"What are you making notes for?" I asked, curiously. "Are they for your paper, or the police?"
"Neither," replied McGinity. "They are intended for broadcasting. After I'd talked to my City Editor, I got Mr. Scoville of the NRC on the phone, and he's promised to have a good description of the rocket put on the air at three o'clock this afternoon, again at six, and at nine this evening."
"Excellent idea," I said, enthusiastically. "I only wish there was something I could do. What can I do?"
"Well, Mr. Royce," replied McGinity, as he finished making his notes, and gave me a smile and roguish wink that meant much, "a reward is always useful in these matters. Money can do things that mere words can't do."
"I see what you mean," I responded slowly. I thought a moment, and then said: "If my belief's correct, the sooner we lay hands on the two men who stole the rocket the better! Yes? Well, Mr. McGinity, I'm quite willing to help out on this, in a small way, of course. I'll offer a reward of $5,000—"
"Five thousand dollars!" McGinity interrupted, gleefully. "That's a whole lot of money, Mr. Royce, and I'm sure it's going to help solve the mystery. And say—here's an idea that occurs to me. Why not phone Olinski now, at once, and get a detailed description of the rocket from him. And then ask him—also for me—if he ever visited a certain curio and bookseller's shop at the corner of Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street. If he doesn't answer you directly, and begins to question you—well, just hang up. Better hurry now!"
I am easily excited, and I certainly felt my heart thump as I hurried into one of the compartments of the telephone booth, to carry out the reporter's suggestions, while McGinity stepped quickly into the adjoining section, to conclude the necessary arrangements by telephone for broadcasting the $5,000 reward.
I smiled to myself as I impatiently awaited a response to my call. There I was, a staid member of society, a pillar of the church, holding dignified offices in at least a dozen of the most exclusive and conservative clubs of New York—tracking down an ingeniously concocted scheme to ruin my brother's reputation as a scientist, with the self-possession of a Hercule Poirot, or any other equally distinguished detective of fiction; lunching at a reporters' hangout, and, now, about to perform a rather dirty trick on my good friend, Olinski—altogether putty in the hands of a very audacious but ingratiating reporter.
Luckily for me, Olinski was reported "out" at his laboratory. In fact, he hadn't been in for two days; obviously his staff was worried.
"Of course, Olinski's out," muttered McGinity, when I told him; "he's got other business to attend to—pressing business." And then he proceeded to begin preparations to leave. "Now, we'd better get along to Sands Cliff—quick! Our next job's there."