car roared off, and by the time Smitty had enough of the boards out to lower Nellie through so she could drop to the walk, and then follow himself, at least four minutes had passed.
“Gone! Got away!” raged Smitty.
A squad car roared up. Far down the street was the wail of a fire siren; smoke was pouring through the cracks over the fake boarding on the door.
Smitty leaped to the car. He was known by sight to most New York cops.
“Some guys on the second-floor front,” he said. “Crooks. Nail them!”
Then he went on to where he had left the coupé, with Nellie beside him. But at the door of the coupé, he slowed.
“Why am I in such a rush?” he growled. “We aren’t going anywhere. Those so-and-sos got away clean. No chance to trace them after all this time has passed.”
“Oh, yes, there is!” said Nellie. “You know that little sack I tossed? It has some of that new stuff of Mac’s in it. You know, the stuff he was talking about yesterday.”
Smitty nodded.
“You mean the liquescent pigment that dissolves slowly when it is exposed to air?”
“That’s the stuff. Nice, conspicuous orange-yellow. Some of it was in that little sack. I think maybe we can trace them by it.”
“Now and then,” said the giant grudgingly, “you almost act as if you had a brain under all that lovely yellow hair.”
CHAPTER VII
Painted Trails
You could follow the car with that yellow stuff, all right. Every hundred yards or so there was a plop like that of thick yellow paint, as big as a half dollar, in the street.
The only trouble was that the drops were so far apart that, while you could follow at a good rate of speed, you couldn’t tell where corners had been turned. You were apt to go shooting on, find no more spots, and have to turn back and investigate the last intersection, first to the left and then to the right, to pick up the trail again. Which took time. They’d have to tell Mac that; have him regulate the stuff, so that it dissolved and dripped about twice as fast.
Smitty and Nellie were half an hour behind their quarry by the time they got to the exclusive and expensive suburb of Westchester.
It was lucky they had the indisputable proof of the tracking paint to show where the car had stopped. Otherwise, they never would have believed it, because the destination was a millionaireish-looking house with at least twenty rooms and a four-car garage..
The evidence was conclusive, however. They saw, as they rolled slowly past, that there was a splash at the curb showing that several drops had had time to plop down while the crooks’ car waited here. The car was now in the commodious garage in the rear.
Smitty went on around the corner and stopped.
“Rear?” said Smitty.
Nellie nodded thoughtfully.
“There are a lot of bushes and shrubs set next to the house wall. And maybe basement windows. If we can get in the plantings, and if there is a basement window handy, we could work on it without being seen.”
They went through two backyards, clearing the first by inches ahead of a vicious watchdog. They got to the shrubbery next to the wall of the house that was their goal. They could only hope they’d been unobserved; they’d had to cover some large clear spaces.
There was a basement window, all right. And it had bars over it like something out of Sing Sing. Nellie looked doubtfully at the one-inch bars and then at Smitty. The giant shrugged as if to say: “Well, at least I can try.”
He got a bar in each hamlike hand and heaved backward. No soap. He sat down with his feet against the wall and pulled with all the enormous strength of shoulders, arms, legs and chest muscles. There was a thin, strained squeal, and the bars came out of the masonry at the top. One at a time, he bent them down, and there was room for Nellie to get in. A third one, and there was room for him, too.
“Too bad you can’t think with your back,” was Nellie’s only comment. “You’d have almost average
“Gone! Got away!” raged Smitty.
A squad car roared up. Far down the street was the wail of a fire siren; smoke was pouring through the cracks over the fake boarding on the door.
Smitty leaped to the car. He was known by sight to most New York cops.
“Some guys on the second-floor front,” he said. “Crooks. Nail them!”
Then he went on to where he had left the coupé, with Nellie beside him. But at the door of the coupé, he slowed.
“Why am I in such a rush?” he growled. “We aren’t going anywhere. Those so-and-sos got away clean. No chance to trace them after all this time has passed.”
“Oh, yes, there is!” said Nellie. “You know that little sack I tossed? It has some of that new stuff of Mac’s in it. You know, the stuff he was talking about yesterday.”
Smitty nodded.
“You mean the liquescent pigment that dissolves slowly when it is exposed to air?”
“That’s the stuff. Nice, conspicuous orange-yellow. Some of it was in that little sack. I think maybe we can trace them by it.”
“Now and then,” said the giant grudgingly, “you almost act as if you had a brain under all that lovely yellow hair.”
CHAPTER VII
Painted Trails
You could follow the car with that yellow stuff, all right. Every hundred yards or so there was a plop like that of thick yellow paint, as big as a half dollar, in the street.
The only trouble was that the drops were so far apart that, while you could follow at a good rate of speed, you couldn’t tell where corners had been turned. You were apt to go shooting on, find no more spots, and have to turn back and investigate the last intersection, first to the left and then to the right, to pick up the trail again. Which took time. They’d have to tell Mac that; have him regulate the stuff, so that it dissolved and dripped about twice as fast.
Smitty and Nellie were half an hour behind their quarry by the time they got to the exclusive and expensive suburb of Westchester.
It was lucky they had the indisputable proof of the tracking paint to show where the car had stopped. Otherwise, they never would have believed it, because the destination was a millionaireish-looking house with at least twenty rooms and a four-car garage..
The evidence was conclusive, however. They saw, as they rolled slowly past, that there was a splash at the curb showing that several drops had had time to plop down while the crooks’ car waited here. The car was now in the commodious garage in the rear.
Smitty went on around the corner and stopped.
“Rear?” said Smitty.
Nellie nodded thoughtfully.
“There are a lot of bushes and shrubs set next to the house wall. And maybe basement windows. If we can get in the plantings, and if there is a basement window handy, we could work on it without being seen.”
They went through two backyards, clearing the first by inches ahead of a vicious watchdog. They got to the shrubbery next to the wall of the house that was their goal. They could only hope they’d been unobserved; they’d had to cover some large clear spaces.
There was a basement window, all right. And it had bars over it like something out of Sing Sing. Nellie looked doubtfully at the one-inch bars and then at Smitty. The giant shrugged as if to say: “Well, at least I can try.”
He got a bar in each hamlike hand and heaved backward. No soap. He sat down with his feet against the wall and pulled with all the enormous strength of shoulders, arms, legs and chest muscles. There was a thin, strained squeal, and the bars came out of the masonry at the top. One at a time, he bent them down, and there was room for Nellie to get in. A third one, and there was room for him, too.
“Too bad you can’t think with your back,” was Nellie’s only comment. “You’d have almost average
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