TOO LATE
Joe tiptoed to the door between the two rooms.
“Feel anything queer, Jim?” he asked his companion.
“Just beginning to,” answered Jim, not turning his head or taking his
eyes off the paper. “I’m starting to feel drowsy and the old tingling
sensation is going through my arm.”
“Pretend to nod,” counseled Joe. “Then let the paper fall from your
hand and slump down off your chair to the floor. We don’t want to let
that infernal machine do any more mischief. We’ve got all the proof we
want.”
Joe returned to his post of vantage. The sparks were still coming from
the machine.
Jim, with excellent acting, kept up the pretense of reading a moment
longer then slowly let the paper drop and himself slid down off the
chair to the floor. Thus out of sight of the conspirators, he crept
below the level of the window into the other room.
Joe saw the curtains across the street part a little and the face of
the old scientist appeared. It wore a smile of satisfaction at having
achieved its purpose. At the same time the power behind the instrument
was evidently turned off, as the sparks ceased and the table was
wheeled away from the window.
Again Joe caught a glimpse of two figures behind that of the old
man and the hand of one of them came down congratulatingly on the
scientist’s shoulder.
“I’d give a farm to be able to see the faces of those two men,” Joe
said to Jim, who was standing out of range of the window, rubbing his
arm. “Though of course,” he added, “I have no doubt as to who they are.”
“Harrish and Tompkinson of course,” remarked Jim. “They’re the subtle
scoundrels who’ve engineered this thing. The old man is simply their
tool. And now they’re congratulating him on the way he’s done his work.
They can already hear the rustling of that two hundred thousand dollars
they’re going to win.”
“That they were going to win,” corrected Joe, as he laid aside the
field glasses. “But that’s all gone glimmering now. They’ll get no
further chance to cripple us. We’ll get after them at once. How is the
arm feeling, Jim?”
“It’s all right again,” was the reply. “That wasn’t kept up long enough
to do any harm. I suppose at other times they’ve kept that thing going
at us for an hour or more at a time.”
“Well, let’s get ready for lunch now,” said Joe. “We’ve done the best
morning’s work of our lives.”
“Thanks to that old noddle of yours,” put in Jim. “The best detective
on the force couldn’t have worked that thing out better than you have
done. But now what’s your next step?”
“To put McRae wise to the whole thing,” replied Joe. “He’ll get the
whole police department at work if necessary. We’ll hurry to the Polo
Grounds and see him before the game.”
They cornered McRae and Robbie as soon as the manager and his assistant
entered the clubhouse.
“I’d like a word with you and Robbie in private, Mac,” Joe began
without any preliminaries.
“Sure thing,” replied McRae, in some surprise at the state of repressed
excitement under which the young men seemed to be laboring. “Come over
in my office.”
“Mac,” said Joe, as they seated themselves after the manager had
carefully closed the door, “Jim and I have found out why we’ve been
knocked out of the box.”
“What do you mean?” demanded McRae.
“I mean just this,” said Joe, and went on to tell in detail the events
of the morning.
The faces of McRae and Robbie were a study as Joe unfolded the rascally
scheme. Incredulity, conviction, and rage beyond expression succeeded
each other in turn.
“The scoundrels! The skunks! The thieves!” gasped Robbie, his face
apoplectic.
McRae leaped for the telephone.
“This you, O’Brien?” he said when he had secured the extension he
wanted. “Listen, Tom. Come up here to the Polo Grounds on the jump.
Bring a good man with you. Yes, one will be enough. We’ll give you any
further help you want. Tell you all about it when I see you. All right,
Tom. Thanks. Good-by.”
He put up the receiver and turned to the others.
“We’ll get after those scoundrels right away,” he announced. “And all I
ask is that I may get a chance to lay these two hands of mine on any or
all of them. If I do, there’ll be little mercy shown them!”
Nothing was said about the matter to the other members of the team
for fear of upsetting them by the knowledge of the plot against their
chances, and the game went on as usual. Bradley was in the box and
pitched one of his best games, scoring a victory by an ample margin.
Before the game ended O’Brien of the detective squad was on hand with a
policeman accompanying him whom Joe recognized as Lonergan.
“What’s up, Mac?” asked O’Brien, a burly, powerful man, after he had
shaken hands and been introduced to the others.
“Plenty, Tom,” replied McRae and briefly sketched the situation. “I
want to nab the bird who’s operating that infernal machine. Probably
he’ll peach on his confederates. Of course, I haven’t had time to swear
out a warrant――――”
O’Brien grinned.
“I guess we can get over that little formality,” he said. “Any one of
several things will do, ‘suspicious character,’ ‘disorderly conduct,’
‘assault with a deadly weapon.’ Leave that to me and pile into the car.”
They climbed into the department car in which O’Brien had come up and
were whirled up to the apartment house in which the old scientist dwelt.
They went upstairs, headed by O’Brien, who knocked on the door. There
was no response and he tried the knob. It yielded and they entered.
An exclamation of chagrin escaped their lips.
The bird had flown!