A STRANGE MESSAGE
TOM SWIFT sank wearily into a chair, facing his damaged talking-picture
machine. That it was very seriously damaged was plainer to the eyes of
the young inventor than to those even of his father, who was one of
three persons aware of what great changes the new machine was destined
to bring about. But Tom rallied and from the ruins of his invention saw
mentally, rising like the fabled Phoenix from its own ashes, a new and
better piece of apparatus.
“Maybe, after all,” mused Tom, “this will turn out better than it looked
at first sight. I already have an idea for some improvements in the new
machine I’m going to start—as soon as I’m able,” he added somewhat
grimly.
“Tom, you’d better go back to bed!” exclaimed his father anxiously. “You
know Dr. Layton said——”
“Oh, I’m all right!” protested the young inventor. “I’m going slow. I do
feel a bit pulled out, but I don’t intend to do any work. However, I’m
on the track of something, and it’s got to be followed up.”
“Then you think this was deliberately done, Tom?” asked Mr. Swift as he
finished sending a message to have Jim Clark sent to Tom’s private
quarters.
“I’m almost positive of it,” was the reply. “And I have under suspicion
a certain man.”
“Who?” asked Mr. Swift in a low voice, making sure no one was near the
shattered door.
“Greenbaum,” was the equally low answer.
“Why, I thought he was one of your best workers, Tom!” exclaimed Mr.
Swift in surprise.
“So he is, in his own particular line. But now that I think matters
over, I see that there is a chance he had something to do with this
explosion. He was here in the laboratory just before it happened. He and
I and Ned Newton were the only ones here, as a matter of fact. Ned has
disappeared, and that’s worrying me, but I’ll come to that feature in
due time. I guess Ned can look after himself, though his disappearance
is certainly mysterious, coupled with everything else that’s happened.
But when I stop to think about Greenbaum being here just before the
explosion——”
“But, Tom,” interrupted his father, “I thought you said Greenbaum went
before you locked up and came home.”
“Apparently he did. But he may have come back. That’s what I want Clark
to do—a bit of detective work to find out if Greenbaum went to his
boarding house and stayed there. If he did——”
The entrance, at that moment, of the young workman in whom Tom placed
much confidence brought a sudden end to the talk.
“You sent for me, Mr. Swift?” asked Clark, with a smile. “Is it about
the new negative gravity machine I’m working on?”
“Not this time, Clark,” answered Tom, motioning the young fellow to take
a chair near the scorched desk which was not far from the shattered
talking-picture machine. That apparatus had, however, been covered from
prying eyes. “I want you to do a bit of detective work, if you will,”
went on the young inventor.
Without telling just why he wanted the information, Tom instructed his
agent to find out in secret something about Greenbaum, seeking to learn
just what the man did on the night of the explosion.
“I get you!” exclaimed Clark, with ready wit. “I’m wise all right. I’ll
shadow him if you want me to.”
“No, don’t dog him,” objected Tom. “Just trace his movements. You can
tell your foreman you’re working for me and it will be all right.”
With Clark dispatched on this mission, Tom took from the partial wreck
of his new apparatus such pieces as were vital for rebuilding it and
then, asking his father to have the laboratory cleaned up and put in
working shape again, Tom went back to his bedroom.
Truth to tell, he was pretty well fagged out, not so much physically as
mentally. The shock both to his hopes and his body, as well as worry
over Ned’s disappearance, was beginning to tell.
“Hadn’t you better give this up, Tom?” asked his father as, having set
men to putting the laboratory to rights, he went to his son’s room where
he found Tom stretched out on a long sofa.
“Give what up, Dad? You mean trying to find out who blew me up and why
Ned is missing? Give those problems up?”
“No, I mean work on this new talking-picture machine of yours. I don’t
believe it will ever work, Tom.”
“But it has worked, Dad!” exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm.
“Only about an hour before Ned left and the explosion happened, I got a
pretty fine record of what Ned did in the theater room,” for so Tom
called the apartment with its battery of bright lights where the young
manager had sung and danced.
“You heard Ned’s voice?” asked Mr. Swift.
“Perfectly,” declared Tom. “Saw him, too. But the vision was not as
clear as it’s got to be to make this a commercial success. But I know
how to improve it, and I’m going to. I can’t give that up, Dad!”
“It might be better if you did, Tom.”
“Better? How?”
“Well, for your own safety. You’re using powerful electrical currents
and you’ve had one explosion already; so——”
“But didn’t I tell you, Dad,” and Tom smiled tolerantly, “that this
explosion was none of my doing? Nothing went wrong with the wires. They
were all in shape and I was just opening the door when something went
off. It was something that was set, too—a bomb, if I guess aright.”
“All the more reason for giving it up, Tom.”
“What do you mean, Dad?”
“I mean that perhaps some one, or perhaps a number of persons, don’t
want this new invention to succeed. Think what it will mean to the
moving picture industry if you can give people in their own homes
entertainment such as the big theaters present. And where will the
theaters come out if their high-priced shows can be picked up by every
one who buys one of your machines?”
“That’s their lookout,” said Tom. “It was said that the radio would kill
the phonograph; and it nearly did, but the phonograph folks came back
strong.”
“This is different, Tom.”
“Yes, I know it is—different and better. No, I’m not going to back out,
bombs or no bombs! Besides, Dad, you must realize that we are in this
thing pretty deep.”
“Deep, Tom? What do you mean?”
“I mean we have a large amount of money tied up in this thing—more than
I like to think about. I’ve just got to come through with it to break
even.”
“Well, Tom, I suppose you know best,” said the aged inventor, with
rather a weary smile. “But be careful of yourself.”
When Mrs. Baggert had put new bandages on some of Tom’s burns and he had
taken a little rest, he called up Ned’s home, only to learn that no word
had come from him. His parents were greatly worried, for Ned was not
selfish and was not the kind of young man to remain long away from home
without sending word.
“He may have decided to take a little unannounced vacation,” Tom told
Mr. Newton, “and have gone to the country. He may have sent word and the
letter or the message has failed to arrive. Shall I notify the police?”
“No, not yet,” decided Mr. Newton. “Ned may be all right and he’d hate
any police notoriety. We’ll wait a few days.”
The few days that followed were anxious ones, not only for Ned’s
parents, but also for Tom Swift. He had a double worry, divided between
the disappearance of his trusted chum and manager and concern over the
wreck of his new apparatus. The latter worry was more easily disposed
of, however, though it meant hard work and delay.
Tom set some of his most trusted men at the labor of reconstructing the
new apparatus, but in such a way that the secret could not be come at.
Only certain unimportant parts were given out, and Tom and his father
would make the more vital sections.
Since Tom already had on the market a telephoto machine and had also
made several varieties of moving picture projectors, it was not a hard
matter to let it casually be known that the new apparatus was an attempt
to improve either or both of the old inventions. Thus was gossip stilled
about the big Swift plant.
Tom, however, did not know what to think about Greenbaum. The day after
the explosion the man was lamenting loudly that some of his own
experimental apparatus, which he was working on for the Swift firm, had
been destroyed in the fire and blast.
“And,” said Tom, telling his father about it, “since I have promised him
a large bonus if he works out that magnetic gear shift, it doesn’t seem
reasonable that he would set a bomb that might destroy the results of
his own hard work.”
“No, Tom, it doesn’t.”
“And yet I can’t help suspecting him,” mused the young inventor. “He is
as friendly as ever, and seems anxious to help me. But there is
something furtive in his manner and in his looks.”
“Did Clark find out anything?”
“Only that Greenbaum went straight to his boarding place from here and
did not go out again that night. He was at home when the explosion took
place.”
“Then that clears him, Tom.”
“No, Dad, it doesn’t. He could easily have planted a time bomb or rigged
one up that was operated when I opened the door. I shall still suspect
him. But I’ve got something else to do now.”
“What is that?”
“I want to see how Jackson is coming on with the new radio tubes he is
making for the talking-picture machine and I’ve got to do something
about Ned. His unexplained absence for so long a time is getting serious
now. It doesn’t seem possible that he is remaining away voluntarily
without sending some word.”
“No, Tom, it doesn’t. What do you think?” and Mr. Swift looked up from
his work. He was making some delicate tests with a galvanometer in the
laboratory, which had been cleaned out and temporarily fitted up to be
used again.
“I’m thinking, Dad, that perhaps Ned, in some way, was concerned with
the fire and explosion.”
“Tom! You don’t mean that Ned——”
“Oh, of course I don’t mean that he set it, Dad!” and Tom laughed at his
father’s shocked face. “I mean that the same rascals who tried to blow
me up kidnapped Ned.”
“Kidnapped a young man like Ned Newton! A strong, husky chap——”
“They may have caught him napping,” said Tom. “Anyhow, I’ve got to do
something. Ned’s folks are much worried.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I think a private detective would be better. Or, best of all, I’ll get
Clark and set out on the trail myself. I’ve got things begun on the
rebuilding of my new machine now, and I’ve really got to do something
about Ned.”
“I agree with you, Tom. I was just wondering——”
What he wondered Mr. Swift never stated, as at that moment a voice was
heard out in the corridor, saying:
“Bless my storage battery, you needn’t show me the way in, Eradicate! I
guess I can find Tom Swift, or what’s left of him! My! My! It must have
been terrible! Bless my stick of dynamite! So they tried to blow Tom
up!”
“It’s Mr. Damon!” said Mr. Swift, smiling at his son.
“No need for him to send in a card!” chuckled the young inventor. “His
voice and talk give him away. Come in, Mr. Damon!” he called, and the
door opened to give entrance to the eccentric, kindly old gentleman who,
indirectly, had been the means of Tom’s starting on his great inventive
career.
“Bless my handkerchief, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Damon, vigorously mopping
his face with the linen article in question, while he held out one hand
to the young inventor. “What’s all this I hear about you? I just got
back from a Western trip and my wife tells me you were blown sky high,
that your plant was demolished, and that the whole business is in ruins.
Bless my insurance policies! Whew!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” Tom answered, with a laugh.
“But something happened, bless my thermometer if it didn’t!” declared
Mr. Damon, pointing to a bandage on Tom’s left hand.
“Yes, there was an accident,” and in a few words Tom told what had
happened, without, however, making mention of the new machine, which was
too deep a secret as yet for even so close a friend as the eccentric man
to share. “But it might have been worse,” concluded the young man. “And,
as a matter of fact, that isn’t the worst that’s happened.”
“No, Tom? What else? Bless my spectacles!”
“Ned Newton has mysteriously vanished,” said Tom, with a serious face,
and he told as much as he knew about the strange occurrence.
“That’s terrible!” declared Mr. Damon. “It’s the worst outrage I ever
heard of! But I came back just in time, Tom Swift.”
“Time for what?”
“To help you hunt for Ned! Now, don’t stop me! I’m going to do it. I’ll
devote all my time and half my fortune to finding my young friend and
your chum. Tell me more about it.”
“I’ve told you all I know, which isn’t much,” Tom answered. “But suppose
we go to the house. I’m about through here,” and he looked around the
laboratory, asking his father to close and lock it when he left. “We’ll
go over to the house, Mr. Damon.”
“Yes, I want to pay my respects to Mrs. Baggert. But I can’t get over
your accident and the kidnapping of Ned. Why, bless my——”
But Mr. Damon had no time to complete his pet phrase, for half way up
the path to the house Tom and his friend saw an old man coming toward
them, ragged and unkempt—a veritable tramp. He held in his outstretched
hand a dirty piece of paper.
“Is this Mr. Tom Swift?” asked the ragged man, looking at Mr. Damon.
“No, I am,” answered the owner of the name.
“Then I have a strange message for you,” went on the tramp in whining
tones. “And if you see fit to reward me for bringing it, I’d be glad,
for I’m a poor old codger and I’m hungry——”
Tom Swift hastily took the dirty piece of paper and uttered an
exclamation of surprise as he read what was scrawled on it.