  Johnny was up against the most puzzling problem of his whole life. A tensely dramatic situation, a novelist would have called it. Having long since abandoned the theory that the pink-eyed man was the firebug, he had fastened upon the hook-nosed man as the real culprit. With this in mind, he had connected past events into an almost unbreakable chain of circumstances. He had now but to find the man. And here he was. He had found him. But under what strange circumstances! What was to be done? If he called upon the revellers to assist him in apprehending the man they would laugh merrily, thinking his request a joke. The man, on the other hand, would not think it a joke. He might choose either to vanish or to put a bullet in Johnny’s heart. That he would do one or the other Johnny did not doubt, for this man was a criminal. One thing was in Johnny’s favor; since he was masked and there was nothing particularly distinctive about him, it was not probable that he had been recognized. In vain he looked about him for a passing policeman; in vain racked his brain for a way out. Then of a sudden there came the flash of a suggestion. He would at least have a picture of the man. Only a few days before he had given a small camera to Tillie McFadden. In his pocket was a film and some flash-light powders he had meant to give her. The camera the stranger had but this moment won was the same size. The films would fit. The man, though not playing now, was still in the crowd. He would borrow or buy it. Without at all knowing what it was about, the stranger parted with his camera for a five dollar bill, then went back to play. Johnny gave Mazie the camera, then pressed the film into her hand as he whispered: “Load the camera. Press my hand when you’re ready.” She knew about the flash-light powders and appeared to understand, for she squeezed his hand assuringly. The stranger was again at the board. He rolled again. By some freak of chance, this time he won. “Zwenty-four. Dot vins,” said the faker. “Vot do you choose?” His voice held a note of irritation. “What would you suggest?” the stranger asked, turning to Johnny. It was with the greatest of difficulty that Johnny focussed his mind on this simple task which at other times and under different circumstances would have been a pleasure. Then a sudden inspiration came to him. At the far corner, and on the top shelf, was a silver pitcher. If the stranger asked for that the man’s back, while he was taking it down, would be turned long enough for Johnny to prepare a flash. “I’d take that pitcher,” he said steadily, at the same time pointing to the pitcher. “Are you ready?” he whispered to Mazie. “Ready,” she answered back. “When he turns,” he whispered. There followed ten seconds of suspense which was ended by a loud pop and a blinding flash of light. The silver pitcher fell with a thump at Johnny’s feet. The astonishment and rage of the man conducting the game was a thing to marvel at. His face went white, then purple. As if to snatch the camera away, he leaped at Mazie. She forced her way back into the crowd. Then, just as it seemed that matters were at their worst, there came a wild cry: “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” For a second Johnny believed that someone had been unduly frightened by his flash and was spreading a false alarm. One glance toward the far end of the park told him the terrible truth. A building at that end, a sort of office, was all ablaze. He had long felt that the place was doomed, and doomed it was! “And on such a night, with such a throng!” he murmured. The fire held his eye but a second. The man—he must get that man! He was gone—no, there he was. He was racing before the fear-mad mob that threatened to run him down. In a twinkling Johnny was on his trail. He had not followed him twenty paces when, to his astonishment, he saw the man turn and dart through the only door of the great wooden tower which loomed two hundred feet in air. “He—he’s trapped!” Johnny panted. “He trapped himself. I wonder why?” Who could tell? Had a mad fear of the mob driven him into that place as the hounds drive a deer over the precipice? Had he hoped to slip safely out a little later? Whatever the reason, there was little chance of escape. With but one thought in his mind, Johnny Thompson was close behind. By a single flash of his electric torch Johnny located the man some twenty steps up a rickety winding staircase that led to the very top of the tower. The next second, with his torch off, in utter darkness, Johnny put his foot on the lower step. A roaring furnace of fire was not far behind him; a dangerous man before him; but come what might, he was prepared to do his whole duty. |
|
