Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: SETTING HIS CAMERA FOR A CLOSE-UP, JIMMIE SQUINTED THROUGH THE FINDER. (_Page 54_)] JIMMIE DRURY: CANDID CAMERA DETECTIVE BY DAVID OâHARA _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 Howeâs Ears 36 V. The Candid Camera Clicks Again 50 VI. Johnâs 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 Kingâs Treasure 127 XIII. Jimmie Sets a Trap 141 XIV. The âHaunted Houseâ 151 XV. Nature Lends a Hand 157 XVI. The Trap is Sprung 165 XVII. Jimmie Brushes the Floor 175 XVIII. In the Bubble Manâs Lair 183 XIX. At Last, the Terrorâs 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: âPerhaps the devil is a monster breathing out fire, but when his fires are banked he must breathe out cold, gray fog which is worse. Heâââ Just then the thing happened. A shadowy figure stepped from behind a steel girder of the bridge. A husky voice said: âAs you are!â Jimmieâs 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: âDidâdid he get it?â he stammered. His hand went to his belt. âNo,â he answered his own question, âhe didnât get it. But did I get him? Thatâs the question.â âPoor dear,â sighed a bespectacled old lady at the edge of the crowd, âhe must be delirious. Itâs the shock.â âBack, all of you,â the policeman interrupted her. âGive him air.â âFog, you mean,â Jimmie laughed. âIâIâm all right, officer. Iââ He tried to rise but sank back dizzily. âTake it easy,â the officer advised. âOfficer,â said Jimmie, âdo you know Tom Howe?â âTommy Howe, that keen young detective? Who of the force donât know him?â The officer laughed hoarsely. âGet him on the phone at the State Street Station right away if you can.â Jimmieâs tone was eager, tense with excitement. âItâitâs terribly important. Tell him to meet me at the Daily Press offices. By the elevator, sixth floor.â âAnd who shall I say you might be?â inquired the officer. âJimmie Drury. You must know my father,â the boy replied eagerly. âHeâs Howard Drury,âââ âChief sports editor of the Press. Sure, I know him. And youâre his son, right enough. The resemblance is plain. Right, my ladâBut, say!â the policemanâs tone changed. âDonât I get in on this? It was me that found you. Donât forget that.â âSure! Oh, sure you do!â Jimmy exclaimed. âAnd now,â he strove again to rise, âwith youâyour help I can walk.â âRight! Up you come. And now, clear out, all of you!â The officer waved a hand at the crowd that, like a fade-out in the movies, vanished into the fog. âAllâall right, weâre off.â 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. âWhat did you say your name was?â asked the officer absent-mindedly. âJimmie Drury, of the Press.â âAh, yes, of the Press,â the officer mumbled. Then, into the receiver, âThat you, Mike? This is Denny Sullivan. And is Tom Howe there? He is? Thatâs good. Put him on the wire.â There was a momentâs wait during which Jimmie ran his fingers carefully over something black and hard hanging at his belt, then indulged in a sigh of satisfaction. âThat you, Tom?â the officer boomed. âThis is Denny Sullivan.â âYes, Denny.â âSay. Thereâs a boy here. I picked him up on the bridge a bit ago. Says youâre to come to the Press offices, sixth floor by the elevator. What do you know about that?â âHis name? Why, itâs Jimmie Drury.â âWhatâs that? Oh, you will? Youâll be over at once? Thatâs good.â âWhat do you know about that?â Denny Sullivan exclaimed as he hung up. âTom says heâll be right over.â âI knew he would,â Jimmie smiled. âWell, weâll be getting on up,â said the officer. âGive me your arm.â 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. âOh!â he exclaimed. âItâs you, Jimmie. And,â with a laugh, âpinched again! What did he do this time, Denny?â He turned to the officer. âWent out like a bad electric bulb,â said the officer. âAnd no cause at all, unless it was a sudden flash of light. âYou see,â Denny went on, âI 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. Iâââ âIt was that man!â Jimmie, no longer able to control himself, broke in. âThe one they call the Silent Terror.â âThe Silent Terror! No!â John Nightingale, the young reporter stared. âIt couldnât have been!â âBut it was! I just got a glimpse of him,â Jimmie insisted. âHe said, âAs you are!â I felt something hit my chest, not very hard and I thought, âIâve been hit. Perhaps Iâm going to die.â Then everything faded.â âBut the bright light?â said John. âOh, thatâthat was my idea.â Jimmie grew excited. âYou know Iâve been experimenting in every sort of way with my candid camera.â âYes, I know. Youâââ âLast thing I tried,â Jimmie broke in, âI 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.â âAnd I suppose,â John Nightingale drawled, âthat you went right out and hunted up this Silent Terror and said, âBeg pardon. Let me take your picture.ââ âNo! No! It wasnât like that,â Jimmie laughed. âThat was an accident; what father would call a âfortunate coincidence.ââ âBut you were ready for him,â John insisted. âThatâs foresight.â âI was ready for anything interesting that might happen ten feet from where I stood. But think!â Jimmie grew excited again. âI may have the picture of the Silent Terror right here in my little candid camera. Wonât that be something.â âIt will indeed,â said John Nightingale, visibly impressed. âBut here is Tom Howe, the ace detective.â His voice changed. âWhat do you know, Tom? Our young cub reporter has met the Silent Terror face to face, and lives to tell the story.â âWhat!â said Tom Howe, who, save for his deep-set, piercing eyes, looked little the part of a detective. âAnd he thinks he took his picture,â the reporter added. âIf he did,â Tom said soberly, âhe has done a real service to his city. Weâve 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.â âBut how about the picture?â he demanded, turning eagerly to Jimmie. âItâitâs not developed yet,â Jimmie stammered. âCome on. Weâre in luck,â the reporter exclaimed. âScottie just went back to the darkroom. Took some pictures of the fight out at the parkâto illustrate your fatherâs write-up, you know,â he explained to Jimmie. âHe just went back to develop them. Come on, weâll all go back to the dark room.â âWhatâs all this?â put in a soft feminine voice. âOh, hello, Mary Dare,â John Nightingale exclaimed. âBeen doing night life in the great city?â âOut on a show that somebody thought should be exposed.â The young, red-headed lady reporter, who looked little more than a girl, laughed merrily. âBut whatâs the big excitement?â âJimmie thinks he got a picture of the Silent Terror with his candid camera,â John explained. âCome on back with us and weâll watch this Silent Terror come out on the film.â 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 photographerâs 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. âCanât come out for another quarter hour,â his voice sounded out through the walls. âThese fight pictures must be out for the early edition. What have you got?â âOne of Jimmieâs candid camera shots,â John Nightingale winked at his friends as he shouted through the dark room walls. âCandid camera!â came roaring out from the dark room, âYou may as well all go home. Nothing big will ever come from a picture the size of a postage stamp.â âMay be bigger than you think this time,â was Johnâs reply. âAnyway, weâll wait.â âAnd while youâre all waiting,â he added in a lower tone, âIâll hop down to Jerryâs for two quarts of coffee and a sack of sinkers,â and away he went. âCoffee and doughnuts,â Jimmie thought with a start. âThat was what I was after. Wonder what became of that black bag? Bet that fellow got it.â 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. âSay!â Jimmie exploded suddenly, wheeling about to face Tom Howe, the young detective. âIâll bet I know why that Silent Terror came to pick on me.â âWhy?â Tom Howe stared. âI was carrying a small black bag.â âSure, thatâs it,â Tom agreed, quick to seize upon the clue. âThought you were a messenger carrying money from some small theater to the central vault.â âThatâs it,â 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 âpoor dear.â 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. Jimmieâs 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 heâd be fired for getting no work done. Jimmieâs 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. âItâs a Gnome,â he confided to Scottie. âTakes twenty-four pictures in about as many seconds. Got a wide-angle lens that will almost take pictures in the dark. And fast! Say! Thereâs not a camera made thatâs faster. Itâitâs a real dwarf.â âA Gnome, is it?â Scottie had drawled. âWell, youâve got to show me, son. I donât 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?â âYes,â said Jimmie. âThey were great!â âSure they were,â Scottie agreed. âAnd why? Because they were taken with a real camera.â Jimmieâs chance to show Scottie what his Gnome would do came sooner than he had expected. With his fatherâs 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, âBoy!â, to go racing away to Miss Peterâs desk on the third floor or Mr. Billâs 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: âCome on, boy! Youâre drafted for something really big.â âIâIâwhat?â Jimmie stammered. âGot your little camera, havenât you?â âYes, sure,â Jimmie stared. âPercy Palmerâs been found dead. Come with us. Youâre going to take his picture.â âPercy Palmer, the millionaire? Oh, Iââ Jimmie held back. âSure! Come on! Youâre drafted, I tell you.â 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. âSo that left only you,â John finished. âBut, IâWell, you seeâââ âYes, I know, but Iâve seen some of your shots,â John broke in. âTheyâre good. Good enough for me. You wait. Weâre a full half hour ahead of the other papers. It will be a scoop. Youâll see one of your pictures on the front page under a screaming head-line.â And he did. That was not all there was to it either. Jimmie had just finished reading a book called, âMysteries of Real Life.â 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 coronerâs 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 âBoy!â, 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. âWhy not?â Jimmie whispered, thinking of his camera. âA shot from the belt, a touch of the button, a click, a flash, and there you have it, a picture.â 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. âBut when will you use it?â Jimmieâs father objected. âOf course, you might meet the president on the street and shoot him. But if you did youâd get nabbed. If you happened to meet a hold-up man and flashed a bulb in his face heâd shoot you and investigate afterwards.â âYou never can tell,â was Jimmieâs reply. âThereâs no harm in being prepared.â 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: âAs you are.â 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. âHow was it done?â This was the headline for the next dayâs 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, âAs you are,â 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. âGet that man!â was the cry of the police. âHow does he do it?â the papers demanded. And they offered prizes, a hundred, five hundred, a thousand dollars, for the answer. âElectricity,â said some; âgasâ said others; âa new form of mysterious life and death.â 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. âAnd now,â Jimmie thought, sitting there in the newspaper office at night waiting for Scottie, the veteran photographer, âitâs happened to me. If only I got that fellowâs picture.â âAll right!â He started at the sound of a voice. âAll right, Jimmie, me boy.â It was Scottie. âGive me that cigar lighter with the bit of baby ribbon inside. That thing you call a candid camera ... Iâm ready to develop that film.â âAllâall right. Here it is,â 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. âSo much depends upon it,â 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, âWhat 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? Whatâââ âWhy, Jimmie!â Scottie broke in upon his thoughts, âthereâs nothing on this ribbon of yours!â âNothânothing,â Jimmie stammered. Then, excitedly, âYes, sure there is. Just one picture! There at the end. Itâitâs coming through!â âSo it is!â said Scottie. At once he devoted all his attention to that end of the film. âThink of wasting a whole film on one little picture,â Scottie murmured. âMoney well spent,â put in Tom Howe. âThereâs a thousand dollar reward on that manâs head.â Eagerly they crowded together for a look as Scottie held the tiny square to the light. âHeâs there!â John Nightingale whispered. âThere!â Mary Dare echoed. âWait,â 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. âThere,â he drew a long breath at last. âShe should be done to a turn.â Holding the film up with one hand, he examined it through a large magnifying glass. âJimmie! Jimmie!â he exclaimed. âI might have known it! You got only his ear. Why in time didnât you ask the gentleman to turn around?â The laugh that followed was mirthless. Scottie had wanted to see Jimmie succeed. âAn ear!â Jimmie murmured. âAn ear!â Mary repeated. âMust be a profile,â said John hopefully. âNope. See for yourselves,â Scottie held out the glass. âOnly an ear.â âMore than that,â said Tom Howe after a look. âThereâs a shoulder and the back of the neck. Thereâs as much character shown in a manâs neck as in the shape of his nose. âAnd that ear!â he exclaimed after a closer look. âItâs priceless, that picture. Thereâs not another ear in the world like it. Jimmie, allow me to congratulate you.â He gripped the boyâs hand tightly. âAll right,â sighed Scottie. âSince itâs important weâll wash it, then put it in the fixinâ bath and make it permanent.â âAnd, Scottie,â Tom Howe put in eagerly, âjust as soon as you can, make me an enlargement, big as the negative will stand. Will you?â âItâs a good, sharp negative,â Scottie admitted. âThough how that happened with a boy shooting with a pill box from the hip, I canât see. Your enlargement will be ready first thing in the morning, Tom.â âIâll be here bright and early,â 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. âIâm sorry the picture wasnât better,â Jimmie said as Tom Howe came out from the dark room. âYou need not be.â 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. âYou got his ear and the back of his neck,â he went on. âThatâs a lot. You might have got a bullet,â he added soberly. âThat was a novel and daring thing to do, shooting a picture from the belt.â âBut only an ear,â Jimmie protested. âWhat can you tell by that?â âMuch,â said Tom. âEars are neglected by most detectives. I have made a sort of specialty of them. Come over to my room and Iâll show you my collection of ears.â âCollection of ears?â Jimmie was shocked. âOh, I donât keep them in alcohol.â Tom laughed. âTheyâre not real, though they seem so at a little distance. Youâll find them interesting. Come at noon and weâll have lunch together.â âThatâSay! That will be grand!â said Jimmie. âHereâs the address,â Tom pressed a bit of cardboard into his hand. âGo 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,â Tom laughed shortly, âfor Iâll either be dead or shall have forgotten an appointment, neither of which has happened in five years. âAnd now,â he put out a hand, âgood-night and thanks for letting me in on this.â âThatâs all right,â Jimmie stammered. To be thanked by a truly famous young detective, that was something. Jimmie passed his fatherâs office on the way back. A green shade drawn over his eyes, he was pounding furiously at the typewriter keys. âBe ready in twenty minutes,â his head jerked back for a second. âWeâll make the train O. K.â Once again his eyes, behind thick glasses, were fixed on his pencilled copy. âWonder if he knows,â thought Jimmie. He was thinking of his nightâs experience. âJohn,â he said, after retracing his steps to the reporterâs desk, âyou wonât put my name in the story?â âIt would make a peach of a story,â John laughed low. âCanât you see it? Boyâcandid-camera bugâshooting from the hipâgets picture of the Silent Terror.â âYes, but you wonât use it.â It was Tom Howe who suddenly broke in upon their talk. He had retraced his steps to discuss this very thing. âWe canât let him know we have his picture, not just yet,â he went on. âMight scare this Terror off. And we _must_ get that man!â âOh! All right.â With a sigh the reporter crumpled a paper in his hand. âA word from the voice of the law is all thatâs needed.â âWish there were more like you.â Tom put a hand on his shoulder. âMany a catch has been thwarted by a newspaper story released too soon. When we get that man youâll have first chance at the story, you have my word for it.â âThanks, old man.â 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. âSuch,â he sighed, âis a reporterâs life.â As for Jimmie, he was vastly relieved. âLet that story get into the paper,â he thought, âand let mother read it and my career as a ârising young newspaper manâ will be at an end.â His mother was âafraid for him.â 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. âFather, thatââ he cleared his throat, âthat was what youâd say is in the nature of an accident.â âYes,â his father seemed to agree, âan accident.â âMight have happened to anyone,â Jimmie went on, greatly encouraged. âJust anyone,â said his father. âIt wonât be in the paper?â âNo.â âFather, promise that you wonât tell mother. You wonât tell her, will you?â There was a note of anxiety in the boyâs voice. âNo. I think not.â âThenâââ âThen you will be able to continue your work? Is that it?â His father smiled. âYes, Iâââ âSon,â his father broke in, âI 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 cityâs people with your candid camera.â âLook out there!â He pointed to row after row of flat buildings speeding past them. âPeople 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. âAs I look at it,â his tone was serious, âit is the duty of each one of us to do what he can to make those people safe. âI donât want you to get yourself injured or killed. No father wants that. But I also donât want you to grow up softâto be afraid. I want you to be brave, strong. You can never be that until you have faced real dangers. Donât be fool-hardy or reckless, but when an opportunity for a real service presents itself donât be afraid to step in.â âThanks. Oh, thanks,â Jimmie stammered. What he was thinking was, âIâve got a real dad.â 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. âWhat sort of a boy is this Jimmie Drury?â Mary asked. âOh, just another boy,â John drawled. âJohn!â Maryâs voice rose, âyou know thatâs not true. No boy is just another boy. What sort of boy _is_ he?â âWaâal,â John grinned, âhe won a baseball game once. That was in his grade school days. Regular Jack Armstrong finish, it was.â âTell me about it.â âWell, then, let me,â John grumbled. âIt was the end of a series. Jimmieâs 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 andâââ With a slow grin overspreading his thin face, John paused to lift his cup for a good long draw at the coffee. âJohn!â Mary stamped her foot. âOh, yes,â John pretended to start. âOf course. What does Jimmie do but swat a home-run into the tall grass? And after running the bases what did he do?â âWhat?â âKept right on running. Streaked it for home.â âWhy?â âFar as I can figure it out he didnât want anybody making a fuss over him.â âSplendid!â exclaimed Mary. âJimmieâs popular in high school,â John went on. âAnd yet, Iâm sure he never tried for popularity. He likes doing things, all sorts of things. If this makes him popular thatâs O. K. with Jimmie. If it doesnât, thatâs O. K. too. âHe was outstanding as a basketball star on his team,â he went on after ordering another cup of coffee. âBut Iâll swear youâd never guess it to see him play. He didnât do any dancing about, not a useless motion, but every now and again youâd see him have the ball, watch it shoot up and in, then hear the crowd roar. You canât make much out of a kid like that,â he ended with a drawl. âNo,â Mary agreed. âBut in the end heâll make a lot out of himself. Youâll see. I love the way he looks you straight in the eyes. So many boys look all over the lot while youâre looking at them, as if they had something to hide. Nothing like that with Jimmie.â âThatâs right,â John agreed. âI look for him to go places and do things. Well,â he rose, âtomorrowâs another day. See you in the morning.â 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. âAt least,â he thought with a chuckle, âI shot an ear. Next time Iâll do better.â 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? âSheâll get on,â John had said, speaking of Mary, âDareâs the right name for her. Sheâs not afraid to tackle anything.â Tom Howe? Well, he didnât 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 HOWEâS 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. âLike a snake,â Jimmie thought, as he watched the man approach. The manâs 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. âEars _are_ different,â he told himself. âIâm going to start studying them.â This set him thinking of his engagement to meet Tom Howe at noon. He thought of the detectiveâs instructions. âGo as far as the elevator will take you. Climb two flights of stairs.â 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. âIâm going to meet him again,â he thought with a start. âHow did he get here?â 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. âBut why?â 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 manâs coat. Jimmieâs 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, âThere! That will teach you to keep your hands out of other peopleâs pockets!â 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 manâs 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. âBoy, mister! That was great!â the words slipped unbidden from Jimmieâs lips. The big man whirled about. âOh, a boy!â he smiled broadly. âBut wonât you have him arrested?â Jimmie asked in surprise. âNoâo, I guess not,â the big man drawled. âHeâs just a dirty little cur. Guess heâll remember this.â âBut heâs a pick-pocket,â Jimmie protested. âProbably got a long record. I saw him do it. Weâwe could convict him.â âYes,â the other agreed. âBut see. The fog has swallowed him up.â âThatâs right,â Jimmie agreed. âBut say!â Jimmie was struck by a sudden idea. âThis would be a peach of a story. Iâm from the Press. Mind if I take your picture?â âIn this fog?â The man stared at him. âSure. My candid camera gets âem in any weather. Just a minute.â Jimmie backed up, squinted through his finder, twisted a screw, pressed a button, then said, âThanks, thatâs great.â âJust like that,â the big man grinned. âLet me see that thing.â Reluctantly Jimmie turned over his camera. âNeat little trick,â said the man. âHow much do they cost?â âA little over a hundred dollars,â Jimmie took back his treasure with a sigh of relief. âThunder! Thatâs a lot for a thing you can hide in the palm of your hand,â the big man exclaimed. âMade like a watch,â said Jimmie proudly. âWhen youâve got one youâve got something. I took a picture of a fellowâs ear last night. May send him to prison.â âWell, Iâd say heâd better cover up his ears,â laughed the big man. âBy the way, you might like to see what was in that bill-fold.â âSureâsure, I would,â Jimmie moved closer. âThere it is.â Jimmie saw a slip of paper. âHuh!â he chuckled. âCheck for a half million. Stage money, I suppose.â âReal money. Want to see me cash it? Come on. Weâll get a taxi at the next corner. Be at the bank in fifteen minutes.â 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 Howeâs 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 Tomâs room was located he found himself in one of the cityâs most celebrated sky-scrapers. Like a giant needle it pierced the sky. âTwo flights above the last stop,â he thought with a thrill. âUp among the pigeons, bats and stars.â In this he was not so far from being wrong. Tomâs place was a snug little spot just beneath the clock. âFrom this high pinnacle,â Tom said as Jimmie, having entered the room, stood staring, âI look down upon the crooked little world that is a great city. See!â he pointed at a powerful telescope resting on a tripod. âTake a squint.â 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. âWhat I just said is more truth than fancy,â said Tom. âFact is, in these days when I have no more pressing matters to hold my attention I train my telescope on a certain garage.â âGarage? Why?â Jimmie asked in surprise. âIn that garage,â said Tom, his voice took on a note of mystery, âare 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 cityâs history.â âWhaâwhat will they steal?â Jimmie asked. âThatâs what we donât know,â was Tomâs surprising reply. âThen whyâââ âWhen five of the cityâs 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 cityâs detective force to be up on their toes.â âBut why donât you arrest them now?â Jimmie asked. âGot nothing on them. But we will have,â Tom paced the floor. âWe will. And weâll get them. Youâll see. All are dangerous men. Three have been charged with murder. No matter. When those trucks are loaded the police will strike and thenâââ âNext dayâs headlines will read, âTom Howe killed in gun battle,ââ said Jimmie, with a dry laugh. âPerhaps,â Tom agreed. âWeâre looking for a better story than that.â âOh!â Jimmie exclaimed as his eye was caught by a large picture on Tomâs desk. âYou have it.â âYes, your shot from the hip. A fine enlargement,â Tom enthused. âScottie sent it over an hour ago.â âGood old Scottie,â Jimmie chuckled. âHe likes to kid me about my candid camera.â âYes, but heâs beginning to believe in it,â Tom took the enlargement from the table. âYou stick by Scottie. Heâll give you anything you want. Providing what you want is right and for the good of all. âLook at that picture,â he said a few seconds later. âPeach of an ear. Not another like it in the world.â 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. âItâs last night,â he told himself angrily. âIâm not over that shock. I mustnât be such a softie!â Then, that he might the sooner gain control of himself, he forced himself to recall what Tom had said to him about the manâs ear. âWhaâwhatâs strange about the ear?â he at last managed to ask. For an answer his host turned a small knob to open a broad, shallow cabinet. âHere,â he said, âare my ears.â âGreat guns!â Jimmie exclaimed. âThey look real!â âDonât they, though!â Tomâs face beamed. âDone 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. âWhat I want you to do,â he said, âis to pick one out that exactly matches this ear of the Silent Terror.â âThat should be easy,â said Jimmie. âThere are so many.â âTake your time.â 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, âNope, not quite. Not at all, in fact. Nor this. Nor that.â âSayâee!â he exclaimed at last. âTheyâre all different. But then,â his voice changed, âI suppose you picked them because theyâre odd.â âNot at all,â replied Tom. âIf I had ten thousand ears, youâd not find two that matched.â âBy the way!â he said, changing the subject, âdid you ever happen to notice that your nose is crooked?â âNo. And itâs not,â said Jimmie. âTake a look,â Tom handed him a glass. âWhat? Why! It is crooked.â Jimmie was dismayed. âIfâif I were a crook theyâd spot me by my nose.â âOh, no!â Tom laughed. âTake a look at mine. Itâs crooked too. There are a thousand people down there below us going to lunch. If you looked at them one after the other youâd probably find they all had noses slightly off the true. Watching them go by gets to haunt you if you look too long. âBut ears,â he went back to his original subject, âpeople donât fuss much with their ears. Men do not try to disguise their ears as they do their eyes and noses. Thatâs why Iâve taken up the study of ears. In a crowd of ten thousand I could spot the Silent Terrorâs ear. Soon I shall be carrying a reproduction of it in my pocket.â âHave one made for me,â Jimmieâs tone was eager. âI will,â said Tom. âBe sure you study it well.â âIâll be the first to spot him,â said Jimmie. âIf you are so fortunate,â replied Tom. âBe on your guard. Heâs a dangerous man and, as time goes on, will become more desperate. âAnd now,â he laughed, âclasses for the morning are over. Shall we have lunch?â CHAPTER V THE CANDID CAMERA CLICKS AGAIN It was after their lunch that Tom Howe drew from an inner pocket something resembling a thin pack of cards. Though they were alone in a booth with their backs to the wall he glanced sharply about him before unfolding the packet which proved to be ten small pictures glued to a single strip of black cloth. âThese,â he said, half concealing the pictures, âare my special charge, though your friend, the Silent Terror, is beginning to crowd in upon them.â âFive,â said Jimmie in a whisper. â_The five?_â âAbsolutely,â Tomâs voice was husky. âFront view and profile of each. Reading from left to right, Black Dolan; Piccalo, the Pipe; Pagan, the Fence; Stumps Sharpe; and Tungsten Tom. Every one of them has a criminal record. When five such men get together thereâs bound to be trouble.â He folded up the packet and returned it to his pocket. âI donât mind telling you Iâm off in a few minutes to look over a small job they are suspected of pulling.â âSmall? Thought you said they were big.â âWhen something big is planned it calls for money. Crooks get money in their own way. This time they opened up the safe of a movie company and got away with several fat bundles of currency. âYou might like to go along,â Tom suggested. âMight give you a scoop for your paper. Far as I know the thingâs been kept quiet.â âA scoop! Oh, boy!â This was the second time that a story had loomed large on Jimmieâs horizon. He thought of John Nightingale; good old hard-working John who had done him so many favors. âA scoop for John,â he said aloud. âThat will be grand!â âGot your camera?â âSure! Always have it.â âYouâll be able to get some pictures, I think. They always help. Shall we be off?â âRight now,â Jimmie sprang to his feet. They were away. The suite of offices they entered a few moments later were quite modern. Clicking typewriters, mahogany desks, and the latest floodlights told plainly that at least one moving-picture organization was doing very well. They were in the central office of a large syndicate controlling many theaters. âAre you from the Detective Bureau?â inquired a short, fat man with pudgy fingers. Tom nodded. âThey took it all! Everything!â The man wrung his fat hands. âWhereâs the safe?â Tom demanded shortly. âIt is in the back. Come this way, please. The police have been here. Everything has been guarded. Nothing was touched.â The man led the way back. âHello, Tom,â the police officer on duty greeted. âHello, Jerry. What kind of a job?â asked Tom. âNeat. Professional, all right. Cut up the safe with oxyacetylene torch. Easy as opening a can of peas.â âHâm,â said Tom as he entered the place. âNot much of a safe. Easy money, Iâd say. But weâll try to make âem pay. We usually do, in the end, donât we, Jerry?â âIâll say you do, Tom,â Jerry grinned. âWhoâs the Boy Scout?â He eyed Jimmie suspiciously. âHeâs from the Press,â Tom explained. âSpecial friend of mine. Keen with his candid camera. Only person thatâs ever photographed the Silent Terror.â âThe Terror!â Jerry whistled through his teeth. The look he bestowed upon Jimmie was one of genuine
{'title': "Jimmy Drury: Candid Camera Detective by David O'Hara", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}