The I.P. man was taking notes in a little book. "Calm yourself, Mr. Garth," he said. "Whoever broke in here can't get away this time. The impenetration walls have automatically closed down. The entire area is cut off by a ring of steel."
"But it's the Nebula I tell you, you stupid fool!" cried Garth. "While you stand there like an idiot—" The eyes of the Trust Company president suddenly fastened on Jimmy, leaning comfortably on his rod-cane at the edge of the growing crowd. "Mr. Starr, I'm certainly glad to see you. Help me. Tell me what I should do...."
Nodding quietly, Jimmy stepped forward. To the I.P. he said casually, "J. C. Starr, president of Triplanetary Shipping. How much has been stolen, officer?"
Another I.P. man emerged from the Trust office. "Only one compartment opened, sir. W-203."
Hamilton Garth looked bewildered. "That's odd," he said. "The W series of files are all unused. There's nothing in any of them."
Jimmy laughed. "Mr. Garth, you can consider yourself a lucky man. The Nebula seems to have muffed things this time. Good night."
He turned and sauntered off down the street.
It was the following morning, and for an hour Jimmy Starr had sat by the visiphone in his room, waiting for a call. A tray of half-smoked cheroots lay on the table beside the instrument.
The bell sounded. Jimmy touched the stud.