Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimal speck from his left cuff. “Ah,” he commented, “the Canned Meat Trust. What have you been doing to them?”
“Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certain by-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I found they were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then selling the stuff.”
“Would the meat so treated be poisonous?”
“Well—dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning them that they must stop.”
“Did they reply?”
“A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if I thought my invention was worth more than I’d received, his principals, would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly after I heard that the Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr. Elverson.”
“Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller of leaks than a sieve.”
“That’s probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanide fumes a fortnight later,” remarked Dorr dryly. “I got to the outer air alive, but not much more. A week later there was an explosion in the laboratory. I didn’t happen to be there at the time. The odd feature of the explosion was that I hadn’t any explosive drugs in the place.”
“Where is this laboratory?”
“Over in Flatbush, where I live—or did live. Within a month after that, a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking up behind me as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too, but missed me. I reported it to the police, and they told me to be sure and not let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it.”