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<h2 id="c5">CHAPTER 5 THE RED STAIN</h2> “Hand over the plate, buddy!” the motorist repeated as Salt gave no hint that he had heard. “You’re from a newspaper, and we don’t want our pictures printed—see?” “Sure, I see,” retorted Salt. “I’m not turning over any pictures.” The man took a wallet from his suit pocket. “Here’s a five spot to make it worth your while.” “No, thanks. Anyway, what’s your kick? Your car didn’t cause the accident. You’re in the clear.” “Maybe we’ll use the picture to collect damages,” the man said. “Here, I’ll give you ten.” “Nothing doing.” To put an end to the argument, Salt drove on. “Wonder who those birds were?” he speculated. Penny craned her neck to look back through the rear car window. “Salt!” she exclaimed. “That man who argued with us is writing down our license plate number!” “Let him!” “He intends to find out who you are, Salt! He must want that picture badly.” “He’ll get it all right—on the front page of the Star tomorrow! Maybe he’s a police character and doesn’t want any publicity. He looked like a bad egg.” “I wish we’d taken down his license number.” “We’ve got it,” replied Salt. “It’ll show up in the picture.” Penny settled back in the seat, paying no more attention to the traffic behind them. Neither she nor Salt noticed that they were being followed by the car with battered fenders. At the theater, Salt parked in the alleyway. “Go on in,” he told Penny, opening the car door for her. “I want to collect some of my stuff and then I’ll be along.” At the stagedoor, Penny was stopped by Old Jim, the doorman. “You can’t go in here without a pass, Miss,” he said. “There’s a newspaper convention on. My orders are not to let anyone in without a pass.” Penny flashed her press card. “My mistake,” the doorman mumbled. Once inside, Penny wandered backstage in search of her father or Jerry. The program had started, but after listening a moment to a singer, she moved out of range of his voice. Now and then, from the audience of newspapermen out front, came an occasional ripple of laughter or clapping of hands as they applauded a speaker. “Sounds pretty dull,” thought Penny. “Guess it’s lucky Dad cooked up the shooting stunt. If everything goes off right, it should liven things up a bit.” Wandering on down a hall, she came to one of the dressing rooms. Stacked against the outside wall were hundreds of freshly printed newspapers ready for distribution. Penny flipped one from the pile and read the headline: “REPORTER SHOT IN ARGUMENT WITH ELECTRICIAN!” Beneath the banner followed a story of the staged stunt to take place. So convincingly was it written, Penny had to think twice to realize not a word was true. Other columns of the paper contained regular wire news stories and telephoto pictures. Much of the front page also was given over to an account of the convention itself. “This will make a nice souvenir edition,” Penny thought. “Wonder where Jerry is? The stunt will be ruined if he doesn’t get here.” Salt came down the corridor, loaded heavily with his camera, a tripod, a reflector, and other photographic equipment. “Jerry here yet?” he inquired. “I haven’t seen him. It’s getting late too.” “He’ll be here,” Salt said confidently. “Wonder where I’d better leave this revolver?” Setting the photographic equipment on the floor, he took the revolver from his coat pocket, offering it to Penny. “Don’t give it to me,” she protested. “Put it in the dressing room,” he advised. “I can’t keep it, because I’ve got to go out front and shoot some pictures.” “Is the revolver loaded?” Penny asked, taking it unwillingly. “Sure, with blanks. It’s ready for the stunt.” Penny carried the weapon into the dressing room and deposited it on one of the tables. When she returned to the corridor, Salt had gathered up his equipment and was starting away. However, before he could leave, an outside door slammed. Jim, the doorman, burst in upon them. “Young feller, is that your car parked in the alley?” “Yeah!” exclaimed Salt, startled. “Don’t tell me the cops are handing me a ticket!” “Some feller’s out there, riflin’ through your things!” Salt dropped his camera and equipment, racing for the door. Penny was close behind. Reaching the alley, they were just in time to see a man in a dark suit ducking around the corner of the building. “Hey, you!” shouted Salt angrily. The man turned slightly and vanished from view. “Wasn’t that the same fellow who was in the auto accident?” Penny demanded. “Looked like him! Wonder if he got away with anything?” “Didn’t you lock the car, Salt?” “Only the rear trunk compartment. Should have done it but I was in a hurry.” “Shall I call the police, Salt?” “Why bother? That bird’s gone now. Let’s see if he stole anything first.” Salt muttered in disgust as he saw the interior of the car. A box of photographic equipment had been scattered over the back seat. The door of the glove compartment was open, its contents also helter-skelter. “Anything missing?” Penny asked. “Not that I can tell. Yes, there is! Some of the photographic plates!” “Oh, Salt, I was afraid of it! The thief must have been one of those two men who were in the auto accident! You wouldn’t sell them the picture they wanted so they followed you here and stole it!” “They may have tried,” the photographer corrected. “You mean you still have it?” “The plates that are missing are old ones, extras I exposed at a society tea and never bothered to develop.” “Then you have the one of the auto accident?” “Right here in my pocket.” “Oh, Salt, how brilliant of you!” Penny laughed. “It wasn’t brilliancy on my part—just habit,” Salt returned. “I wonder why that bird set such great store by the picture? Maybe for some reason he’s afraid to have it come out in the paper.” “I can hardly wait to see it developed!” As Penny and the photographer walked back to the theater entrance, a taxi skidded to a stop at the curb. Jerry alighted. “Anything wrong?” he inquired, staring curiously at the pair. Salt told him what had happened. “Maybe you’ve got dynamite packed in that plate,” Jerry commented when he had heard the story. “Better shoot it to the office and have it developed.” “I’m tied up here for half an hour at least.” “Send it back by the cab driver. He can deliver it to DeWitt.” “Good idea,” agreed Salt. He scribbled a note to accompany the plate and gave it to the cab driver, together with the holder. “Take good care of this,” he warned. “Don’t turn it over to any one except the city editor.” After the cab had driven away, Salt, Jerry, and Penny re-entered the theater. Mr. Parker had come backstage and was talking earnestly to the doorman. Glimpsing the three, he exclaimed: “There you are! And just in time too! The stunt goes on in five minutes.” “Are the newsboys here?” Jerry asked. “And Johnny Bates, the electrician?” “The boys are out front. Johnny’s waiting in the stage wings. Where’s the revolver, Salt?” “I’ll get it,” Penny volunteered, starting for the dressing room. The revolver lay where she had left it. As she reached for the weapon, she suddenly sniffed the air. Plainly she could smell strong cigarette smoke. Penny glanced swiftly about the room. No one was there and she had seen no one enter in the last few minutes. “Someone must have been here,” she thought. “Perhaps it was Old Jim, but he smokes a pipe.” “Penny!” her father called impatiently from outside. “We haven’t much time.” Picking up the revolver, she hurriedly joined him. “Dad, why not call the stunt off?” she began. “Something might go wrong—” “We can’t call it off now,” her father cut in impatiently. Taking the revolver from her hand he gave it to Jerry. “Do your stuff, my boy, and don’t be afraid to put plenty of heat into the argument. Remember your cue?” “I’m to start talking just as soon as the Mayor finishes his speech.” “He’s winding it up now. So get up there fast.” As Jerry started up the stairway, Penny trailed him. “Someone must have been in the dressing room after I left the revolver there,” she revealed nervously. “Be sure to check it before you turn it over to Mr. Bates.” The reporter nodded, scarcely hearing her words. His ears were tuned to the Mayor’s closing lines. A ripple of applause from the audience told him the speech already had ended. Taking the last few steps in a leap, Jerry reached the wings where John Bates was waiting. He gave him the revolver and at once plunged into his lines. So convincingly did he argue about the stage lights that Penny found herself almost believing the disagreement was genuine. The argument waxed warmer, and the actors moved out on the stage in full view of the audience. “Jerry’s good,” remarked Salt, who had joined Penny. “Didn’t know he had that much ham in him!” The quarrel now had reached its climax. As if in a sudden fit of rage, the electrician raised the revolver and pointed it at Jerry. “Take that—and that—and that!” he shouted, thrice pulling the trigger. Jerry staggered back, clutching in the region of his heart. Slowly, his face contorted, he crumpled to the floor. Scarcely had he collapsed, than newsboys armed with their papers, began to rush through the aisles of the theater. “Read all about it!” they shouted. “Reporter Shot in Argument! Extra! Extra!” The newspapermen chuckled at the joke as they accepted the free papers. On the stage, Jerry still lay where he had fallen. The electrician, his part ended, had disappeared to attend to regular duties. “Come on, Jerry!” Salt called to him. “What are you waiting for? More applause? Break it up!” The reporter did not stir. But on the floor beside him, a small red stain began to spread in a widening circle. Penny and Salt saw it at the same instant and were frozen with horror. “Ring down the curtain!” the photographer cried hoarsely. “Jerry’s really been shot!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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