At that, to the glass blower’s astonishment, he dashed for the door and was away.
When Tom Howe had been told of Jimmie’s theory, that the Bubble Man filled fragile glass bubbles with gas and burst them by throwing them at his victim, and when he had heard of the test just made, he was convinced.
“That’s the answer sure as shooting,” he exclaimed. “And that is the reason we must get him. In time he will use a deadly poison gas and add murder to his list of specialties.
“And that gives me an idea!” he sprang to his feet. “At least it’s worth looking into. An old woman who keeps a boarding house phoned only yesterday that one of her roomers who at times had a wild look kept his room cluttered with tubes, vials and packages of chemicals. She was afraid to turn him out. Wanted to know if we would please look into the matter. We will, and that right now.”
“Oh! Yer from the Police! I’m that relieved!” said the broad-faced boarding-house keeper as Tom and Jimmie appeared at her door a half hour later. “Go right up. Here’s the key. The room’s number ten. He’s out jest now. And may Heaven bless ye if he returns right soon.”
“We’ll chance it,” Tom replied grimly.
One whiff at the room suggested a laboratory. Three minutes of looking convinced them that they were in the chemist’s den.
“Here are fragments of glass bubbles,” said Tom. “That’s proof enough. But where does he keep his poison gas?”
Stepping to a door he opened it. “Ah! A dark closet.” He threw on his flashlight. “There,” he breathed. On the shelf were six black, steel tubes. Stepping quickly forward, he turned one about, then caught a deep breath. On the back side of that tube was a label marked:
“Poison.”