Tom Gets A Clue
Out of the cabin of the now stationary airship hurried the three
travelers; out into the pelting rain, which was lashed into their faces
by the strong wind. Tom was the first to emerge.
"We're on something solid!" he cried, stamping his feet. "A rock, I
guess."
"Gracious, I hope we're not on a rock in the midst of a river!"
exclaimed Mr. Damon. "Bless my soul, though! The water does seem to be
running around my ankles."
"There's enough rain to make water run almost up to our necks," called
Mr. Sharp, above the noise of the storm. "Tom, can you make out where
we are?"
"Not exactly. Is the ship all right?"
"I can't see very well, but there appears to be a hole in the gas
container. A big one, too, or we wouldn't have fallen so quickly."
The plight of the travelers of the air was anything but enviable. They
were wet through, for it needed only a few minutes exposure to the
pelting storm to bring this about. They could not tell, in the midst of
the darkness, where they were, and they almost feared to move for fear
they might be on top of some rock or precipice, over which they might
tumble if they took a false step.
"Let's get back inside the ship," proposed Mr. Damon. "It's warm and
dry there, at all events. Bless my umbrella, I don't know when I've
been so wet!"
"I'm not going in until I find out where we are," declared Tom. "Wait a
minute, and I'll go in and get an electric flash lantern. That will
show us," for the lightning had ceased with the great crash that seemed
to have wrecked the Red Cloud. The rain still kept up, however, and
there was a distant muttering of thunder, while it was so black that
had not the lights in the cabin of the airship been faintly glowing
they could hardly have found the craft had they moved ten feet away
from it.
Tom soon returned with the portable electric lamp, operated by dry
batteries. He flashed it on the surface of where they were standing,
and uttered an exclamation.
"We're on a roof!" he cried.
"A roof?" repeated Mr. Damon.
"Yes; the roof of some large building, and what you thought was a river
is the rain water running off it. See!"
The young inventor held the light down so his companions could observe
the surface of that upon which the airship rested. There was no doubt
of it. They were on top of a large building.
"If we're on a roof we must be in the midst of a city," objected Mr.
Damon. "But I can't see any lights around, and we would see them if we
were in a city, you know."
"Maybe the storm put the lights out of business," suggested Mr. Sharp.
"That often occurs."
"I know one way we can find out for certain," went on Tom.
"How?"
"Start up our search lamp, and play it all around. We can't make sure
how large this roof is in the dark, and it's risky trying to trace the
edges by walking around."
"Yes, and it would be risky to start our searchlight going," objected
Mr. Sharp. "People would see it, and there'd be a crowd up here in less
than no time, storm or no storm. No, we've got to keep dark until I can
see what's the matter. We must leave here before daylight."
"Suppose we can't?" asked Mr. Damon. "The crowds will be sure to see us
then, anyhow."
"I am pretty sure we can get away," was the opinion of the balloonist.
"Even if our gas container is so damaged that it will not sustain us,
we are still an aeroplane, and this roof being flat will make a good
place to start from. No, we can leave as soon as this storm lets up a
little."
"Then I'm going to have a look and find out what sort of a building
this is," declared Tom, and, while Mr. Sharp began a survey, as well as
he could in the dark, of the airship, the young inventor proceeded
cautiously to ascertain the extent of the roof.
The rain was not coming down quite so hard now, and Tom found it easier
to see. Mr. Damon, finding he could do nothing to help, went back into
the cabin, blessing himself and his various possessions at the queer
predicament in which they found themselves.
Flashing his light every few seconds, Tom walked on until he came to
one edge of the roof. It was very large, as he could judge by the time
it took him to traverse it. There was a low parapet at the edge. He
peered over, and an expanse of dark wall met his eyes.
"Must have come to one side," he reasoned. "I want to get to the front.
Then, maybe, I can see a sign that will tell me what I want to know."
The lad turned to the left, and, presently came to another parapet. It
was higher, and ornamented with terra-cotta bricks. This, evidently,
was the front. As Tom peered over the edge of the little raised ledge,
there flashed out below him hundreds of electric lights. The city
illuminating plant was being repaired. Then Tom saw flashing below him
one of those large signs made of incandescent lights. It was in front
of the building, and as soon as our hero saw the words he knew where
the airship had landed. For what he read, as he leaned over, was this:
MIDDLEVILLE ARCADE
Tom gave a cry.
"What's the matter?" called Mr. Sharp.
"I've discovered something," answered Tom, hurrying up to his friend.
"We're on top of the Middleville Arcade building."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that we're not so very far from home, and in the midst of a
fairly large city. But it means more than that."
"What?" demanded the balloonist, struck by an air of excitement about
the lad, for, as Tom stood in the subdued glow of the lights from one
of the airship's cabin windows, all the others having been darkened as
the storm slackened, his, eyes shone brightly.
"This is the building where Anson Morse, one of the gang that robbed
dad, once had an office," went on Tom eagerly. "That was brought out at
the trial. And it's the place where they used to do some of their
conspiring. Maybe some of the crowd are here now laying low."
"Well, if they are, we don't want anything to do with that gang," said
Mr. Sharp. "We can't arrest them. Besides I've found out that our ship
is all right, after all. We can proceed as soon as we like. There is
only a small leak in the gas container. It was the generator machine
that was put out of business by the lightning, and I've repaired it."
"I want to see if I can get any trace of the rascals. Maybe I could
learn something from the janitor of the Arcade about them. The janitor
is probably here."
"But why do you want to get any information about that gang?"
"Because," answered Tom, and, as Mr. Damon at that moment started to
come from the cabin of the airship, the lad leaped forward and
whispered the remainder of the sentence into the ear of the balloonist.
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Mr. Sharp, in a tense whisper. Tom
nodded vigorously.
"But how can you enter the building?" asked the other. "You can't drop
over the edge."
"Down the scuttle," answered Tom. "There must be one on the roof, for
they have to come up here at times. We can force the lock, if
necessary. I want to enter the building and see where Morse had his
office."
"All right. Go ahead. I'll engage Mr. Damon here so he won't follow
you. It will be great news for him. Go ahead."
Under pretense of wanting the help of the eccentric man in completing
the repairs he had started, Mr. Sharp took Mr. Damon back into the
cabin. Tom, getting a big screwdriver from an outside toolbox,
approached the scuttle on the roof. He could see it looming up in the
semidarkness, a sort of box, covering a stairway that led down into the
building. The door was locked, but Tom forced it, and felt justified. A
few minutes later, cautiously flashing his light, almost like a burglar
he thought, he was prowling around the corridors of the office
structure.
Was it deserted? That was what he wanted to know. He knew the office
Morse had formerly occupied was two floors from the top. Tom descended
the staircase, trying to think up some excuse to offer, in case he met
the watchman or janitor. But he encountered no one. As he reached the
floor where he knew Morse and his gang were wont to assemble, he paused
and listened. At first he heard nothing, then, as the sound of the
storm became less he fancied he heard the murmur of voices.
"Suppose it should be some of them?" whispered Tom.
He went forward, pausing at almost every other step to listen. The
voices became louder. Tom was now nearly at the office, where Morse had
once had his quarters. Now he could see it, and his heart gave a great
thump as he noticed that the place was lighted. The lad could read the
name on the door. "Industrial Development Company." That was the name
of a fake concern headed by Morse. As our hero looked he saw the
shadows of two men thrown on the ground glass.
"Some one's in there!" he whispered to himself. He could now hear the
voices much plainer. They came from the room, but the lad could not
distinguish them as belonging to any of the gang with whom he had come
in contact, and who had escaped from jail.
The low murmur went on for several seconds.
The listener could make out no words. Suddenly the low, even mumble was
broken. Some one cried out "There's got to be a divvy soon. There's no
use letting Morse hold that whole seventy-five thousand any longer. I'm
going to get what's coming to me, or--"
"Hush!" some one else cried. "Be quiet!"
"No, I won't! I want my share. I've waited long enough. If I don't get
what's coming to me inside of a week, I'll go to Shagmon myself and
make Morse whack up. I helped on the job, and I want my money!"
"Will you be quiet?" pleaded another, and, at that instant Tom heard
some one's hand on the knob. The door opened a crack, letting out a
pencil of light. The men were evidently coming out. The young inventor
did not wait to hear more. He had a clue now, and, running on tiptoes,
he made his way to the staircase and out of the scuttle on the roof.