Course, we hadn't really seen any bomb; but, what with the odd notions of them two females and the Lieutenant's panicky talk, I was feelin' almost jumpy myself.
"A time-fuse, most likely," says he, "set for midnight. That should give us several hours. We must find out who lives in that house."
"Ought to be simple," says I. "Come on."
We chases around the block and rings up the janitor of the flat buildin'. He's a wrinkled, blear-eyed old pirate, just on his way to the corner with a tin growler.
"Yah! You won't git in to sell him no books," says he, leerin' at us.
"Think so?" says I, displayin' a quarter temptin'. "Maybe if we had his name, though, and knew something about him, we might—"
"It's Bauer," says the janitor, eyein' the two bits longin'. "Herman Z. Bauer; a big brewer once, but now—yah, an old cripple. Gout, they say. And mean as he is rich. See that high fence? He built that to shut off our light—the swine! Bauer, his name is. You ask for Herman Bauer. Maybe you get in."
"Thanks, old sport," says I, slippin' him the quarter. "Give him your best regards, shall I?"
And as he goes off chucklin' the Lieutenant whispers hoarse:
"Hah! I knew it. Bauer, eh? And to-night he'll be sitting at one of those back windows, his ears stuffed with cotton, watching to see your plant blown up. We must have the constables here right away."