He, Ben Gascon, had given old Bratton the dummy that people called Tom-Tom. And old Bratton was forthwith murdered. Gascon had meant to go to the funeral, but something had turned up to interfere. What else concerned the janitor? What, for instance, had the younger electricians and engineers teased him about so often? "Electricity is life," that was old Bratton's constant claim. And he was said to have whole clutters of strange machinery at his shabby rooms.
Bratton had taken Tom-Tom. Thereafter Bratton and others had been killed. In the background of their various tragedies had lurked and plotted something small, evil, active, and strange enough to frighten the most hardened of criminals. "Electricity is life"—and Bratton had toiled over some kind of electrical apparatus that might or might not be new and powerful in ways unknown to ordinary electricians.
Gascon left the rationalization half completed in the back of his mind, and sought out the shabby street where the janitor had lodged.
The landlord could not give him much help. To be sure old Bratton had made a nuisance of himself with his machines, mumbling that they would startle the world some day; but after his death, someone had bought those machines, loaded them upon a truck and carted them off. The landlord had seen the purchase, and later identified the purchaser from newspaper photographs as the late Juney Saltz.
And Juney Saltz, pondered Gascon, had been killed by something with a shrill voice, that could crawl through a stovepipe hole.... "You saw the sale of the goods?" he prompted the landlord. "Was there a dummy—a thing like a big doll, such as ventriloquists use?"
The landlord shook his head. "Nothing like that. I'd have noticed if there was."
So Tom-Tom, who had gone home with old Bratton, had vanished.
Gascon left the lodgings and made a call at a newspaper office, where he inserted a personal notice among the classified advertisements:
T-T. I have you figured out. Clever, but your old partner can add two and two and get four. Better let S.C. go. B.F.G.
The notice ran for three days. Then a reply, in the same column: