Salt was waiting in the press car when she reached the street. Quickly transferring the flowers from her own automobile to his, she climbed in beside him.
“The Hillcrest?” he inquired, shifting gears.
“Yes, I’ll decorate the tables. Then we’ll drive to the theater.”
With a complete disregard for speed laws, safety stops, and red lights, Salt toured the ten blocks to the hotel in record time. Pulling up at the entrance, he said:
“While you’re in there, I’ll amble across the street. Want to do a little inquiring at the Western Union office.”
“About the telegram Danny Deevers sent Jerry?”
“Figured we might find from where it was sent.”
“I should have thought of that myself! Do see what you can learn, Salt. It won’t take me long to fix those tables.”
Penny disappeared into the hotel but was back in fifteen minutes. A moment later, Salt sauntered across the street from the Western Union office.
“Learn anything?” Penny asked.
“A little. The manager told me a boy picked up the message from a rooming house on Clayton street. That’s all they know about it.”
“Did you get the address?”
“Sure—1497 Clayton Street—an apartment building. The clue may be a dud one though. Danny wouldn’t likely be dumb enough to leave a wide open trail.”
“All the same, oughtn’t we to check into it?”
“We?”
“Naturally I’m included,” grinned Penny. “By the way, aren’t we near Clayton street now?”
“It’s only a couple of blocks away.”
“Then what’s delaying us?”
“My conscience for one thing,” Salt said, climbing into the car beside Penny. “Your father’s expecting us at the theater. I’m supposed to take pictures of the visiting big-boys.”
“We’ll get there in time. This may be our only chance to trace Danny.”
“You’re a glutton for adventure,” Salt said dubiously, studying his wristwatch. “Me—I’m not so sure.”
“Danny probably won’t be hiding out at the rooming house,” Penny argued. “But someone may be able to tell us where he went.”
“Okay,” the photographer agreed, jamming his foot on the starter. “We got to make it snappy though.”
The dingy old brick apartment house at 1497 Clayton Street stood jammed against other low-rent buildings in the downtown business section.
“You wait here,” Salt advised as he pulled up near the dwelling. “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, put in a call to the police. And arrange to give me a decent burial!”
The photographer disappeared into the building.
He was back almost at once. “It was a dud,” he said in disgust. “The telegram was sent from here all right, but Danny’s skipped.”
“You talked to the building manager?”
Salt nodded. “A fellow that must have been Danny rented a room last night, but he pulled out early this morning.”
“Why, the telegram didn’t come until a few minutes ago!”
“Danny took care of that by having the janitor send it for him. He evidently escaped from the pen late yesterday, but authorities didn’t give out the story until today.”
Disappointed over their failure, Penny and Salt drove on toward the theater in glum silence.
Suddenly at the intersection of Jefferson and Huron Streets, a long black sedan driven by a woman, failed to observe a stop sign. Barging into a line of traffic, it spun unsteadily on two wheels and crashed into an ancient car in which two men were riding.
“Just another dumb woman driver,” observed Salt. He brought up at the curb and reached for his camera.
“Nobody’s hurt so it’s hardly worth a picture. But if I don’t grab it, DeWitt’ll be asking me why I didn’t.”
Balancing the camera on the sill of the open car window, he snapped the shutter just as the two men climbed out of their ancient vehicle.
“Looks as if they’re going to put up a big squawk,” Salt observed with interest. “What they beefin’ about? That old wreck isn’t worth anything, and anyhow, the lady only bashed in a couple of fenders.”
The driver of the black sedan took a quick glance at the two men and said hastily:
“Please don’t call a policeman. I’ll gladly pay for all the damage. I’m covered by insurance. Just give me your names and where you live. Or, if you prefer, I’ll go with you now to a garage where your car can be repaired.”
The two men paid her no heed. In fact, they appeared not to be listening. Instead, they were gazing across the street at Salt and his camera.
“Button up your lip, lady!” said one of the men rudely.
He was a heavy-set man, dressed in a new dark blue serge suit. His face was coarse, slightly pale, and his steel-blue eyes had a hard, calculating glint.
His companion, much younger, might have been a country boy for he wore a lumber jacket, corduroy pants, and heavy shoes caked with mud.
The older man crossed the street to Salt’s car. He glanced at the “press” placard in the windshield and said curtly:
“Okay, buddy! I saw you take that picture! Hand over the plate!”
“Hand over the plate, buddy!” the motorist repeated as Salt gave no hint that he had heard. “You’re from a newspaper, and we don’t want our pictures printed—see?”
“Sure, I see,” retorted Salt. “I’m not turning over any pictures.”
The man took a wallet from his suit pocket. “Here’s a five spot to make it worth your while.”
“No, thanks. Anyway, what’s your kick? Your car didn’t cause the accident. You’re in the clear.”
“Maybe we’ll use the picture to collect damages,” the man said. “Here, I’ll give you ten.”
“Nothing doing.”
To put an end to the argument, Salt drove on.
“Wonder who those birds were?” he speculated.
Penny craned her neck to look back through the rear car window.
“Salt!” she exclaimed. “That man who argued with us is writing down our license plate number!”
“Let him!”
“He intends to find out who you are, Salt! He must want that picture badly.”
“He’ll get it all right—on the front page of theStartomorrow! Maybe he’s a police character and doesn’t want any publicity. He looked like a bad egg.”
“I wish we’d taken downhislicense number.”
“We’ve got it,” replied Salt. “It’ll show up in the picture.”
Penny settled back in the seat, paying no more attention to the traffic behind them. Neither she nor Salt noticed that they were being followed by the car with battered fenders.
At the theater, Salt parked in the alleyway.
“Go on in,” he told Penny, opening the car door for her. “I want to collect some of my stuff and then I’ll be along.”
At the stagedoor, Penny was stopped by Old Jim, the doorman.
“You can’t go in here without a pass, Miss,” he said. “There’s a newspaper convention on. My orders are not to let anyone in without a pass.”
Penny flashed her press card.
“My mistake,” the doorman mumbled.
Once inside, Penny wandered backstage in search of her father or Jerry. The program had started, but after listening a moment to a singer, she moved out of range of his voice.
Now and then, from the audience of newspapermen out front, came an occasional ripple of laughter or clapping of hands as they applauded a speaker.
“Sounds pretty dull,” thought Penny. “Guess it’s lucky Dad cooked up the shooting stunt. If everything goes off right, it should liven things up a bit.”
Wandering on down a hall, she came to one of the dressing rooms. Stacked against the outside wall were hundreds of freshly printed newspapers ready for distribution.
Penny flipped one from the pile and read the headline: “REPORTER SHOT IN ARGUMENT WITH ELECTRICIAN!”
Beneath the banner followed a story of the staged stunt to take place. So convincingly was it written, Penny had to think twice to realize not a word was true. Other columns of the paper contained regular wire news stories and telephoto pictures. Much of the front page also was given over to an account of the convention itself.
“This will make a nice souvenir edition,” Penny thought. “Wonder where Jerry is? The stunt will be ruined if he doesn’t get here.”
Salt came down the corridor, loaded heavily with his camera, a tripod, a reflector, and other photographic equipment.
“Jerry here yet?” he inquired.
“I haven’t seen him. It’s getting late too.”
“He’ll be here,” Salt said confidently. “Wonder where I’d better leave this revolver?”
Setting the photographic equipment on the floor, he took the revolver from his coat pocket, offering it to Penny.
“Don’t give it to me,” she protested.
“Put it in the dressing room,” he advised. “I can’t keep it, because I’ve got to go out front and shoot some pictures.”
“Is the revolver loaded?” Penny asked, taking it unwillingly.
“Sure, with blanks. It’s ready for the stunt.”
Penny carried the weapon into the dressing room and deposited it on one of the tables. When she returned to the corridor, Salt had gathered up his equipment and was starting away.
However, before he could leave, an outside door slammed. Jim, the doorman, burst in upon them.
“Young feller, is that your car parked in the alley?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Salt, startled. “Don’t tell me the cops are handing me a ticket!”
“Some feller’s out there, riflin’ through your things!”
Salt dropped his camera and equipment, racing for the door. Penny was close behind.
Reaching the alley, they were just in time to see a man in a dark suit ducking around the corner of the building.
“Hey, you!” shouted Salt angrily.
The man turned slightly and vanished from view.
“Wasn’t that the same fellow who was in the auto accident?” Penny demanded.
“Looked like him! Wonder if he got away with anything?”
“Didn’t you lock the car, Salt?”
“Only the rear trunk compartment. Should have done it but I was in a hurry.”
“Shall I call the police, Salt?”
“Why bother? That bird’s gone now. Let’s see if he stole anything first.”
Salt muttered in disgust as he saw the interior of the car. A box of photographic equipment had been scattered over the back seat. The door of the glove compartment was open, its contents also helter-skelter.
“Anything missing?” Penny asked.
“Not that I can tell. Yes, there is! Some of the photographic plates!”
“Oh, Salt, I was afraid of it! The thief must have been one of those two men who were in the auto accident! You wouldn’t sell them the picture they wanted so they followed you here and stole it!”
“They may have tried,” the photographer corrected.
“You mean you still have it?”
“The plates that are missing are old ones, extras I exposed at a society tea and never bothered to develop.”
“Then you have the one of the auto accident?”
“Right here in my pocket.”
“Oh, Salt, how brilliant of you!” Penny laughed.
“It wasn’t brilliancy on my part—just habit,” Salt returned. “I wonder why that bird set such great store by the picture? Maybe for some reason he’s afraid to have it come out in the paper.”
“I can hardly wait to see it developed!”
As Penny and the photographer walked back to the theater entrance, a taxi skidded to a stop at the curb. Jerry alighted.
“Anything wrong?” he inquired, staring curiously at the pair.
Salt told him what had happened.
“Maybe you’ve got dynamite packed in that plate,” Jerry commented when he had heard the story. “Better shoot it to the office and have it developed.”
“I’m tied up here for half an hour at least.”
“Send it back by the cab driver. He can deliver it to DeWitt.”
“Good idea,” agreed Salt.
He scribbled a note to accompany the plate and gave it to the cab driver, together with the holder.
“Take good care of this,” he warned. “Don’t turn it over to any one except the city editor.”
After the cab had driven away, Salt, Jerry, and Penny re-entered the theater. Mr. Parker had come backstage and was talking earnestly to the doorman. Glimpsing the three, he exclaimed:
“There you are! And just in time too! The stunt goes on in five minutes.”
“Are the newsboys here?” Jerry asked. “And Johnny Bates, the electrician?”
“The boys are out front. Johnny’s waiting in the stage wings. Where’s the revolver, Salt?”
“I’ll get it,” Penny volunteered, starting for the dressing room.
The revolver lay where she had left it. As she reached for the weapon, she suddenly sniffed the air. Plainly she could smell strong cigarette smoke.
Penny glanced swiftly about the room. No one was there and she had seen no one enter in the last few minutes.
“Someone must have been here,” she thought. “Perhaps it was Old Jim, but he smokes a pipe.”
“Penny!” her father called impatiently from outside. “We haven’t much time.”
Picking up the revolver, she hurriedly joined him.
“Dad, why not call the stunt off?” she began. “Something might go wrong—”
“We can’t call it off now,” her father cut in impatiently. Taking the revolver from her hand he gave it to Jerry. “Do your stuff, my boy, and don’t be afraid to put plenty of heat into the argument. Remember your cue?”
“I’m to start talking just as soon as the Mayor finishes his speech.”
“He’s winding it up now. So get up there fast.”
As Jerry started up the stairway, Penny trailed him.
“Someone must have been in the dressing room after I left the revolver there,” she revealed nervously. “Be sure to check it before you turn it over to Mr. Bates.”
The reporter nodded, scarcely hearing her words. His ears were tuned to the Mayor’s closing lines. A ripple of applause from the audience told him the speech already had ended.
Taking the last few steps in a leap, Jerry reached the wings where John Bates was waiting. He gave him the revolver and at once plunged into his lines. So convincingly did he argue about the stage lights that Penny found herself almost believing the disagreement was genuine.
The argument waxed warmer, and the actors moved out on the stage in full view of the audience.
“Jerry’s good,” remarked Salt, who had joined Penny. “Didn’t know he had that much ham in him!”
The quarrel now had reached its climax. As if in a sudden fit of rage, the electrician raised the revolver and pointed it at Jerry.
“Take that—and that—and that!” he shouted, thrice pulling the trigger.
Jerry staggered back, clutching in the region of his heart. Slowly, his face contorted, he crumpled to the floor.
Scarcely had he collapsed, than newsboys armed with their papers, began to rush through the aisles of the theater.
“Read all about it!” they shouted. “Reporter Shot in Argument! Extra! Extra!”
The newspapermen chuckled at the joke as they accepted the free papers.
On the stage, Jerry still lay where he had fallen. The electrician, his part ended, had disappeared to attend to regular duties.
“Come on, Jerry!” Salt called to him. “What are you waiting for? More applause? Break it up!”
The reporter did not stir. But on the floor beside him, a small red stain began to spread in a widening circle.
Penny and Salt saw it at the same instant and were frozen with horror.
“Ring down the curtain!” the photographer cried hoarsely. “Jerry’s really been shot!”
Penny ran across the stage to kneel beside Jerry, who lay limp on the floor. In horror, she saw that the red stain covered a jagged area on his shirt front.
“Oh, Jerry!” she cried frantically. “Speak to me!”
The reporter groaned loudly and stirred.
“Hold me in your arms,” he whispered. “Let my last hours on this earth be happy ones.”
Penny’s hands dropped suddenly to her sides. She straightened up indignantly.
“You faker!” she accused. “I should think you’d be ashamed to frighten us so! That’s not blood on your shirt! It’s red ink!”
Jerry sat up, chuckling. “Ruined a good shirt too!”
“You shouldn’t have done it,” Penny said, still provoked.
“I wanted to put a little drama into the act. Also, I was curious to see how you would react.”
Penny tossed her head, starting away. “You needn’t be so smug about it, Jerry Livingston! And don’t flatter yourself I was concerned about you! I was thinking what a scandal it would mean for Dad and the paper!”
“Oh, sure,” Jerry agreed, pursuing her backstage and down a corridor. “Listen, Penny, it was only a joke—”
“Not a very funny one!”
“Penny, I’m sorry—I really am. I didn’t realize anyone would get so worked up about it.”
“I’m not worked up!” Penny denied, spinning on a heel to face him. “It just gave me a little shock, that’s all. First, that threat from Danny Deevers. Then when I saw you flattened out, for a minute I thought someone had substituted a real bullet in the revolver and that you had been shot.”
“It was a rummy joke—I realize that now. Forgive me, will you, Penny?”
“I suppose so. Just don’t try anything like it again.”
“I won’t,” Jerry promised. “Now that my part is finished here, suppose we go somewhere for a bite to eat?”
“With that blotch of red ink on your shirt front?”
“Oh, I’ll change it. I brought an extra shirt along. Wait here and I’ll be right with you.”
Jerry stepped into the dressing room to make the change. Penny, while waiting, wandered back to the stage wings to talk to Salt. However, the photographer had gone out front and was busily engaged taking pictures of visiting celebrities.
After a few minutes, Penny went downstairs again. Jerry was nowhere to be seen.
The door of the dressing room stood slightly ajar. Penny tapped lightly on it, calling: “Get a move on, Jerry! You’re slower than a snail!”
No answer came from inside.
Penny paced up and down the corridor and returned to listen at the door. She could hear no sound inside the room.
“Jerry, are you there?” she called again. “If you are, answer!”
Still there was no reply.
“Now where did he go?” Penny thought impatiently.
She hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door. Jerry’s stained shirt lay on the floor where he had dropped it.
The reporter no longer was in the dressing room. Or so Penny thought at first glance.
But as her gaze roved slowly about, she was startled to see a pair of shoes protruding from a hinged decorative screen which stood in one corner of the room.
Jerry, very definitely was attached to the shoes. Stretched out on the floor again, his face remained hidden from view.
Penny resisted an impulse to run to his side.
“Jerry Livingston!” she exclaimed. “You’ve carried your stupid joke entirely too far! Our date is off!”
Turning her back, she started away. But in the doorway, something held her. She glanced back.
Jerry had not moved.
“Jerry, get up!” she commanded. “Please!”
The reporter made not the slightest response. Penny told herself that Jerry was only trying to plague her, yet she could not leave without being absolutely certain.
Though annoyed at herself for such weakness, she walked across the room to jerk aside the decorative screen.
Jerry lay flat on his back, eyelids closed. A slight gash was visible on the side of his head where the skin was bruised.
One glance convinced Penny that the reporter was not shamming this time. Obviously, he had been knocked unconscious, perhaps by a fall.
“Jerry!” she cried, seizing his hand which was cold to the touch.
Badly frightened, Penny darted to the door and called loudly for help.
Without waiting to learn if anyone had heard her cry, she rushed back to Jerry. On the dressing table nearby stood a pitcher of water and a glass.
Wetting a handkerchief, Penny pressed it to the reporter’s forehead. It seemed to produce no effect. In desperation, she then poured half a glass of water over his face.
To her great relief, Jerry sputtered and his eyelids fluttered open.
“For crying out loud!” he muttered. “What you trying to do? Drown me?”
Raising a hand to his head, the reporter gingerly felt of a big bump which had risen there. He pulled himself to a sitting position.
“What happened, Jerry?” Penny asked after giving him a few minutes to recover his senses. “Did you trip and fall?”
The question seemed to revive Jerry completely. Without answering, he got to his feet, and walked unsteadily to the window overlooking the alley.
Penny then noticed for the first time that it was open. She also became aware of a heavy scent of tobacco smoke in the room—the same cigarette odor she had noticed earlier. Now however, it was much stronger.
Jerry peered out the window. “He’s gone!” he mumbled.
“Who, Jerry? Tell me what happened.”
“Things aren’t too clear in my mind,” the reporter admitted, sinking into a chair. “Wow! My head!”
“Did someone attack you?”
“With a blackjack. I came in here and changed my shirt. Had a queer feeling all the while, as if someone were in the room.”
“Were you smoking a cigarette, Jerry?”
“Why, no.”
“Did you notice smoke in the room? The odor still is here.”
Jerry sniffed the air. “Neco’s,” he decided. “They’re one of the strongest cigarettes on the market and not easy to get. Now that you mention it, the odor was in the room when I came in! But I didn’t think about it at the time.”
“Then whoever struck you must have been in here waiting!”
“Sure. Whoever it was, came in the window. He was hidden behind that screen. As I started to leave, he reared up and let me have it from behind! That’s all I remember.”
“Then you didn’t see him?”
“No, it happened too fast.”
“Jerry, it may have been Danny Deevers!”
“Maybe so,” the reporter agreed. “But I always figured if he caught up with me, he wouldn’t fool around with any rabbit punches.”
“He may have been frightened away, hearing me in the hall,” Penny said. “Jerry, do you have other enemies besides Danny?”
“Dozens of them probably. Every reporter has. But I don’t know of anyone who hates me enough to try to lay me out.”
The dressing room door now swung open to admit Mr. Parker and several other newspapermen.
“Penny, did you call for help?” her father demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“Jerry was slugged,” Penny answered, and told what had happened.
“How do you feel, Jerry?” the publisher inquired. “That’s a nasty looking bump on your head.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle and ready for a dinner date,” Jerry announced brightly, winking at Penny. “How about it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she replied. “Are you sure you feel up to it?”
“I’m fine.” To prove his words, Jerry got to his feet. He started across the room, weaving unsteadily.
Had not Mr. Parker and another man seized him by the arms, he would have slumped to the floor.
“Jerry, you’re in no shape for anything except a hospital checkup,” the publisher said firmly. “That’s where you’re going!”
“Oh, Chief, have a heart!”
Mr. Parker turned a deaf ear upon the appeal.
“For all we know, you may have a fractured skull,” he said, helping to ease the reporter into a chair. “We’ll have you X-rayed.”
“I don’t want to be X-rayed,” Jerry protested. “I’m okay.”
“Besides, with Danny Deevers still at large, a hospital is a nice safe place,” Mr. Parker continued, thinking aloud. “Perhaps we can arrange for you to stay there a week.”
“A week! Chief, I’m not going!”
“No arguments,” said Mr. Parker. “You’re the same as in Riverview Hospital now. Penny, telephone for an ambulance.”
At Riverview hospital twenty minutes later, Jerry was given a complete physical check-up.
“The X-rays won’t be developed for another half hour,” an interne told him, “but you seem to be all right.”
“I not only seem to be, I am,” the reporter retorted. “Told you that when I came here! But would anyone listen to me?”
“Twenty-four hours rest will fix you right up. We have a nice private room waiting for you on the third floor. Bath and everything.”
“Now listen!” exclaimed Jerry. “You said yourself I’m all right. I’m walking out of here now!”
“Sorry. Orders are you’re in for twenty-four hours observation.”
“Whose orders?”
“Dr. Bradley. He had a little talk with the publisher of your paper—”
“Oh, I get it! A conspiracy! They’re keeping me here to keep me from checking up on Danny Deevers!”
“What’s that?” the interne inquired curiously.
“Never mind,” returned Jerry, closing up like a clam. “I’ll slip you a fiver to get me out of here.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
The interne went to the door, motioning for two other internes who came in with a stretcher.
“Hop aboard,” he told Jerry. “Better come peaceably.”
Jerry considered resistance. Deciding it was useless, he rolled onto the stretcher and was transported via the elevator to the third floor. There he was deposited none too ceremoniously in a high bed.
“Just to make sure you stay here, I’m taking your clothes,” said the interne. “Now just relax and take it easy.”
“Relax!”
“Sure, what you got to kick about? Your bills are all being paid. You get twenty-four hours rest, a good looking nurse, and a radio. Also three meals thrown in.”
Jerry settled back into the pillow. “Maybe you’ve got something after all,” he agreed.
“That’s the attitude, boy. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
Satisfied that Jerry would make no more trouble, he took his clothes and went outside.
Penny and Salt, who had been waiting in the reception room below, stepped from the elevator at that moment.
“How is Jerry?” Penny inquired anxiously as she stopped the interne in the corridor.
“He’s all right. Go on in if you want to talk to him.”
“Which room?”
“Wait until I put these clothes away and I’ll show you.”
The interne hung Jerry’s suit in a locker at the end of the corridor and then returned to escort Penny and Salt to Room 318.
Jerry, a picture of gloom, brightened as his friends entered.
“I’m sure glad you came!” he greeted them. “I want you to help me get out of here.”
“Not a chance,” said Salt, seating himself on the window ledge. “This is just the place for you—nice and quiet and safe.”
Jerry snorted with disgust.
“Dad and Mr. DeWitt both think Danny Deevers means business,” Penny added. “The paper is offering $10,000 reward for his capture.”
“Ten thousand smackers! I could use that money myself. And I have a hunch about Danny—”
“Forget it,” Salt advised. “This is a case for the police. Just lie down like a nice doggy and behave yourself. We’ll keep you informed on the latest news.”
“That reminds me,” added Penny. “After the ambulance took you away, Dad had the theater searched and the alley. No clues.”
Jerry lay still for several minutes, his eyes focused thoughtfully on the ceiling. “If it’s the verdict that I stay here, I suppose I may as well give up and take my medicine.”
“Now you’re showing sense,” approved Salt. “Penny and I have an idea that may help trace Deevers. We’ll tell you about it later.”
“Sure,” retorted Jerry ironically, “spare me the shock now. By the way, did you meet an interne in the hall? He was carrying off my clothes.”
“Yes, he brought us here,” Penny nodded.
“You didn’t happen to notice where he hid my clothes?”
“They’re safe, Jerry,” Penny assured him. “In a locker at the end of the hall.”
The information seemed to satisfy Jerry. Wrapping himself like a cocoon in a blanket, he burrowed down and closed his eyes.
“I want to catch forty winks now,” he said. “If you folks have a big idea that will lead to Danny’s capture, don’t let me detain you.”
“Jerry, don’t be cross with us,” Penny pleaded. “We know how you feel, but honestly, you’ll be so much safer here.”
Jerry pretended not to hear.
After a moment, Salt and Penny quietly left the room.
“He’s taking it hard,” the photographer commented as they sped in the press car toward theRiverview Starbuilding. “In a way, you can’t blame him. Jerry’s not the type to be shut up in a nice safe place.”
“Dad wants to keep him in the hospital until Danny Deevers is captured, but it will be hard to do it.”
Salt, driving with one hand, looked at his watch.
“It’s after nine o’clock,” he announced. “Penny, you’ve missed the dinner at the Hillcrest.”
“I don’t mind. So much has happened today, I’ve had no time to be hungry.”
“Want me to drop you off there now?”
“No, the banquet will be nearly over. I couldn’t bear to listen to speeches. Let’s go straight to the office and find out what that traffic accident picture shows.”
“Suits me, only I’m hungry.” On impulse, Salt pulled up in front of a hamburger shop offering curb service. “Let’s grab a bite before we really go to work to crack this case.”
He tooted the horn and a uniformed girl came hurrying to take his order.
Fortified by sandwiches, coffee, and ice cream, the pair then drove on to theRiverview Staroffice.
Avoiding the busy newsroom, Salt and Penny went up the back stairs to the photographic studio. Bill Jones, a studio helper, was busy at the wire photo machine.
“Has that picture of the traffic accident I sent over come up yet?” Salt asked him.
“On the desk,” the boy answered. “Not too sharp.”
Salt picked up a dozen pictures which had been printed on glossy paper and rapidly ran through them until he found the one he sought.
Eagerly Penny peered over his shoulder. The two cars involved in the accident were plainly shown, the license numbers of both visible. In the ancient vehicle, the younger man had lowered his head so that his face was completely hidden. The camera had caught a profile view of the older man, also not clear.
“Lousy picture,” said Salt contemptuously.
“It shows the license number of the car. Can’t we trace the driver that way?”
“The Motor Vehicle Department is closed now. But I know a fellow who works there. Maybe he’ll do us a favor and go back to the office tonight and look up the information.”
Salt made the telephone call, and after ten minutes of argument, convinced his friend that the requested information was a matter of life and death.
“He’ll do it,” the photographer said, hanging up the receiver. “Soon’s he gets the information, he’ll telephone us here.”
Penny had been studying the photograph again. She now was ready with a second suggestion. “Even if the faces aren’t very clear, let’s compare them with pictures of Danny Deevers in the morgue.”
“Good idea,” agreed Salt.
The newspaper morgue or library where photographs, cuts and newspaper clippings were carefully filed for reference, was just a few steps down the hall. Miss Adams, the librarian, had gone to lunch, so Salt obtained a key and they searched for their own information.
“Here’s an envelope marked Danny Deevers!” Penny cried, pulling it from one of the long filing drawers. “All sorts of pictures of him too!”
Critically, the pair studied the photographs.
The escaped convict was a middle-aged, sullen looking man with hard, expressionless eyes. In one of the pictures, parted lips revealed a set of ugly, uneven teeth.
“This shot I took is so blurred, it’s hard to tell if they’re the same person or not,” Salt complained. “But it looks like Danny.”
“If it is, that would explain why he tried to make you give up the plate.”
“Sure, he knew the car license number would be a tip-off to the police. But maybe the bird isn’t Danny.”
“I wish we were certain. Salt, couldn’t Jerry identify him from the picture you took?”
“Maybe. Jerry saw Deevers several times before he was put away in the pen.”
“Then why not take the picture to the hospital now?”
“Okay,” agreed Salt. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, at the hospital, they sought unsuccessfully to pass a receptionist who sat at a desk in the lobby.
“Sorry, visiting hours are over,” she explained.
“We’re from theStar,” Salt insisted. “We have to see Jerry Livingston on an important business matter.”
“That’s different,” the receptionist replied. “You may go up to his room, but please make the call brief.”
An automatic elevator carried the pair to the third floor. Jerry’s door near the end of the corridor stood slightly ajar. Salt tapped lightly on it, and hearing no answer, pushed it farther open.
“Well, what d’you know!” he exclaimed.
Penny, startled by his tone of voice, peered over his shoulder.
The room was deserted. Jerry’s bed, unmade, stood empty.
“Now what could have become of Jerry?” Penny murmured as she and Salt gazed about the deserted room in amazement. “Surely we’ve made no mistake.”
“He was assigned this room all right,” the photographer declared. “But maybe they changed it later.”
“That’s it,” agreed Penny in relief. “For a minute it gave me a shock seeing that empty bed. I thought perhaps he had taken a bad turn and been removed for emergency treatment.”
The pair sought Miss Brent, a floor supervisor.
“Why, the patient in Room 318 hasn’t been changed elsewhere,” she replied. “At least, not to my knowledge. I’ve been off the floor for the last half hour.”
Inspecting Room 318 to satisfy herself that the bed was empty, Miss Brent questioned several nurses and an interne. No one seemed to know what had become of the patient. There was a whispered conference and then Miss Brent made a call to the superintendent.