SETTING HIS CAMERA FOR A CLOSE-UP, JIMMIE SQUINTED THROUGH THE FINDER. ([Page 54])

JIMMIE DRURY:
CANDID CAMERA DETECTIVE

BY
DAVID O’HARA

ILLUSTRATED BY
F. E. Warren

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1938, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [Out from the Fog] 1 II. [Magic of the Dark Room] 11 III. [The Dark Room] 22 IV. [Tom Howe’s Ears] 36 V. [The Candid Camera Clicks Again] 50 VI. [John’s Hideout] 57 VII. [Big Timers Stage a Rehearsal] 67 VIII. [A Millionaire Pitcher] 85 IX. [A Fortunate Shot] 92 X. [The Alaskan Match Clue] 103 XI. [Strange, White Balls] 114 XII. [The Silver-Fox King’s Treasure] 127 XIII. [Jimmie Sets a Trap] 141 XIV. [The “Haunted House”] 151 XV. [Nature Lends a Hand] 157 XVI. [The Trap is Sprung] 165 XVII. [Jimmie Brushes the Floor] 175 XVIII. [In the Bubble Man’s Lair] 183 XIX. [At Last, the Terror’s Picture] 193 XX. [The Zero Hour] 201 XXI. [More About Diamonds] 208

JIMMIE DRURY:
CANDID CAMERA DETECTIVE

CHAPTER I
OUT FROM THE FOG

A heavy fog had come sweeping in from the lake. Lights from street lamps glowed dimly like great, bleary eyes. Store windows were mere blankets of pale white light.

Jimmie Drury hated fog. He was thinking as he crossed the Madison Street bridge: “Perhaps the devil is a monster breathing out fire, but when his fires are banked he must breathe out cold, gray fog which is worse. He——”

Just then the thing happened. A shadowy figure stepped from behind a steel girder of the bridge. A husky voice said:

“As you are!”

Jimmie’s figure went rigid. Involuntarily his right hand gripped something hard and round in his right side pocket. Something struck his chest. There was a blinding flash. Then Jimmie went down like an empty sack and out like a match.

When he came to he found himself the center of a curious group surrounded by fog. A policeman was bending over him. His first sensation was one of surprise that he was still alive. Then, like an electric shock, a thought came to him:

“Did—did he get it?” he stammered. His hand went to his belt.

“No,” he answered his own question, “he didn’t get it. But did I get him? That’s the question.”

“Poor dear,” sighed a bespectacled old lady at the edge of the crowd, “he must be delirious. It’s the shock.”

“Back, all of you,” the policeman interrupted her. “Give him air.”

“Fog, you mean,” Jimmie laughed. “I—I’m all right, officer. I—” He tried to rise but sank back dizzily.

“Take it easy,” the officer advised.

“Officer,” said Jimmie, “do you know Tom Howe?”

“Tommy Howe, that keen young detective? Who of the force don’t know him?” The officer laughed hoarsely.

“Get him on the phone at the State Street Station right away if you can.” Jimmie’s tone was eager, tense with excitement. “It—it’s terribly important. Tell him to meet me at the Daily Press offices. By the elevator, sixth floor.”

“And who shall I say you might be?” inquired the officer.

“Jimmie Drury. You must know my father,” the boy replied eagerly. “He’s Howard Drury,——”

“Chief sports editor of the Press. Sure, I know him. And you’re his son, right enough. The resemblance is plain. Right, my lad—But, say!” the policeman’s tone changed. “Don’t I get in on this? It was me that found you. Don’t forget that.”

“Sure! Oh, sure you do!” Jimmy exclaimed. “And now,” he strove again to rise, “with you—your help I can walk.”

“Right! Up you come. And now, clear out, all of you!” The officer waved a hand at the crowd that, like a fade-out in the movies, vanished into the fog.

“All—all right, we’re off.” Jimmie swayed dizzily, then, with the grip of a strong hand on his arm, made his way slowly back across the bridge.

At the far side of the bridge they halted for a moment at a call-box.

“What did you say your name was?” asked the officer absent-mindedly.

“Jimmie Drury, of the Press.”

“Ah, yes, of the Press,” the officer mumbled. Then, into the receiver, “That you, Mike? This is Denny Sullivan. And is Tom Howe there? He is? That’s good. Put him on the wire.”

There was a moment’s wait during which Jimmie ran his fingers carefully over something black and hard hanging at his belt, then indulged in a sigh of satisfaction.

“That you, Tom?” the officer boomed. “This is Denny Sullivan.”

“Yes, Denny.”

“Say. There’s a boy here. I picked him up on the bridge a bit ago. Says you’re to come to the Press offices, sixth floor by the elevator. What do you know about that?”

“His name? Why, it’s Jimmie Drury.”

“What’s that? Oh, you will? You’ll be over at once? That’s good.”

“What do you know about that?” Denny Sullivan exclaimed as he hung up. “Tom says he’ll be right over.”

“I knew he would,” Jimmie smiled.

“Well, we’ll be getting on up,” said the officer. “Give me your arm.”

Passing through double doors, they made their way up an inclined runway, crossed a long corridor, turned right, caught an elevator and were whisked away to the sixth floor.

There, after passing down one more corridor, they came to a large room where desks, chairs, and typewriters of all descriptions loomed out of the darkness of the place.

On their approach a tall, slender man rose slowly from his place beside a bank of telephones.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s you, Jimmie. And,” with a laugh, “pinched again! What did he do this time, Denny?” He turned to the officer.

“Went out like a bad electric bulb,” said the officer. “And no cause at all, unless it was a sudden flash of light.

“You see,” Denny went on, “I had just reached the bridge when that flash came. First I thought it might be a shot. But there was no sound. I made a dash for it. And there was this boy. I——”

“It was that man!” Jimmie, no longer able to control himself, broke in. “The one they call the Silent Terror.”

“The Silent Terror! No!” John Nightingale, the young reporter stared. “It couldn’t have been!”

“But it was! I just got a glimpse of him,” Jimmie insisted. “He said, ‘As you are!’ I felt something hit my chest, not very hard and I thought, ‘I’ve been hit. Perhaps I’m going to die.’ Then everything faded.”

“But the bright light?” said John.

“Oh, that—that was my idea.” Jimmie grew excited. “You know I’ve been experimenting in every sort of way with my candid camera.”

“Yes, I know. You——”

“Last thing I tried,” Jimmie broke in, “I hung the camera on my belt with a flat flash-light beside it. I put a flash bulb in the light. Then I connected up an electric push button that would open the camera and shoot off the flash all at the same time.”

“And I suppose,” John Nightingale drawled, “that you went right out and hunted up this Silent Terror and said, ‘Beg pardon. Let me take your picture.’”

“No! No! It wasn’t like that,” Jimmie laughed. “That was an accident; what father would call a ‘fortunate coincidence.’”

“But you were ready for him,” John insisted. “That’s foresight.”

“I was ready for anything interesting that might happen ten feet from where I stood. But think!” Jimmie grew excited again. “I may have the picture of the Silent Terror right here in my little candid camera. Won’t that be something.”

“It will indeed,” said John Nightingale, visibly impressed. “But here is Tom Howe, the ace detective.” His voice changed. “What do you know, Tom? Our young cub reporter has met the Silent Terror face to face, and lives to tell the story.”

“What!” said Tom Howe, who, save for his deep-set, piercing eyes, looked little the part of a detective.

“And he thinks he took his picture,” the reporter added.

“If he did,” Tom said soberly, “he has done a real service to his city. We’ve got to get that man and get him quick. At present, in some way quite unknown to us, he is putting people to sleep at a distance and robbing them on the streets. But criminals are never satisfied. In time he will double the dose, whatever it is, and his victims will never come to life. It is always that way with crime.”

“But how about the picture?” he demanded, turning eagerly to Jimmie.

“It—it’s not developed yet,” Jimmie stammered.

“Come on. We’re in luck,” the reporter exclaimed. “Scottie just went back to the darkroom. Took some pictures of the fight out at the park—to illustrate your father’s write-up, you know,” he explained to Jimmie. “He just went back to develop them. Come on, we’ll all go back to the dark room.”

“What’s all this?” put in a soft feminine voice.

“Oh, hello, Mary Dare,” John Nightingale exclaimed. “Been doing night life in the great city?”

“Out on a show that somebody thought should be exposed.” The young, red-headed lady reporter, who looked little more than a girl, laughed merrily. “But what’s the big excitement?”

“Jimmie thinks he got a picture of the Silent Terror with his candid camera,” John explained. “Come on back with us and we’ll watch this Silent Terror come out on the film.”

And so the five of them marched toward the magic dark room of a great city newspaper where many a picture destined to condemn a guilty man to the electric chair or set an innocent one free has first seen the red glow of the photographer’s magic lamp.

CHAPTER II
MAGIC OF THE DARK ROOM

Scottie McFadden, a veteran photographer of the Press, was discovered to be entrenched in his favorite dark room.

“Can’t come out for another quarter hour,” his voice sounded out through the walls. “These fight pictures must be out for the early edition. What have you got?”

“One of Jimmie’s candid camera shots,” John Nightingale winked at his friends as he shouted through the dark room walls.

“Candid camera!” came roaring out from the dark room, “You may as well all go home. Nothing big will ever come from a picture the size of a postage stamp.”

“May be bigger than you think this time,” was John’s reply. “Anyway, we’ll wait.”

“And while you’re all waiting,” he added in a lower tone, “I’ll hop down to Jerry’s for two quarts of coffee and a sack of sinkers,” and away he went.

“Coffee and doughnuts,” Jimmie thought with a start. “That was what I was after. Wonder what became of that black bag? Bet that fellow got it.”

His father was working late that night because of the heavy-weight boxing bout. Jimmie had begged permission to stay down-town and go home with him on the late theater train and permission had readily been granted. Later when Howard Drury, his father, was ready to start his story he had sent Jimmie out for refreshments. These were always carried in a small, black leather bag.

“Say!” Jimmie exploded suddenly, wheeling about to face Tom Howe, the young detective. “I’ll bet I know why that Silent Terror came to pick on me.”

“Why?” Tom Howe stared.

“I was carrying a small black bag.”

“Sure, that’s it,” Tom agreed, quick to seize upon the clue. “Thought you were a messenger carrying money from some small theater to the central vault.”

“That’s it,” Jimmie agreed.

This much decided upon they all lapsed into silence. They were a quiet group, these reporters and the detective, when there was nothing really serious to be talked about.

Jimmie now found time to think back over the days that had led up to this moment. Think, he did, and like all the thoughts of youth, his were long, long thoughts.

The old lady on the bridge had called Jimmie a “poor dear.” She would not have called him that had she seen him streaking down the field for a touchdown last autumn. Jimmie had a small, almost childish face, but he was large, six feet in his stockings, 170 pounds, which is not bad for a 17-year-old high school boy.

But Jimmie was not all football. Truth is, he took football as a matter of duty. Loyalty to his school demanded it. Jimmie’s interest was centered on cameras. When eight years old he had been taken to the Press photograph department. There he had asked Scottie McFadden so many and such astounding questions that at first Scottie stood staring and at last drove him, in a good-natured manner, from the place, declaring he’d be fired for getting no work done.

Jimmie’s first hard-earned dollar had gone for a camera of a sort. For years after that all he could earn, beg or borrow went for cameras and equipment. His proudest hour came when, on his seventeenth birthday, his wealthy uncle Bob had presented him with a truly wonderful miniature camera.

“It’s a Gnome,” he confided to Scottie. “Takes twenty-four pictures in about as many seconds. Got a wide-angle lens that will almost take pictures in the dark. And fast! Say! There’s not a camera made that’s faster. It—it’s a real dwarf.”

“A Gnome, is it?” Scottie had drawled. “Well, you’ve got to show me, son. I don’t go in for these baby cameras that you can lose in your pocket. Give me a box with a strap that goes over your shoulder and a ground glass at least three inches across. Candid camera, is it? Well, my camera is candid, too. See those pictures I took of the baseball boys in action?”

“Yes,” said Jimmie. “They were great!”

“Sure they were,” Scottie agreed. “And why? Because they were taken with a real camera.”

Jimmie’s chance to show Scottie what his Gnome would do came sooner than he had expected. With his father’s aid he had secured a summer job with the Press as copy boy. The results had been surprising.

To many the job of copy boy would not prove exciting. To jump when someone in the large editorial room shouts, “Boy!”, to go racing away to Miss Peter’s desk on the third floor or Mr. Bill’s on the seventh and to keep this up for long hours is tiring to say the least. Yet, for Jimmie, every office, the composing room, the roaring press-room held a charm all its own.

It was, however, his little candid camera that brought his great opportunity. Perhaps it was because he always jumped promptly while other boys lagged that John Nightingale began to take an interest in him. More than once he paused to chat with the lad. Then, one day, right out of a clear sky he leaped up from answering a phone call to exclaim:

“Come on, boy! You’re drafted for something really big.”

“I—I—what?” Jimmie stammered.

“Got your little camera, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sure,” Jimmie stared.

“Percy Palmer’s been found dead. Come with us. You’re going to take his picture.”

“Percy Palmer, the millionaire? Oh, I—” Jimmie held back.

“Sure! Come on! You’re drafted, I tell you.”

And Jimmie went.

While they were on their way in a taxi John explained that two photographers were home sick and three out on big stories.

“So that left only you,” John finished.

“But, I—Well, you see——”

“Yes, I know, but I’ve seen some of your shots,” John broke in. “They’re good. Good enough for me. You wait. We’re a full half hour ahead of the other papers. It will be a scoop. You’ll see one of your pictures on the front page under a screaming head-line.”

And he did.

That was not all there was to it either. Jimmie had just finished reading a book called, “Mysteries of Real Life.” The part cameras have played in solving death mysteries had been told in this book in detail. After making the shots of the dead man required by the reporter, he took a number of others on his own. These pictures, when developed and enlarged, were presented to the coroner’s jury and went far toward helping to prove that this was a case of suicide and not of murder.

After that, on many a summer afternoon Jimmie did not answer to the call of “Boy!”, for he was not there, but was off with his good pal, John, shooting a story.

Needless to say, Jimmie went in stronger than ever for candid cameras. He haunted a shop window where telescopic lenses were displayed, spent many hours studying methods of taking pictures in the dark with the aid of infra-red rays and dreamed strange dreams of thrilling photographic adventures.

Needless to say, none of those dreams had been more fantastic than the thing that had just happened to him there on the bridge in the fog.

It had begun with a book he had read on his day off. For once he had abandoned camera craft and had lost himself in a western story of wild adventure. The hero of this story shot from the hips and always got his man.

“Why not?” Jimmie whispered, thinking of his camera. “A shot from the belt, a touch of the button, a click, a flash, and there you have it, a picture.”

He tried it and with good results. By training his eye to measure distances accurately he could set his camera for eight, ten, or fifteen feet and get a fairly sharp picture three times out of four.

“But when will you use it?” Jimmie’s father objected. “Of course, you might meet the president on the street and shoot him. But if you did you’d get nabbed. If you happened to meet a hold-up man and flashed a bulb in his face he’d shoot you and investigate afterwards.”

“You never can tell,” was Jimmie’s reply. “There’s no harm in being prepared.”

Shortly after that a fresh sensation made the headlines of all the papers. A strange new type of hold-up man was abroad on the city streets. A man crossing the Roosevelt Road viaduct heard a hoarse voice say: “As you are.” He saw an arm lifted in the shadows, felt a soft push at his chest, reeled dizzily, and some ten minutes later came to himself to find his wallet and watch gone.

“How was it done?” This was the headline for the next day’s paper. That, as time passed, became the question of the hour.

This man who soon became known as the Silent Terror struck again; this time in a tunnel leading to a suburban station. A woman hurrying to a train heard those same words, “As you are,” saw a hand, felt something touch her, and that was all. She was found a moment later lying unconscious. Her purse was gone. She returned to consciousness ten minutes later and was, apparently, none the worse for the adventure.

“Get that man!” was the cry of the police. “How does he do it?” the papers demanded. And they offered prizes, a hundred, five hundred, a thousand dollars, for the answer.

“Electricity,” said some; “gas” said others; “a new form of mysterious life and death.” But how? How?

A man on the Municipal Pier and a woman on the Washington Street bridge were the next victims. The man had a weak heart. He barely escaped death.

Tom Howe, one of the keenest young detectives in the city service, was assigned to the case. He was a friend of John Nightingale and had become greatly interested in Jimmie Drury. The three of them put their heads together but no solution appeared.

“And now,” Jimmie thought, sitting there in the newspaper office at night waiting for Scottie, the veteran photographer, “it’s happened to me. If only I got that fellow’s picture.”

“All right!” He started at the sound of a voice. “All right, Jimmie, me boy.” It was Scottie. “Give me that cigar lighter with the bit of baby ribbon inside. That thing you call a candid camera ... I’m ready to develop that film.”

“All—all right. Here it is,” Jimmie stammered. Then they all crowded excitedly into the narrow dark room; John Nightingale, Tom Howe, Denny Sullivan, Jimmie, and that red-haired girl named Mary Dare.

CHAPTER III
THE DARK ROOM

Jimmie had experienced many a thrill watching his pictures come into being on the shiny film, but never such a one as this. “So much depends upon it,” he thought as a chill ran up his spine. And much did; the fate of a man gone wrong, the safety and happiness of many he might yet spring upon unsuspectedly in the night; yes, perhaps the very lives of some might depend upon that picture. How eagerly, then, the five of them waited as Scottie rattled paper, held the white ribbon of film to the light, then began moving it dexterously through the developing solution.

Hushed silence followed. Jimmie was thinking, “What sort of person is this Silent Terror? Is he short or tall, dark or light? Will he be masked? How are we to know him? What distinguishing mark does he bear that will brand him for the future? What——”

“Why, Jimmie!” Scottie broke in upon his thoughts, “there’s nothing on this ribbon of yours!”

“Noth—nothing,” Jimmie stammered. Then, excitedly, “Yes, sure there is. Just one picture! There at the end. It—it’s coming through!”

“So it is!” said Scottie. At once he devoted all his attention to that end of the film.

“Think of wasting a whole film on one little picture,” Scottie murmured.

“Money well spent,” put in Tom Howe. “There’s a thousand dollar reward on that man’s head.”

Eagerly they crowded together for a look as Scottie held the tiny square to the light.

“He’s there!” John Nightingale whispered.

“There!” Mary Dare echoed.

“Wait,” cautioned Scottie the veteran. Many a picture had he seen go wrong in the making.

Sensing the tense excitement about him and consumed by a desire to tease a little, Scottie held the film in the solution for what to the watchers seemed an endless period of time.

“There,” he drew a long breath at last. “She should be done to a turn.”

Holding the film up with one hand, he examined it through a large magnifying glass.

“Jimmie! Jimmie!” he exclaimed. “I might have known it! You got only his ear. Why in time didn’t you ask the gentleman to turn around?” The laugh that followed was mirthless. Scottie had wanted to see Jimmie succeed.

“An ear!” Jimmie murmured.

“An ear!” Mary repeated.

“Must be a profile,” said John hopefully.

“Nope. See for yourselves,” Scottie held out the glass. “Only an ear.”

“More than that,” said Tom Howe after a look. “There’s a shoulder and the back of the neck. There’s as much character shown in a man’s neck as in the shape of his nose.

“And that ear!” he exclaimed after a closer look. “It’s priceless, that picture. There’s not another ear in the world like it. Jimmie, allow me to congratulate you.” He gripped the boy’s hand tightly.

“All right,” sighed Scottie. “Since it’s important we’ll wash it, then put it in the fixin’ bath and make it permanent.”

“And, Scottie,” Tom Howe put in eagerly, “just as soon as you can, make me an enlargement, big as the negative will stand. Will you?”

“It’s a good, sharp negative,” Scottie admitted. “Though how that happened with a boy shooting with a pill box from the hip, I can’t see. Your enlargement will be ready first thing in the morning, Tom.”

“I’ll be here bright and early,” Tom turned to go. The others followed him out into the dim, religious light characteristic of the editorial room of a great newspaper at night.

“I’m sorry the picture wasn’t better,” Jimmie said as Tom Howe came out from the dark room.

“You need not be.” Tom fixed his deep-set piercing eyes upon him. Tom was short and slender, yet there was that about his eyes which told each new-comer that here was a person not to be trifled with. “You got his ear and the back of his neck,” he went on. “That’s a lot. You might have got a bullet,” he added soberly. “That was a novel and daring thing to do, shooting a picture from the belt.”

“But only an ear,” Jimmie protested. “What can you tell by that?”

“Much,” said Tom. “Ears are neglected by most detectives. I have made a sort of specialty of them. Come over to my room and I’ll show you my collection of ears.”

“Collection of ears?” Jimmie was shocked.

“Oh, I don’t keep them in alcohol.” Tom laughed. “They’re not real, though they seem so at a little distance. You’ll find them interesting. Come at noon and we’ll have lunch together.”

“That—Say! That will be grand!” said Jimmie.

“Here’s the address,” Tom pressed a bit of cardboard into his hand. “Go up as far as the elevator will take you, climb two flights of stairs, knock sharply three times, wait sixty seconds, then knock again. If you get no response, turn and walk down again,” Tom laughed shortly, “for I’ll either be dead or shall have forgotten an appointment, neither of which has happened in five years.

“And now,” he put out a hand, “good-night and thanks for letting me in on this.”

“That’s all right,” Jimmie stammered. To be thanked by a truly famous young detective, that was something.

Jimmie passed his father’s office on the way back. A green shade drawn over his eyes, he was pounding furiously at the typewriter keys.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” his head jerked back for a second. “We’ll make the train O. K.” Once again his eyes, behind thick glasses, were fixed on his pencilled copy.

“Wonder if he knows,” thought Jimmie. He was thinking of his night’s experience.

“John,” he said, after retracing his steps to the reporter’s desk, “you won’t put my name in the story?”

“It would make a peach of a story,” John laughed low. “Can’t you see it? Boy—candid-camera bug—shooting from the hip—gets picture of the Silent Terror.”

“Yes, but you won’t use it.” It was Tom Howe who suddenly broke in upon their talk. He had retraced his steps to discuss this very thing. “We can’t let him know we have his picture, not just yet,” he went on. “Might scare this Terror off. And we must get that man!”

“Oh! All right.” With a sigh the reporter crumpled a paper in his hand. “A word from the voice of the law is all that’s needed.”

“Wish there were more like you.” Tom put a hand on his shoulder. “Many a catch has been thwarted by a newspaper story released too soon. When we get that man you’ll have first chance at the story, you have my word for it.”

“Thanks, old man.” John slouched down over his desk to take up once more the task of answering phone calls about a saloon brawl, a pick-pocket in the park, and some young drunks who had rammed their car into a viaduct.

“Such,” he sighed, “is a reporter’s life.”

As for Jimmie, he was vastly relieved. “Let that story get into the paper,” he thought, “and let mother read it and my career as a ‘rising young newspaper man’ will be at an end.” His mother was “afraid for him.” That was her way of expressing it. Jimmie was fond of his mother but he did not like to have her be afraid.

Beside his father in a seat of the suburban train Jimmie glanced sidewise twice. Then he realized that his father knew all about the affair at the bridge. Someone had told him the whole story.

“Father, that—” he cleared his throat, “that was what you’d say is in the nature of an accident.”

“Yes,” his father seemed to agree, “an accident.”

“Might have happened to anyone,” Jimmie went on, greatly encouraged.

“Just anyone,” said his father.

“It won’t be in the paper?”

“No.”

“Father, promise that you won’t tell mother. You won’t tell her, will you?” There was a note of anxiety in the boy’s voice.

“No. I think not.”

“Then——”

“Then you will be able to continue your work? Is that it?” His father smiled.

“Yes, I——”

“Son,” his father broke in, “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that you should go on. You may in time make a worth-while contribution to the safety of this city’s people with your candid camera.”

“Look out there!” He pointed to row after row of flat buildings speeding past them. “People live out there. Thousands and thousands of simple, kindly people. Hardly one of them feels perfectly at ease and safe. Why? Because criminals are free to roam the city streets.

“As I look at it,” his tone was serious, “it is the duty of each one of us to do what he can to make those people safe.

“I don’t want you to get yourself injured or killed. No father wants that. But I also don’t want you to grow up soft—to be afraid. I want you to be brave, strong. You can never be that until you have faced real dangers. Don’t be fool-hardy or reckless, but when an opportunity for a real service presents itself don’t be afraid to step in.”

“Thanks. Oh, thanks,” Jimmie stammered. What he was thinking was, “I’ve got a real dad.”

At that same hour John Nightingale and Mary Dare, the red-headed lady reporter, sat at a table in a basement eatshop drinking coffee and discussing Jimmie.

“What sort of a boy is this Jimmie Drury?” Mary asked.

“Oh, just another boy,” John drawled.

“John!” Mary’s voice rose, “you know that’s not true. No boy is just another boy. What sort of boy is he?”

“Wa—al,” John grinned, “he won a baseball game once. That was in his grade school days. Regular Jack Armstrong finish, it was.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, then, let me,” John grumbled. “It was the end of a series. Jimmie’s team was playing off a tie with the Holmes school for the championship. No end of excitement, you know. Last half of the ninth inning, score tied, seven and seven. Two men out and Jimmie up to bat and——”

With a slow grin overspreading his thin face, John paused to lift his cup for a good long draw at the coffee.

“John!” Mary stamped her foot.

“Oh, yes,” John pretended to start. “Of course. What does Jimmie do but swat a home-run into the tall grass? And after running the bases what did he do?”

“What?”

“Kept right on running. Streaked it for home.”

“Why?”

“Far as I can figure it out he didn’t want anybody making a fuss over him.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Mary.

“Jimmie’s popular in high school,” John went on. “And yet, I’m sure he never tried for popularity. He likes doing things, all sorts of things. If this makes him popular that’s O. K. with Jimmie. If it doesn’t, that’s O. K. too.

“He was outstanding as a basketball star on his team,” he went on after ordering another cup of coffee. “But I’ll swear you’d never guess it to see him play. He didn’t do any dancing about, not a useless motion, but every now and again you’d see him have the ball, watch it shoot up and in, then hear the crowd roar. You can’t make much out of a kid like that,” he ended with a drawl.

“No,” Mary agreed. “But in the end he’ll make a lot out of himself. You’ll see. I love the way he looks you straight in the eyes. So many boys look all over the lot while you’re looking at them, as if they had something to hide. Nothing like that with Jimmie.”

“That’s right,” John agreed. “I look for him to go places and do things. Well,” he rose, “tomorrow’s another day. See you in the morning.” He disappeared through a narrow door that led to the depot and his train.

Late as it was when Jimmie at last found himself in bed he did not fall asleep at once. The new wine of adventure had set his blood on fire. He had tried something strange. It had worked. “At least,” he thought with a chuckle, “I shot an ear. Next time I’ll do better.”

Would he? What was to follow? Would they get their man? And that thousand dollar reward? Who would be the lucky one? He thought of John. John Nightingale, the reporter, was always hard up, always shabby. He borrowed money on Mondays before paydays.

Then he thought of Mary Dare. She, too, was poor. She had not been a reporter very long. Her salary was small. What would not the reward do for these?

“She’ll get on,” John had said, speaking of Mary, “Dare’s the right name for her. She’s not afraid to tackle anything.”

Tom Howe? Well, he didn’t know so much about Tom.

But suppose he got the reward himself? Instantly he thought of that telescopic lens, of screens and filters for light and of strange new films that permitted one to take pictures in the pitch dark, without a flash. In the midst of these dreamings he fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV
TOM HOWE’S EARS

Next day the fog hung even heavier than before over the city. It was because of this, perhaps, that Jimmie witnessed a strange bit of street drama and made a new friend, all of which was to play a large part in his life in the near future.

He had been sent to a publisher for a picture of an author who recently had become quite famous. The publishing house was a small concern and had its offices in an old building on a narrow street over which the elevated cars rattled and thundered.

Having secured the picture Jimmie was on his way back when a figure came gliding toward him through the fog.

“Like a snake,” Jimmie thought, as he watched the man approach. The man’s face, he noticed as they came closer together, matched his gait. He had the beady eyes, the long nose, and the protruding lips of a snake. Involuntarily, Jimmie looked at his ear as he passed. It was a strange ear, little and dried up like an autumn leaf. But it was not the ear of the Silent Terror.

“Ears are different,” he told himself. “I’m going to start studying them.”

This set him thinking of his engagement to meet Tom Howe at noon. He thought of the detective’s instructions. “Go as far as the elevator will take you. Climb two flights of stairs.” Surely a strange place to live.

Then he remembered what Tom had said about his collection of ears. He was both mystified and intrigued. He would be glad when the noon hour came.

With all this day-dreaming he had failed to note the figure of a huge man who moved slowly along before him. When at last he became conscious of the man he was obliged to slacken his pace to avoid running into him.

The man took long, slow steps, like someone from the country. Evidently he had expected the fog to turn to rain for he wore a heavy rain coat that flapped loosely about him.

Then, of a sudden, Jimmie noticed someone else. It was the snake-like man. “I’m going to meet him again,” he thought with a start. “How did he get here?”

There could be only one answer to this question. The snake-man had crossed the street, had doubled on his tracks, gone racing through the fog in the opposite direction for a block or two, then had recrossed the street and was now walking back the way he had come.

“But why?” Jimmie all but said these words out loud.

The answer was not long in coming.

As the sneaking little man came opposite the large one who lumbered on before Jimmie his hand flashed out and snatched something from the pocket of the big man’s coat.

Jimmie’s lips were parted for a sharp warning when something quite unusual happened. The little man spun half around, arose in the air like an airplane taking off, then shot away into the fog to land solidly on the pavement a full fifteen feet from his starting point.

A gruff voice said, “There! That will teach you to keep your hands out of other people’s pockets!” At that the big man bent over to pick up the bill-fold that had been snatched from his pocket and which, with the blow, had been knocked from the small man’s hand.

Jimmie took it all in like a flash. The little fellow had tried to snatch a purse. The big man had caught him at it and knocked him into the middle of the street.

“Boy, mister! That was great!” the words slipped unbidden from Jimmie’s lips.

The big man whirled about. “Oh, a boy!” he smiled broadly.

“But won’t you have him arrested?” Jimmie asked in surprise.

“No—o, I guess not,” the big man drawled. “He’s just a dirty little cur. Guess he’ll remember this.”

“But he’s a pick-pocket,” Jimmie protested. “Probably got a long record. I saw him do it. We—we could convict him.”

“Yes,” the other agreed. “But see. The fog has swallowed him up.”

“That’s right,” Jimmie agreed. “But say!” Jimmie was struck by a sudden idea. “This would be a peach of a story. I’m from the Press. Mind if I take your picture?”

“In this fog?” The man stared at him.

“Sure. My candid camera gets ’em in any weather. Just a minute.”

Jimmie backed up, squinted through his finder, twisted a screw, pressed a button, then said,

“Thanks, that’s great.”

“Just like that,” the big man grinned. “Let me see that thing.”

Reluctantly Jimmie turned over his camera.

“Neat little trick,” said the man. “How much do they cost?”

“A little over a hundred dollars,” Jimmie took back his treasure with a sigh of relief.

“Thunder! That’s a lot for a thing you can hide in the palm of your hand,” the big man exclaimed.

“Made like a watch,” said Jimmie proudly. “When you’ve got one you’ve got something. I took a picture of a fellow’s ear last night. May send him to prison.”

“Well, I’d say he’d better cover up his ears,” laughed the big man. “By the way, you might like to see what was in that bill-fold.”

“Sure—sure, I would,” Jimmie moved closer.

“There it is.”

Jimmie saw a slip of paper. “Huh!” he chuckled. “Check for a half million. Stage money, I suppose.”

“Real money. Want to see me cash it? Come on. We’ll get a taxi at the next corner. Be at the bank in fifteen minutes.” With his head in a whirl the boy followed his strange new friend to the corner, entered a taxi and was whisked away.

Three hours later when he started for Tom Howe’s room his thoughts were still spinning. He had stumbled on a peach of a news story for good old John Nightingale. And there was to be more; indeed, very much more than he at that moment dreamed.

When, promptly at the appointed hour, he entered the building in which Tom’s room was located he found himself in one of the city’s most celebrated sky-scrapers. Like a giant needle it pierced the sky.

“Two flights above the last stop,” he thought with a thrill. “Up among the pigeons, bats and stars.”

In this he was not so far from being wrong. Tom’s place was a snug little spot just beneath the clock.

“From this high pinnacle,” Tom said as Jimmie, having entered the room, stood staring, “I look down upon the crooked little world that is a great city. See!” he pointed at a powerful telescope resting on a tripod. “Take a squint.”

Jimmie took one squint into the telescope, then gazed long and earnestly. Those spider-like creatures moving over the sidewalk seeming all arms and legs were turned once more by this magic glass into men and women. Those large black bugs crawling along the street became autos.

“What I just said is more truth than fancy,” said Tom. “Fact is, in these days when I have no more pressing matters to hold my attention I train my telescope on a certain garage.”

“Garage? Why?” Jimmie asked in surprise.

“In that garage,” said Tom, his voice took on a note of mystery, “are stored two trucks. Under the hoods of these trucks are hidden unusually powerful motors. These trucks, I am convinced, are being held in readiness for one of the largest and boldest robberies in the city’s history.”

“Wha—what will they steal?” Jimmie asked.

“That’s what we don’t know,” was Tom’s surprising reply.

“Then why——”

“When five of the city’s most dangerous criminals are seen together and when three of them are known to have purchased these trucks, had powerful motors installed in them and stored them, it is time for the city’s detective force to be up on their toes.”

“But why don’t you arrest them now?” Jimmie asked.

“Got nothing on them. But we will have,” Tom paced the floor. “We will. And we’ll get them. You’ll see. All are dangerous men. Three have been charged with murder. No matter. When those trucks are loaded the police will strike and then——”

“Next day’s headlines will read, ‘Tom Howe killed in gun battle,’” said Jimmie, with a dry laugh.

“Perhaps,” Tom agreed. “We’re looking for a better story than that.”

“Oh!” Jimmie exclaimed as his eye was caught by a large picture on Tom’s desk. “You have it.”

“Yes, your shot from the hip. A fine enlargement,” Tom enthused. “Scottie sent it over an hour ago.”

“Good old Scottie,” Jimmie chuckled. “He likes to kid me about my candid camera.”

“Yes, but he’s beginning to believe in it,” Tom took the enlargement from the table. “You stick by Scottie. He’ll give you anything you want. Providing what you want is right and for the good of all.

“Look at that picture,” he said a few seconds later. “Peach of an ear. Not another like it in the world.”

They were looking at an enlargement of a picture of the Silent Terror. Perhaps the only one in existence, it was the one taken by Jimmie on the eventful night before. For a full minute they stood staring at it in silence.

To Jimmie there was something about the picture that made him shudder. Is it true that some men are so evil, so terrifying by nature, that even before you have looked them in the eye you fear them? It would seem so, for Jimmie now found himself trembling from head to foot.

“It’s last night,” he told himself angrily. “I’m not over that shock. I mustn’t be such a softie!”

Then, that he might the sooner gain control of himself, he forced himself to recall what Tom had said to him about the man’s ear.

“Wha—what’s strange about the ear?” he at last managed to ask.

For an answer his host turned a small knob to open a broad, shallow cabinet. “Here,” he said, “are my ears.”

“Great guns!” Jimmie exclaimed. “They look real!”

“Don’t they, though!” Tom’s face beamed. “Done in wax. The exact reproduction of two hundred famous ears, many of them of crooks, living and dead. A clever little hunch-back lady, a marvelous sculptress, does them for me.

“What I want you to do,” he said, “is to pick one out that exactly matches this ear of the Silent Terror.”

“That should be easy,” said Jimmie. “There are so many.”

“Take your time.” Smiling in a strange way the young detective sat down behind his telescope.

For a full five minutes Jimmie studied those ears. From time to time Tom heard him murmur, “Nope, not quite. Not at all, in fact. Nor this. Nor that.”

“Say—ee!” he exclaimed at last. “They’re all different. But then,” his voice changed, “I suppose you picked them because they’re odd.”

“Not at all,” replied Tom. “If I had ten thousand ears, you’d not find two that matched.”

“By the way!” he said, changing the subject, “did you ever happen to notice that your nose is crooked?”

“No. And it’s not,” said Jimmie.

“Take a look,” Tom handed him a glass.