But the point at which he coupled on his theory was the point at which police had paused, or rather begun.
Digs Dilson had been killed with a knife. So had old Bratton.
He, Ben Gascon, had given old Bratton the dummy that people called Tom-Tom. And old Bratton was forthwith murdered. Gascon had meant to go to the funeral, but something had turned up to interfere. What else concerned the janitor? What, for instance, had the younger electricians and engineers teased him about so often? “Electricity is life,” that was old Bratton’s constant claim. And he was said to have whole clutters of strange machinery at his shabby rooms.
Bratton had taken Tom-Tom. Thereafter Bratton and others had been killed. In the background of their various tragedies had lurked and plotted something small, evil, active, and strange enough to frighten the most hardened of criminals. “Electricity is life”—and Bratton had toiled over some kind of electrical apparatus that might or might not be new and powerful in ways unknown to ordinary electricians.
Gascon left the rationalization half completed in the back of his mind, and sought out the shabby street where the janitor had lodged.
The landlord could not give him much help. To be sure old Bratton had made a nuisance of himself with his machines, mumbling that they would startle the world some day; but after his death, someone had bought those machines, loaded them upon a truck and carted them off. The landlord had seen the purchase, and later identified the purchaser from newspaper photographs as the late Juney Saltz.
And Juney Saltz, pondered Gascon, had been killed by something with a shrill voice, that could crawl through a stovepipe hole. … “You saw the sale of the goods?” he prompted the landlord. “Was there a dummy—a thing like a big doll, such as ventriloquists use?”
The landlord shook his head. “Nothing like that. I’d have noticed if there was.”
So Tom-Tom, who had gone home with old Bratton, had vanished.
Gascon left the lodgings and made a call at a newspaper office, where he inserted a personal notice among the classified advertisements:
T-T. I have you figured out. Clever, but your old partner can add two and two and get four. Better let S. C. go. B. F. G.
The notice ran for three days. Then a reply, in the same column:
B. F. G. So what? T-T.
It was bleak, brief defiance, but Gascon felt a sudden blaze of triumph. Somehow he had made a right guess, on a most fantastic proposition. Tom-Tom had come to life as a lawless menace. All that he, Gascon, need do, was act accordingly. He made plans, then inserted another message:
T-T. I made you, and I can break you. This is between us. Get in touch with me, or I’ll come looking for you. You won’t like that. B. F. G.
Next day his telephone rang. A hoarse voice called him by name:
“Look, Gascon, you better lay off if you know what’s good for you.”
“Ah,” replied Gascon gently, “Tom-Tom seems to have taken up conventional gangster methods. It means that he’s afraid—which I’m not. Tell him I’m not laying off, I’m laying on.”
That night he took dinner at a restaurant on a side street. As he left it, two men sauntered out of a doorway and came up on either side of him. One was as squat and bulky as a wrestler, with a truculent square face. The other, taller but scrawny, had a broad brow and a narrow chin, presenting the facial triangle which phrenologists claim denotes shrewdness. Both had their hands inside their coats, where bulges betrayed the presence of holstered guns.
“This is a stickup,” said Triangle-Face. “Don’t make a move or a peep, or we’ll cut down on you.”
They walked him along the street.
“I’m not moving or peeping,” Gascon assured them blandly, “but where are you taking me?”
“Into this car,” replied the triangle-faced one, and opened the rear door of a parked sedan. Gascon got in, with the powerful gunman beside him. The other got into the front seat and took the wheel.
“No funny business,” he cautioned as he trod on the starter. “The boss wants to talk to you.”
The car drew away from the curb, heading across town. Gascon produced his cigarette case—Shannon Cole had given it to him on his last birthday—opened it, and offered it to the man beside him. Smiling urbanely at the curt growl of refusal, he then selected a cigarette and lighted it.
“Understand one thing,” he bade his captors, through a cloud of smoke. “I’ve expected this. I’ve worked for it. And I have written very fully about all angles of this particular case. If anything happens to me, the police will get my report.”
It was patently a bluff, and in an effort to show that it did not work both men laughed scornfully.
“We’re hotter than a couple wolves in a prairie fire right now,” the triangle-faced one assured him. “Anyway, no dumb cop would believe the truth about the boss.”
That convinced Gascon that he was on his way to Tom-Tom. Too, the remark about “a coupla wolves” showed that the driver thought of only two members of the gang. Tom-Tom’s following must have been reduced to these. Gascon sat back with an air of enjoying the ride. Growling again, his big companion leaned over and slapped him around the body. There was no hard lump to betray knife or pistol, and the bulky fellow grunted to show that he was satisfied. Gascon was satisfied as well. His pockets were not probed into, and he was carrying a weapon that, if unorthodox, was nevertheless efficient. He foresaw the need and the chance to use it.
“Is Miss Cole all right?” he asked casually.
“Sure she is,” replied Square-Face.
“Pipe
