His men, with a battering ram, delayed.
The helmeted men, some with axes, others with scaling ladders, hose, or the rubber covers used by the emergency squad from the Fire Underwriters, paused.
“What-da-ya mean, nothing more won’t burn?” growled a policeman from the patrol car standing nearby.
His finger pointed toward the glass panel of the main door.
Roger, looking in, saw the curious orange glow and the weirdly bluish-violet splaying out across the office from the inner spaces.
“Who—what set off the flouroscope and the X-rays?” he gasped, while Grover reassured the gathered people.
Unobtrusively setting one foot well to the side on the top step, so that his toe, pressed forward, found the small protecting pin, he unlocked the door, careful to keep the knob turned toward the left, instead of in the natural hand-turn to the right.
That, Roger knew, cut out that particular light-beam system, so that they could enter without altering the present status of the tell-tale panel inside that would reveal where entry had been made, and by which magnetized plate the marauder would be held in trying to escape.
They rushed in. His first rush took Roger to the panel.
Not a bulb glowed! He stared, unable to accept the story it told—somebody had set off every light-beam-trip! That put out the lights.