Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1922-04-16

Great Scot! He ought TO be here
by this time! He's had plenty of
time! He ought to be herew
His high, nervous, complaining voice
seemed about to break in a sob. The
next minute his jaw dropped, for
they heard the outer door open.
Mr.. Bode himself rose, turning to
the door. They heard the key scrape
and click in the lock. The inner door
opened and the amateur typist stepped
in, breathing like a man who had been
walking rapidly. His face showed
triumph.
As the messenger opened his coat.
the reporter gave a startled yell and
thrust himself violently back from the
table, propelling the swivel chair
more than foot over the floor. The
next instant, Selling the arms of the
chair and half raising himself out Of
it. while he glared at the figures by
the door, he burst forth in a high,
hysterical voice:
You can't murder me! You don't
dare! You can't murder me! MY
names Trumbull. I'm a reporter for
the Trumpet. I'll get my city editor.
y
dare! tell you I'm at number
twenty-nine Traverse street. third
floor and last door to the. right. You
think you've got me shut up here
where nobody can find me! But the
city editor of the Trumpet will find
me. You don't dare murder me!
Twenty-Five Traverse street amt so
farw
He had backed the chair into the
wall and was half risen from 1t,
grasping its arms and glazing wildly
at the figures by the door.
THE figures were momentarily par
alyzed by this strange outburst.
The typist stood agape, with his hand
plunged in his inner coat pocket.
Now he stared questioningly around
at the elder captor. The elder man
for a moment had been quite discon-
certed, and he now looked somewhat
puzzled. Yet he dropped his hand into
the coat pocket where the slung-shot
was and started toward the reporter.
upon whom his eyes were bent with a
hard questioning.
The reporter shrank farther back in
the chair and screamed:
Keep off! Keep off! You can't
murder me on the third floor of num-
Der twenty-nine Traverse street, Mr..
jeremiah Bode-or whatever your
name is! Keep off, Keep off. say.
Twenty-Five Traverse street is too
near my office. Oh. you won't. won't
you" With that he flung himself
forward. springing to the end Of the
table in front of the lawyer and
squaring off pugilistically.
Mr.. Bode paused, his narrow eyes
glittering. his jaw ominously set and
his upper lip lifted a bit. His right
hand came out of the coat pocket
with the slung- shot in 1t. and for II
moment the two men confronted each
other, while the typist moved around
to Trumbulrs flank.
We'll. you see you can't blaH ME.
don't your said the reporter threat
| eningly, with a shake of his head. Il
won't stand it. you know" He
dropped his arms and repeated, with
another shake of the head: You
can't bluff me. you know"
The bogus lawyer was evidently
uncertain, and in an excessively bad
temper He put his hand up to the
stubby gray mustache and plucised at
| it with a sinister thoughtfulness while
his Offering eyes bent hard upon the
reporters face.
He then turned. very deliberately
and contemplated the cords that
he
For a moment he considered deeply
| looking at the cords. Then he looked
back at the reporter and said gravely
| You will not speak again bniess
speak to you
, With that, still cycling Trumbull. he
held out his hand for the memoran-
dunn book. The amateur typist drew
it from his pocket and passed it over
| Mr.. Bode dropped the slung-shot into
! his pocket. opened the book. and inn
| mediately exclaimed:
That's not the book. Tie him up"
THE book" cried Trumbull. incred-
ulously. why. sure it's the book
Don't 1 know it? OF course, it's the
book"
The typist had already laid q
mighty hand upon his arm. But he
clamored on:
"why, you're fool II you say that's
not the book. 1 tell you it is the
book! Let me look at it." He reached
out for it.
Mr. Bode, instead of handing 1t over
re-examined several pages.
TITS nothing but a book of house
hold expenses, kept in a woman's
hand-probably your wife's." he said
'In give you two hours Of hanging
by the thumbs and see If you want te
play horse with me then"
why, you're fool! You're a fool"
Trumbull clamored. ''Of course, that:
the right book. There's no household
expenses about 1t. That part is al
bogus. Do you mean to say you
didn't know that book was kept in q
kind of cypher? There's a key to it
They wouldn't keep it SO anybody
that happened to pick Pete Goman's
pocket could read it at sight. would
they? It's all simple enough when
you understand the key. Give it to
me. I'll show you how it goes"
|, CILENTLY and obviously the bogus
- lawyer handed over the book
Trumbull turned to the table and
picked up piece of paper.
TITS simple as a, b, C when you IN
derstand the thing he repeated. but
1t takes a little figuring to get II
started. You see, the real stun don't
begin until the middle of the seventh
, page: then you count six lines-lets
see-seven and six are thirteen"
He frowned a little and rubbed his
hnpd acroos bio hrow "Just give me