Argosy, Vol. 112, No. 2 — page 92: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

258 had tricked him and escaped. It was all too ghastly clear. In the street he whistled up a newsboy and bought a copy of the extra—the seven- thirty edition, it being then just four. On the front page the notice, just about as he had previsioned it, in staring black scare- head, with a cut below, jumped out at him: PROF. FISHER DISAPPEARS Noted Scientist Missing From Home Since Yesterday Standing stockstill, he read it through, even forgetting to pay the newsboy till the latter had twice “hailed him—the hastily written, inaccurate, guesswork screed, full of conjecture, plans, and assurances, but nothing else. The professor had gone out, directly after dinner, presumably for a walk, and nothing more had been seen or heard of him. It was thought that, being notoriously absent-minded, he might have wandered away to some friend’s house and spent the night. His landlady—Fisher being single and relationless—was anxious, but as yet not alarmed, there being no reason why he should have experienced foul play, et cetera. Tarton sniffed, folded the paper, and thrust it into his pocket. Across the street the ubiquitous drug- store graced the corner. Tarton crossed and entered a telephone-booth. It was a con- siderably important number that he called ——no less than police headquarters of the city of New York. Of the female voice which answered he _. demanded speech with the commissioner. His name? Jones—Henry Jones. His busi- ness? Tell the commissioner that it was about a bomb plot he had just turned up. Immediate action— A crisp male voice cut in. “This is the commissioner. you want?” “What I said about bombs was. bluff, commissioner. I had to get you, personally, quick. It’s the Fisher case — Professor Roger Fisher, you know, who disappeared?” “YT know. What about it?” “He has been murdered.” “What?” What do THE ARGOSY. “T saw his body last night. I know where it is. I know who the murderer is. J—” “Who are you? Where are you? What—” ‘““T’ll be down,” snapped Tarton. “ Fif- teen minutes.” And having got what he wanted, he promptly hung up, dashed from the store, and sprinted after a passing trol- ley car. Just a quarter of an hour later, having presented himself in the outer office, he was passed along with a celerity that, as he well knew, no other introduction would have se- cured him, and presently stood before the great man, in whose rear were posted, not conspicuously, but quite obviously, the stocky figures of two plain-clothes experts. Behind that inoffensive screen, also, the visitor could envisage the stenographers, lying there like spiders, in wait for his secrets. Without pausing for the official to speak, Tarton came to the point. ‘““T’m the chap who telephoned just now about the Fisher case. Of course you want to know all about it, and about me, and then you probably plan to lock me up as a material witness. But before we start let me assure you that you'll do nothing of the sort.” The trim figure in the chair stiffened a trifle. “Indeed, Mr. Jones—”’ “Camouflage,” interrupted the young man. ‘“ For the outside office. My right name’s Bruce ‘Tarton, student-graduate School of Science, Columbia University.” The commissioner tilted his eye-glasses up at him. “That so! And lots of nerve, also. You say I can’t lock you up if I want to. Please tell me why?” “You misunderstood. I didn’t say you couldn’t lock me up. I said you couldn’t find out all about this business and then lock me up.” “Ah! And again, why?” ‘““ Because I won’t say a word till I have your absolute promise—which your stenog- raphers over there behind the screen will have some difficulty in leaving out of this' conversation-—as an official and a gentle- .00 (E) Ss a)