THE ALASKAN MATCH CLUE
It goes without saying that at his first opportunity Jimmie called Tom
Howe on the phone, then paid another visit to his lofty perch atop the
sky-scraper.
"Good boy," the young detective exclaimed when Jimmie had told of this
fresh discovery. "You're doing great work. Keep it up and we'll get that
Silent Terror before he becomes too dangerous.
"This picture," he went on thoughtfully, "is a little better than the
first one. I suggest," he smiled a winking smile, "that you try a front
view or profile next time. However, we get a little more of his face
this time and we have learned much of his character. That helps."
"What have you learned?" Jimmie asked.
"That he is the crank type of criminal," replied Tom. "He evidently
hates everyone who is rich. Durant's playing gave him an excellent
opportunity to voice his hate and perhaps do some damage to the son of a
rich man.
"By the way!" he exclaimed. "When does Durant pitch again?"
"I--I don't know," said Jimmie.
"Phone your father and ask him." Tom's tone was eager. "It's important."
Jimmie took down the receiver. A moment later he announced: "He pitches
next Wednesday."
"Hm. Five days from now. We may have our man by then and we may not.
Anyway it's well worth knowing."
"Why is that important?" Jimmie asked.
"Because this Silent Terror might repeat his performance at the ball
park at the first opportunity."
"That's right! He is!" Jimmie exclaimed. "And then you can nab him."
"That's it," said Tom. "And for that reason, I suggest that no story be
given to the Press regarding your discovery."
"No story," Jimmie's face fell.
"Just one more minor tragedy for you." Tom smiled good-naturedly. "I
understand what all these little scoops mean to a promising young
newspaper man. But when we do our best to serve the people of a great
city we must expect a disappointment now and then. Just wait! The time
will come when the great story will break. Then you shall have the first
look in."
"I'll not say a word," Jimmie promised.
"Have to get over to the ball park before long and talk to the guards
who threw that fellow out." Tom's mind was at work on the case. "Not
much chance that they'll be able to help. Unless the fellow got violent
and did some real damage, which he probably didn't, they turned him
loose at the gate. Their description of the man might help.
"Such a man," he went on after a moment's silence, "usually works alone.
This one possesses a strange secret, one which permits him to put his
victims asleep while still some distance from them. He is not so likely
to share that with another. And yet, if some big time crooks convinced
him that he could do more harm to the very rich by joining up with them
he might consent. Then his power to do harm would be greatly increased.
"The ball park can wait." He squinted through his telescope. "Remember
that truck we followed?"
"Yes."
"They've made two more rehearsal trips to that alley. I've men watching
them. And yet, I can't see what big thing they could pull there.
"Of course," Tom went on thoughtfully, "big crooks do sometimes go in
for fine furs and there is a small outfit storing fur coats in a large
vault there. But who would risk his life and liberty for a few bundles
of second-hand muskrat coats? The idea is too preposterous to be
considered."
"They may be using one of the rooms in that building for storing loot,"
suggested Jimmie.
"I've had that in mind. So far nothing has been taken in, unless--" Tom
paused for thought. "Unless it was in small packages of great value
hidden in their clothing. There was a jewel robbery just last night.
This morning the truck made one of those mysterious journeys. But the
idea of carrying a pound or two of diamonds on a truck! No, it won't
do." Tom laughed a dry laugh.
"By the way," he exclaimed, "I'm due to go over to look into that jewel
robbery now. Want to go along?"
"I sure do!" exclaimed Jimmie. He was on his feet at once.
A short time later Tom and Jimmie entered the small back room of the
diamond merchant's shop.
"You won't find many clues here," said the uniformed policeman in charge
of the case. "Slickest job I ever saw."
"Hm," said Tom. "You'd hardly think there'd been a robbery, except," he
looked down at the floor, "quite a lot of burned matches. They always
are important. I have known a match to send a man to prison for ten
years.
"You'd think," he turned to Jimmie, "that crooks would use flashlights.
Sometimes they do. More often they don't. Light's too penetrating. The
gleam of a match or candle doesn't carry far. This fellow----
"Say!" He picked up a match and examined it closely. "This at least is
unusual. These matches are of the type used in the very far north,
Alaska, Siberia.
"See!" He held the stub of a burned-out match to view. "He got two
instead of one that time. The two stubs still hold together at the end.
"Those northern matches," he went on after examining two others, "are
made in blocks. They are small and come a hundred to the block. They are
sulphur matches. A machine splits a small block of corkpine from end to
end into a hundred tiny pieces. The block is not cut quite through. The
tips of all the hundred ends are dipped in a sulphur compound and become
matches. They are handy to carry. This man has been in the north. I'll
bet on that. He used the matches and came to like them so he still
carries them. I'll have the records searched for a safe-cracker who has
been in the north."
"This one wasn't cracked. The combination was worked," suggested the
policeman.
"Which might make it an inside job and might not," said Tom. "The
listening-in devices these boys have for telling when the tumblers of
the lock fall are nothing short of wonderful.
"Let's see what else we can find." He began looking around the room.
"Some candle drippings on this ash tray," said Jimmie.
"That's right." Tom pounced upon the tray. "Got tired of his matches and
chanced lighting a stub of a candle. They often do. He used this tray as
a candle-stick. Here's where he stuck it.
"Cheap trinket," he added. "I'll take it along. Might find a finger
print."
"You'll not find any," said the officer. "Finger print man was here an
hour ago. Sprinkled powdered white lead everywhere. Never a print did he
find."
"Guess that's about all," said Tom.
After leaving Tom, Jimmie returned to his post in the editorial rooms,
to his duties and to the jigsaw puzzle work of fitting together in his
mind the events of the day. There was not a spot in that great
institution that he did not know or that did not fascinate him. He loved
the smell of printer's ink and fresh paper. The click of many
typewriters and the roar of presses stirred his blood. He never tired of
watching that fragile, apparently endless ribbon of clean, white paper
glide through the presses to come out printed and folded in complete
newspapers.
Three spots he liked best of all, the editorial room, the photographic
department, and the art room. In these men born to create were at work.
The click-click of a typewriter produced a story that would be read by
eager millions. The dark-room brought out pictures almost as though by
magic. In the art room men created pictures that made men laugh and
forget their troubles. That was a little world all its own!
As the boy sat there waiting his call he thought of these things. But
most of all his mind was busy on the many mysteries that suddenly had
thrust themselves into his life. What of that strange man whose picture
he had twice taken? How could he, by a single gesture, put his victims
to sleep, to rob them and leave them unconscious? Was this some strange
new form of hypnotism? He did not think so. But what was it? One fact
troubled him. He had been given an opportunity to study the man out at
the ball park. He had failed to do so because he had not considered him
important at the time. Then, too, he had been busy with his camera.
"I would recognize his voice on the instant," he assured himself. "But
his face. I wonder if I could recognize it again if I saw it. I
wonder--" Had he but known it he was to look once more at this man and
still be unable to picture him in his mind.
He was interested, too, in Tom Howe's five "bad ones." He wondered if
any of those five desperate and cunning criminals had really taken part
in the recent safe crackings. Tungsten Tom did appear to be involved in
the first one. But the second, the diamond robbery? Only time could
tell.
He wondered, in a vague sort of way, why those men had two trucks? What
did they hope to carry away? Why did not Tom Howe and his associates
arrest them at once and prevent them from committing other crimes?
"Wants to catch them with the goods on them," he assured himself. "Wants
to get them all and put them behind bars for a long time."
"Behind bars," he whispered. He tried to picture a great prison and
could not, for he had never seen one. What a strange, fantastic place it
must be! And what a queer, upside down world it was in which such
terrible places were needed.
And then it was time to go home with John Nightingale, to enjoy a feast
of bitter hot chocolate, beef-steak broiled over coals, baked potatoes
and ginger snaps. What a strange, good, bad, sad, glad world it was! And
how good it was to be alive and to have a job where you could be where
so much was happening every day.