LITMIR.BIZ

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greeted us as we entered the famous jewelry shop. Involuntarily I drew back. Squarely in front of us a man had suddenly raised a revolver and leveled it at us.

      “Don’t!” cried a familiar voice. “That is Mr. Kennedy!”

      Just then, from a little knot of people, Elaine Dodge sprang forward with a cry and seized the gun.

      Kennedy turned to her, apparently not half so much concerned about the automatic that yawned at him as about the anxiety of the pretty girl who had intervened. The too eager plainclothesman lowered the gun sheepishly.

      Sturtevant Martin was a typical society business man, quietly but richly dressed. He was inclined to be pompous and affected a pair of rather distinguished looking side whiskers.

      In the excitement I glanced about hurriedly. There were two or three policemen in the shop and several plainclothesmen, some armed with formidable looking sawed-off shot guns.

      Directly in front of me was a sign, tacked up on a pillar, which read, “This store will be closed at noon today. Martin & Co.”

      All the customers were gone. In fact the clerks had had some trouble in clearing the shop, as many of them expressed not only surprise but exasperation at the proceeding. Nevertheless the clerks had politely but insistently ushered them out.

      Martin himself was evidently very nervous and very much alarmed. Indeed no one could blame him for that. Merely to have been singled out by this amazing master criminal was enough to cause panic. Already he had engaged detectives, prepared for whatever might happen, and they had advised him to leave the diamonds in the counter, clear the store, and let the crooks try anything, if they dared.

      I fancied that he was somewhat exasperated at his daughter’s presence, too, but could see that her explanation of Elaine’s and Perry Bennett’s interest in the Clutching Hand had considerably mollified him. He had been talking with Bennett as we came in and evidently had a high respect for the young lawyer.

      Just back of us, and around the corner, as we came in, we had noticed a limousine which had driven up. Three faultlessly attired dandies had entered a doorway down the street, as we learned afterwards, apparently going to a fashionable tailor’s which occupied the second floor of the old-fashioned building, the first floor having been renovated and made ready for renting. Had we been there a moment sooner we might have seen, I suppose, that one of them nodded to a taxicab driver who was standing at a public hack stand a few feet up the block. The driver nodded unostentatiously back to the men.

      In spite of the excitement, Kennedy quietly examined the show case, which was, indeed, a veritable treasure store of brilliants. Then with a keen scrutinizing glance he looked over the police and detectives gathered around. There was nothing to do now but wait, as the detectives had advised.

      I looked at a large antique grandfather’s clock which was standing nearby. It now lacked scarcely a minute of twelve.

      Slowly the hands of the clock came nearer together at noon.

      We all gathered about the show case with its glittering hoard of wealth, forming a circle at a respectful distance.

      Martin pointed nervously at the clock.

      In deep-lunged tones the clock played the chords written, I believe, by Handel. Then it began striking.

      As it did so, Martin involuntarily counted off the strokes, while one of the plainclothesmen waved his shotgun in unison.

      Martin finished counting.

      Nothing had happened.

      We all breathed a sigh of relief.

      “Well, it is still there!” exclaimed Martin, pointing at the show-case, with a forced laugh.

      Suddenly came a rending and crashing sound. It seemed as if the very floor on which we stood was giving way.

      The show-case, with all its priceless contents, went smashing down into the cellar below.

      The flooring beneath the case had been cut through!

      All crowded forward, gazing at the black yawning cavern. A moment we hesitated, then gingerly craned our necks over the edge.

      Down below, three men, covered with linen dusters and their faces hidden by masks, had knocked the props away from the ceiling of the cellar, which they had sawed almost through at their leisure, and the show case had landed eight or ten feet below, shivered into a thousand bits.

      A volley of shots whizzed past us, and another. While one crook was hastily stuffing the untold wealth of jewels into a burlap bag, the others had drawn revolvers and were firing up through the hole in the floor, desperately.

      Martin, his detectives, and the rest of us fell back from the edge of the chasm hastily, to keep out of range of the hail of bullets.

      “Look out!” cried someone behind us, before we could recover from our first surprise and return the fire.

      One of the desperadoes had taken a bomb from under his duster, lighted it, and thrown it up through the hole in the floor.

      It sailed up over our heads and landed near our little group on the floor, the fuse sputtering ominously.

      Quickly we divided and backed away even further.

      I heard an exclamation of fear from Elaine.

      Kennedy had pushed his way past us and picked up the deadly infernal machine in his bare hands.

      I watched him, fascinated. As near as he dared, he approached the hole in the floor, still holding the thing off at arm’s length. Would he never throw it?

      He was coolly holding it, allowing the fuse to burn down closer to the explosion point.

      It was now within less than an inch sure death.

      Suddenly he raised it and hurled the deadly thing down through the hole.

      We could hear the imprecations of the crooks as it struck the cellar floor, near them. They had evidently been still cramming jewelry into the capacious maw of the bag. One of them, discovering the bomb, must have advanced toward it, then retreated when he saw how imminent was the explosion.

      “Leave the store—quick!” rang out Kennedy’s voice.

      We backed away as fast as those behind us would permit. Kennedy and Bennett were the last to leave, in fact paused at the door.

      Down below the crooks were beating a hasty retreat through a secret entrance which they had effected.

      “The bag! The bag!” we could hear one of them bellow.

      “The bomb—run!” cried another voice gruffly.

      A second later came an ominous silence. The last of the three must have fled.

      The explosion that followed lifted us fairly off our feet. A great puff of smoke came belching up through the hole, followed by the crashing of hundreds of dollars’ worth of glass ware in the jewelry shop as fragments of stone, brick and mortar and huge splinters of wood were flung with tremendous force in every direction from the miniature volcano.

      As the smoke from the explosion cleared away, Kennedy could be seen, the first to run forward.

      Meanwhile Martin’s detectives had rushed down a flight of back stairs that led into a coal cellar. With coal shovels and bars, anything they could lay hands on, they attacked the door that opened forward from the coal cellar into the front basement where the robbers had been.

      A moment Kennedy and Bennett paused on the brink of the abyss which the bomb had made, waiting for the smoke to decrease. Then they began to climb down cautiously over the piled up wreckage.

      The explosion had set the basement afire, but the fire had not gained much headway, by the time they reached the basement. Quickly Kennedy ran to the door into the coal cellar and opened it.

      From the other side, Martin, followed by the police and the detectives, burst in.

      “Fire!”

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