JIMMIE BRUSHES THE FLOOR
As he rode down town next morning Jimmie carried the precious old camera
with the unusual flashlight picture, taken by the trap in the old house,
in a case safely strapped over his shoulder.
"The way Kentucky mountaineers carry their guns," he assured himself.
"No one can take it from me."
As a thought came to him with sudden shock he whispered, "Glass
bubbles." Then, digging deep in his pocket he brought forth the card of
Dr. Amos Andre, the little old chemist who had a laboratory all his own
and who was interested in heavy water.
"I'll go and see him as soon as I can," he told himself. "I am sure he
is a man who can be trusted. He'll be able to tell me whether there's
anything to my theory. And if there is, I'll take it to Tom Howe."
At that, feeling quite pleased with himself for doing the old gentleman
who wanted to know all about heavy water a friendly turn, he folded the
card and stowed it carefully away in a small pocket of his coin purse.
There it was to remain until what John Nightingale would have called the
dramatic moment, had arrived.
He was keenly disappointed to find when he reached the office that
Scottie had been sent out of town on a special assignment.
"Won't be back until late in the day," he was told. "One of the other
boys will do anything you want done."
"Ho kay," said Jimmie. But it was not O. K. Not by a long shot. Only
Scottie should be entrusted with that precious film. So the camera still
hung under his coat while he looked into other matters.
Following out a hunch that had come to him the night before, he got Tom
Howe on the phone.
"Tom," he said, "you told me about a mysterious tapping. What place was
that?"
"Not so loud," Tom cautioned. "Phones sometimes have ears. On Washington
between Honore and Hawthorne."
"I'm going over there at the noon-hour," said Jimmie. "Got a hunch."
"Right," said Tom. "Let me know what you find out."
The discovery he made in the block on Washington Avenue was startling
enough. Hurrying back to the office he begged an hour's leave of
absence. The leave granted, he got Tom on the phone, then raced away to
his sky-scraper room.
"Tom! Tom!" he exclaimed quite out of breath from climbing the stairs,
"Know what? That tapping is in the same block as that fur storage
place."
"Sure! I knew that!" Tom smiled.
"And a half million dollars worth of fox skins are stored there," Jimmie
breathed.
"What? How do you know that?" Tom was on his feet.
"I'll tell you," said Jimmie. He proceeded to tell his story of the
Silver Fox King.
"Jimmie, you're a wonder!" Tom exclaimed.
"Beginner's luck," Jimmie grinned. "But, Tom!" he demanded, "Don't you
think those crooks are tunneling to get those furs?"
"Undoubtedly," Tom agreed. "They'll come up through the cement floor of
the fur storage vaults, then take the skins out to the alley to load."
"And if a fellow was to be watching at some window across the street he
might see how they made the entrance to that tunnel of theirs."
"He might."
"And if there was light, he could get a picture of them."
"At that distance?"
"With my telescopic camera."
"Perhaps. But it would be necessary to exercise the greatest care,
Jimmie." Tom was very much in earnest. "We must catch this entire gang
with the goods on them. We simply must. We----"
He broke off short for at that moment his phone jangled loudly.
Jimmie heard him say in a casual tone, "Yes?" Then, excitedly, "That
right? Again! Subway to the Washington Street station? I'll be right
down."
"It's the Silent Terror!" he exclaimed as he dropped the receiver. "He's
struck again. In broad day-light, not five blocks from here." He reached
for his coat.
"May I go with you?" Jimmie's voice rose.
"Yes--yes, certainly."
"And may I take this?" Jimmie asked.
"Yes, sure." Tom did not even look.
Jimmie dropped a small clothes brush into his pocket.
A moment more and they were on their way. At the outer door Jimmie
seized a newspaper and threw a nickel at the boy as he ran.
They arrived at the subway quite out of breath. A row of blue-coats kept
the crowd back, but Tom Howe and Jimmie passed at once. The subway had
been cleared. Three policemen stood over a small, gray-haired man who
apparently was struggling to regain consciousness.
"The--the pay--pay--roll," he murmured thickly. "Is--is it gone?"
"That's all right," one of the officers reassured him. "Tell us what
happened."
"I--I was taking the pay-roll from the bank when some--something
happened. I--I saw a hand. I heard a voice, and--and then I must have
had some sort of sinking spell."
"Same old story," Tom said in a low tone to Jimmie.
"The Bubble Man," Jimmie said.
"What's that?" Jimmie made no reply.
"Tom," Jimmie gripped his arm, "will they mind if I sort of brush around
the floor?"
"Who? They?" Tom nodded at the officers. "No, I guess not. But why----"
"Don't ask me. I'll explain later." Dropping on hands and knees the boy
began brushing the floor in a wide circle. He used Tom's clothes brush.
When at last his circle had narrowed to a spot the size of a man's hat
he placed a single square of newspaper on the polished floor of the
subway and appeared to brush an invisible something onto the paper.
Truth was, his arduous brushing appeared to have caught only three
insignificant bits of paper, one of them a fragment of a chewing gum
wrapper.
"There," he sighed, as, having folded the bit of newspaper neatly, then
wrapped it in another square, he thrust it into his pocket.
Tom was too busy asking questions, examining the victim's clothing and
looking for possible clues to pay any attention to his actions.
When at last they walked out into the street, Tom said,
"Same old stuff! No information worth considering. But we're going to
get that man. We've got to do it."