hearths, and the white flames of the Bessemer, but never had he seen a fiercer, hotter flame than this one. Even at this great distance it seemed to fairly scorch his face. “Enough chemicals in that place to stock an army for the next war,” he said aloud. At once he thought of the truck load of chemicals that had arrived at a quarter of six, and of the heavy rolling sound he had heard shortly after the truck drove away. Never in all the history of Chicago had there been a hotter fire. Johnny could see the firemen, forced from one position to another, fall back, back, and back again. They made no attempt to quench this white fury. The best they could do was to throw a water screen against the buildings next to this to prevent disaster from spreading to the entire business district. “Oh man!” exclaimed Pant. “Only look! Red flames, white flames, purple, yellow and blue. Must have burned its way through the crust of the earth and turned the thing into a volcano.” “Chemicals,” said Johnny. He had been looking for an explosion; such an explosion as would wreck every building in the block and perhaps cross the river and shake bricks down upon his own head. But as the moments passed, he began to hope that it would not come. When a quarter of an hour had worn itself slowly away and the fierce flames began to die down, he knew that it would not come, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness for that. “Pant, I promised Mazie and that little girl we saved from the school fire that we’d go out to Forest City to-night. This is the last night of the Carnival. It’s not too late yet. There’s nothing I can do about that fire over there until it has cooled down. Want to go?” “I don’t mind,” said Pant. “In fact, I’d rather like to go.” “All right. Throw on your glad rags and come on.” A little later, as Johnny locked the door on the outside, he hesitated for a moment. He had thought of the black bag he had thrown under the bed. “Safe there as anywhere in the world,” he told himself. “I’ll break the lock and look inside to-morrow.” Then he followed Pant down the stairs. |
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