“These,” he said, half concealing the pictures, “are my special charge, though your friend, the Silent Terror, is beginning to crowd in upon them.”
“Five,” said Jimmie in a whisper. “The five?”
“Absolutely,” Tom’s voice was husky. “Front view and profile of each. Reading from left to right, Black Dolan; Piccalo, the Pipe; Pagan, the Fence; Stumps Sharpe; and Tungsten Tom. Every one of them has a criminal record. When five such men get together there’s bound to be trouble.” He folded up the packet and returned it to his pocket. “I don’t mind telling you I’m off in a few minutes to look over a small job they are suspected of pulling.”
“Small? Thought you said they were big.”
“When something big is planned it calls for money. Crooks get money in their own way. This time they opened up the safe of a movie company and got away with several fat bundles of currency.
“You might like to go along,” Tom suggested. “Might give you a scoop for your paper. Far as I know the thing’s been kept quiet.”
“A scoop! Oh, boy!”
This was the second time that a story had loomed large on Jimmie’s horizon. He thought of John Nightingale; good old hard-working John who had done him so many favors.
“A scoop for John,” he said aloud. “That will be grand!”
“Got your camera?”