LITMIR.BIZ

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for me, if you’re going to smoke. It will spoil your nerve.” And while Barney, dumb with incredulous hope, was still staring at the implication of that warning, Babbing said: “Hello. This is eight-fourteen. Can you get in to see me for a few minutes? … Yes. … Have you received that uniform yet? … Bring it in with you.”

      He hung up the receiver but kept his hand on it. “Sit down,” he said to Barney. He continued, to the telephone: “Get me one-seven-three-one Desbrosses. … Hello. … Archibald. Babbing. … You have an application there—in answer to our want ad—from a boy named Barney Cook. Have you ​looked up any of his references? … He says he delivered telegrams to us for the Western Union. His father was Robert Emmet Cook, a patrolman, killed about eight years ago. His mother lives in Hudson Street, where she rents furnished rooms. Run it out. ’Phone me right away, about the telegraph company and the police.” He turned abruptly, to scrutinize Barney over his spectacles. And Barney, seeing himself engaged if his references proved satisfactory, did not attempt to suppress his triumphant grin.

      “Well,” Babbing said, “you don’t look much like a plant—”

      “No, sir,” Barney admitted, not knowing in the least what was meant. He rose, at the end of a successful interview.

      “Sit down,” Babbing said, “your troubles have just begun. Come in!”

      II.

      That last was in response to a knock at the door; and a man entered on the invitation, ​nonchalantly, with his hat on, carrying what proved to be a suit of black clothes on his arm. He was a large, dark, breezy-looking, informal sort of individual, about thirty-five; and Barney at once misplaced him as a Broadway type of “rounder” and race-track “sport.” He ignored Barney and proceeded to drape the clothes over the foot of the bed, as if he had come merely to bring the suit. Barney did not guess that because of his presence the man did not speak to Babbing—until Babbing, by a question, indicated that it was all right to talk.

      “Any one been to see him to-day?” Babbing asked.

      “Not a soul,” he answered. “He ’s been out, this morning, but he did n’t connect.”

      “Snider has picked up some more telegrams.” Babbing held out the report to him. “In cipher.”

      “Got their code yet?”

      “No. If we had that, we ’d have everything. We can figure out a word here and there. ​The names are easy. But that ’s as far as we can get.”

      They stood together beside the table, their feet in a patch of sunlight, their backs to Barney, interested in a page of the report which Babbing was showing to his operative. “ ‘Kacaderm,’ for instance. That ’s ‘Murdock.’ He ’s one of the men they ’ve been bleeding, out there. They take the consonants ‘m-r-d-c-k,’ reverse them ‘k-c-d-r-m,’ and fill in vowels. But they do that only with the proper names. For instance, this last one: ‘Thunder command wind kacaderm.’ That can’t be solved by reversing consonants.”

      The operative studied the page. “Search me,” he said. “Has Acker worked on it?”

      “Yes. It was he that puzzled out the names. It ’s not a cryptogram. They have some simple method of writing one whole word for another. There ’s no use wasting time on it. We ’ll have to make our plant to catch him writing a message.”

      “I see.”

      ​Babbing took off his spectacles and began to walk up and down the room, twirling them by the ear bows. The operative sat on the side of the bed, leaning forward, with his hands clasped between his knees. He removed his derby and gazed thoughtfully into it, as if he hoped to find an idea there. It remained empty.

      Babbing stopped in front of Barney. “Young man,” he said, “I ’m going to send you into the next room with a telegram. There ’s a man in there—registered as Marshall Cooper. Remember the name. You ’ll give the telegram to him and say ‘Any answer?’ Watch him. It will be a cipher telegram that will look as if it had been received downstairs. See what he does to make it out. He ’ll probably want to answer it; and if he does, you may have a chance to see how he makes up the answer. He has a writing table over at this window—here. If he sits down at it, he ’ll have his back to you. Try to see what he does. Don’t try to do it by watching ​him quietly. He ’d notice that. Move around and look at the pictures. Don’t try to whistle—or anything of that fool sort. Try to act as you would if you were a bell-boy.” He had taken the suit of clothes from the foot of the bed. “Go in the bathroom and try these on.”

      Afterward, when Barney thought of this moment, it seemed to him romantic and exciting beyond all his wildest young adventurous hopes. It seemed to him that he must have jumped to his feet with delight. As a matter of fact, he rose very soberly and took the clothes. His mind was busy with Babbing’s directions which he was conning over and repeating to himself, so that he might be sure to make no mistakes. He was troubled about his ability to do what was expected of him. And he went into the bathroom and took off his Sunday twilled serge, and put on the black uniform of an Antwerp bell-boy mechanically, without thinking of himself as engaged in a Nick Carter exploit. Besides, the trousers ​were too long in the legs, and he had to pull them up until they were uncomfortable.

      He heard Babbing answering the telephone, but he did not suspect that the detective was receiving a confirmatory report, from his office, upon Robert Emmet Cook’s record at Police Headquarters and Barney Cook’s service with the Western Union. Barney was not listening to what was going on around him, nor thinking of it. His thoughts were in Marshall Cooper’s room. He was dramatising a scene with that gentleman.

      The voices of Babbing and his operative conferred together imperturbably:

      “How are we going to send him a cipher telegram. Chief, if we don’t know his code?”

      “I ’m going to repeat the one he got last night from Chicago. ‘Thunder command wind kacaderm.’ He has n’t answered it?”

      “Unless by letter. And they would n’t get that till to-night.”

      Babbing said: “He ’ll not go to the telegraph desk asking questions, because he won’t ​care to identify himself to the man there. That ’s why he goes out to send his messages.”

      “Suppose he does n’t let the kid into the room at all.”

      “Well, he opens the door. The boy gives him the telegram and asks ‘Any answer’? He reads it and sees it ’s the same message that he had last night. That ’ll make him forget the boy. He ’ll be trying to figure out what has happened. And the boy can stand at the door and watch him. It ’s worth trying anyway. Go and get the telegram ready, Jim.”

      “What is it, again?”

      “ ‘Thunder command wind kacaderm.’ Unsigned.”

      “ ‘Thunder—command—wind—kacaderm.’ ”

      “Have you the envelopes?”

      “Yep. Billy has everything in there.”

      “Don’t seal it till I ’ve looked it over.”

      “All right. Chief.”

      The operative—whose name was Corcoran—departed with the unbustling celerity of a man accustomed to quick and noiseless ​movement. Babbing went to the bathroom door. “That ’s not so bad,” he said of Barney’s uniform. “Turn around.” He settled the coat collar with a tug and a friendly pat. “Wipe off your shoes with a towel. The halls of the Antwerp aren’t as dusty as all that.” Barney looked up smiling, and found the detective’s eyes kindly, amused, encouraging. “I ought to send you out to get a new pair,” Babbing said, “but there is n’t time. Come in here, now, and let ’s go over this again. I have an improvement to suggest.”

      He went to the window and stood looking out. Barney

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