Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 168: what you’re looking at

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

166 face-plate—was a serious matter indeed. In the history of the Bureau there had been but one instance where a pair of plates had been smuggled out of the big plant, to be seized by Secret Service operatives before damage had been done. The Director turned toward the man who had announced his loss, but scarcely had he taken a step in his direction before another voice came from the northern alley. ‘My plate’s gone, too!’’ The speaker was at a press adjoining that of the first complainant, at a point not far distant from the entrance of the wash- room, and between two windows which in daylight commanded a view of the Monu- ment Grounds. Even as Kendall bent his steps toward the north alley, he noticed that the bottom sash of one of the windows was partly raised, and that the Secret Service man was standing before it, gazing with seeming care- lessness in the direction of the dim cluster of lights near the base of the Monument. “What plate were you working with, Poor?” Kendall asked the man who had spoken first. Joe Poor, a lean, timid man with eyes of washed-out blue, tugged at his wheat- colored mustache as he answered— “ ‘Buffalo Ten’ face-plate, number 3761.” “And yours?” ‘The Director wheeled upon the other plate-printer. ‘* ‘Buffalo Ten’ back, number 480.” “A complete set of plates gone!”’ groaned the foreman-at Kendall’s elbow. The Bureau chief glanced at Scott. Al- most helpless in the face of the catastrophe that threatened his hitherto clean record, he looked to the Secret Service man for his cue. Nor did Dave Scott fail him. ‘When did you last see your plate?” he asked Poor sharply. “At the moment of the explosion. I’d made six impressions since I came on, and was inkin’ up for the seventh. Bang/ goes something in the washroom, and the lights popped out. My feeder and I beat it for the opposite side o’ the room. Then, when the lights were turned on again, I came back here and missed the plate.” Scott chewed furiously at his unlighted cigar, appraised his man with a shrewd glance that swept him from head to foot, then put a single question to him. “Had you chalked your hands and pol- ished the plate after inking it.” j Adventure The Director squirmed as his friend put the seemingly idle question, but he knew Scott too well to offer protest. “No,” Poor answered. ‘The plate was rough-inked—hadn’t even been wiped.” “And when did you miss your plate?” Scott turned to the second man, a well- built fellow with a green shade over his eyes. “When the lights were turned up, sir—as soon as I got back to my press.” ‘“‘And when did you see it last?” “About the time of the explosion.” “Was it inked?” Scott glanced sharply at the clean hands and arms of the printer. “No, sir. Kitty, my feeder here’”—the speaker indicated a freckled young woman at his side—‘‘didn’t have the paper damp enough to suit me. I was waiting on her before starting in for the night.” Abruptly, the Secret Service operative turned away and motioned for Kendall to follow. At the elevator door, just out of ear-shot of the nearest printer, Scott asked as he pressed the button— ‘Do you know the name of that last chap?” “Friebus—Edward Friebus. But, I say, Dave, aren’t we going to search the plate- press floor and the dressing-rooms?” Scott laughed grimly. Then he ceased his cigar-chewing long enough to say: “No use, Old Top. Those plates are miles away by this time. We're up against a top- notch scheme. It’s a mixed job, half inside and half outside. And if I don’t nail those plates tonight we may not get ’em for months. And in the meantime they may use the Doyle method of bleaching new one- dollar bills and making Buffalo Tens out of 7em. A grand scheme; millions in it!” The man-hunter chuckled grimly. ‘Genu- ine plates, genuine paper, and nothing for *em to do but to buy a numbering machine and run opposition to the Government.” The lights of the ascending elevator ap- peared. “Not another word,” Scott cautioned, “till we get to your office.”’ oy, ONCE inside the Director’s private SN) - room, the Operative snapped on all === the lights, then hastily consulted his watch. ‘“‘We’ve got to work quick,’’ he went on to say. His keen brown eyes sought those of the Director, ‘Otherwise we may have to call in the entire issue of Buffaloes.”’ Eomichoo (9) (E(O)