laboratory for his test.
He set the two bits of metal on the table next to the record-playing device—the piece made from Catawbi ore on the right, the piece from Missouri ore on the left. Then he started the record going.
The giant Smitty, and bitter-eyed Mac, and fragile Nellie leaned close to hear the sound that came forth. And in spite of themselves they shivered at the recorded sound which, in three instances before, had been a prelude for death and destruction.
From the device came the monotonous, droning noise.
It tore at their eardrums, seemed to set the pictures on the walls to dancing. But it had no effect whatever on the bits of steel.
Benson played the record through four times. When he got through, the Catawbi steel was unchanged in any way. But so was the other unchanged!
Smitty sighed like a disappointed elephant.
“Blank,” he said. “And I thought—”
“The sound,” Benson said, pale eyes reflecting neither disappointment nor any other emotion, “had nothing whatever to do with the structural steel failures. So we will go ahead with our personal investigations. Mac, call on Vanderhold. Tell him what I just found out in Gary, Indiana, that the steel which holds up when other steel fails is made from Catawbi ore. See if his reaction to that statement tells you anything. Tell him anything else you please. Meanwhile, use your eyes and ears and your wits in trying to pick up some clue that might be useful.
“Nellie, go to the office of this man Abel Darcey. See what you can find out about him—both from the man himself and from his employees.”
“How about me, chief?” Smitty said quickly. The giant was no spectator. He wanted to be in the thick of things.
“You’ll come with me to visit Colonel Ringset,” the white-haired man said quietly. He stared at Nellie and Mac.
“Be very careful, you two. This gang knows all about us, now. They know each of us by sight, know where we are staying, and no doubt there are men stationed to trail and try to kill each of us. So—watch your step!”
CHAPTER XII
Murder Stroke!
In a city like Chicago there are many office buildings that, in their way, could be called “tenements” just as many apartment dwelling places are tenements. There are office building in neglected neighborhoods, old and shabby and dingy, waiting to be torn down and meanwhile, rented for whatever they will bring.
It was in such a building, on the west fringe of the Loop, that Colonel Ringset had his office.
Ringset was his own ore salesman. He had this little office to which he came from Catawbi every day, and out of which he sold the few but large orders that kept his mines barely solvent. There was a spinster secretary and office girl, and that was all there was to the office end of Catawbi Mines, Inc.
Colonel Ringset was a tall old man of seventy, with biting gray eyes under bushy white brows. He barked instead of talking. He had a temper that was notorious. He had an arrogant hawk nose and a ruthless, bony jaw.
He had bought the Catawbi Range as worthless land, forty-eight years ago, and had later developed the iron mines. But even his driving power and ingenuity had been unable to squeeze from ore, which was higher-priced than any one else’s, the millions to which he was entitled.
Meanwhile, he did what he could. He shipped his ore to Gary, Indiana, and South Chicago on the Catawbi Railroad, under a special rate. He borrowed from one bank to pay overdue interest on mortgages held by another; got new loans just when it seemed he must lose all his holdings; managed to keep his chin above water when almost any other man would have drowned.
Most people didn’t like Colonel Marius Ringset. But they didn’t say so. For he was a savage old fighter, dangerous in spite of his seventy years.
His spinster secretary was out to lunch when Smitty and Benson entered the ancient office-building doorway at one o’clock in the afternoon.
“Ratty old place,” Smitty
He set the two bits of metal on the table next to the record-playing device—the piece made from Catawbi ore on the right, the piece from Missouri ore on the left. Then he started the record going.
The giant Smitty, and bitter-eyed Mac, and fragile Nellie leaned close to hear the sound that came forth. And in spite of themselves they shivered at the recorded sound which, in three instances before, had been a prelude for death and destruction.
From the device came the monotonous, droning noise.
It tore at their eardrums, seemed to set the pictures on the walls to dancing. But it had no effect whatever on the bits of steel.
Benson played the record through four times. When he got through, the Catawbi steel was unchanged in any way. But so was the other unchanged!
Smitty sighed like a disappointed elephant.
“Blank,” he said. “And I thought—”
“The sound,” Benson said, pale eyes reflecting neither disappointment nor any other emotion, “had nothing whatever to do with the structural steel failures. So we will go ahead with our personal investigations. Mac, call on Vanderhold. Tell him what I just found out in Gary, Indiana, that the steel which holds up when other steel fails is made from Catawbi ore. See if his reaction to that statement tells you anything. Tell him anything else you please. Meanwhile, use your eyes and ears and your wits in trying to pick up some clue that might be useful.
“Nellie, go to the office of this man Abel Darcey. See what you can find out about him—both from the man himself and from his employees.”
“How about me, chief?” Smitty said quickly. The giant was no spectator. He wanted to be in the thick of things.
“You’ll come with me to visit Colonel Ringset,” the white-haired man said quietly. He stared at Nellie and Mac.
“Be very careful, you two. This gang knows all about us, now. They know each of us by sight, know where we are staying, and no doubt there are men stationed to trail and try to kill each of us. So—watch your step!”
CHAPTER XII
Murder Stroke!
In a city like Chicago there are many office buildings that, in their way, could be called “tenements” just as many apartment dwelling places are tenements. There are office building in neglected neighborhoods, old and shabby and dingy, waiting to be torn down and meanwhile, rented for whatever they will bring.
It was in such a building, on the west fringe of the Loop, that Colonel Ringset had his office.
Ringset was his own ore salesman. He had this little office to which he came from Catawbi every day, and out of which he sold the few but large orders that kept his mines barely solvent. There was a spinster secretary and office girl, and that was all there was to the office end of Catawbi Mines, Inc.
Colonel Ringset was a tall old man of seventy, with biting gray eyes under bushy white brows. He barked instead of talking. He had a temper that was notorious. He had an arrogant hawk nose and a ruthless, bony jaw.
He had bought the Catawbi Range as worthless land, forty-eight years ago, and had later developed the iron mines. But even his driving power and ingenuity had been unable to squeeze from ore, which was higher-priced than any one else’s, the millions to which he was entitled.
Meanwhile, he did what he could. He shipped his ore to Gary, Indiana, and South Chicago on the Catawbi Railroad, under a special rate. He borrowed from one bank to pay overdue interest on mortgages held by another; got new loans just when it seemed he must lose all his holdings; managed to keep his chin above water when almost any other man would have drowned.
Most people didn’t like Colonel Marius Ringset. But they didn’t say so. For he was a savage old fighter, dangerous in spite of his seventy years.
His spinster secretary was out to lunch when Smitty and Benson entered the ancient office-building doorway at one o’clock in the afternoon.
“Ratty old place,” Smitty
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