ever try living in the swamp—he’s a city, slum-bred man—but I’ll tell the police about it.”

“Do be careful,” Penny urged again, turning away.

Salt was waiting in the press car when she reached the street. Quickly transferring the flowers from her own automobile to his, she climbed in beside him.

“The Hillcrest?” he inquired, shifting gears.

“Yes, I’ll decorate the tables. Then we’ll drive to the theater.”

With a complete disregard for speed laws, safety stops, and red lights, Salt toured the ten blocks to the hotel in record time. Pulling up at the entrance, he said:

“While you’re in there, I’ll amble across the street. Want to do a little inquiring at the Western Union office.”

“About the telegram Danny Deevers sent Jerry?”

“Figured we might find from where it was sent.”

“I should have thought of that myself! Do see what you can learn, Salt. It won’t take me long to fix those tables.”

Penny disappeared into the hotel but was back in fifteen minutes. A moment later, Salt sauntered across the street from the Western Union office.

“Learn anything?” Penny asked.

“A little. The manager told me a boy picked up the message from a rooming house on Clayton street. That’s all they know about it.”

“Did you get the address?”

“Sure—1497 Clayton Street—an apartment building. The clue may be a dud one though. Danny wouldn’t likely be dumb enough to leave a wide open trail.”

“All the same, oughtn’t we to check into it?”

“We?”

“Naturally I’m included,” grinned Penny. “By the way, aren’t we near Clayton street now?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

“Then what’s delaying us?”

“My conscience for one thing,” Salt said, climbing into the car beside Penny. “Your father’s expecting us at the theater. I’m supposed to take pictures of the visiting big-boys.”

“We’ll get there in time. This may be our only chance to trace Danny.”

“You’re a glutton for adventure,” Salt said dubiously, studying his wristwatch. “Me—I’m not so sure.”

“Danny probably won’t be hiding out at the rooming house,” Penny argued. “But someone may be able to tell us where he went.”

“Okay,” the photographer agreed, jamming his foot on the starter. “We got to make it snappy though.”

The dingy old brick apartment house at 1497 Clayton Street stood jammed against other low-rent buildings in the downtown business section.

“You wait here,” Salt advised as he pulled up near the dwelling. “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, put in a call to the police. And arrange to give me a decent burial!”

The photographer disappeared into the building.

He was back almost at once. “It was a dud,” he said in disgust. “The telegram was sent from here all right, but Danny’s skipped.”

“You talked to the building manager?”

Salt nodded. “A fellow that must have been Danny rented a room last night, but he pulled out early this morning.”

“Why, the telegram didn’t come until a few minutes ago!”

“Danny took care of that by having the janitor send it for him. He evidently escaped from the pen late yesterday, but authorities didn’t give out the story until today.”

Disappointed over their failure, Penny and Salt drove on toward the theater in glum silence.

Suddenly at the intersection of Jefferson and Huron Streets, a long black sedan driven by a woman, failed to observe a stop sign. Barging into a line of traffic, it spun unsteadily on two wheels and crashed into an ancient car in which two men were riding.

“Just another dumb woman driver,” observed Salt. He brought up at the curb and reached for his camera.

“Nobody’s hurt so it’s hardly worth a picture. But if I don’t grab it, DeWitt’ll be asking me why I didn’t.”

Balancing the camera on the sill of the open car window, he snapped the shutter just as the two men climbed out of their ancient vehicle.

“Looks as if they’re going to put up a big squawk,” Salt observed with interest. “What they beefin’ about? That old wreck isn’t worth anything, and anyhow, the lady only bashed in a couple of fenders.”

The driver of the black sedan took a quick glance at the two men and said hastily:

“Please don’t call a policeman. I’ll gladly pay for all the damage. I’m covered by insurance. Just give me your names and where you live. Or, if you prefer, I’ll go with you now to a garage where your car can be repaired.”

The two men paid her no heed. In fact, they appeared not to be listening. Instead, they were gazing across the street at Salt and his camera.

“Button up your lip, lady!” said one of the men rudely.

He was a heavy-set man, dressed in a new dark blue serge suit. His face was coarse, slightly pale, and his steel-blue eyes had a hard, calculating glint.

His companion, much younger, might have been a country boy for he wore a lumber jacket, corduroy pants, and heavy shoes caked with mud.

The older man crossed the street to Salt’s car. He glanced at the “press” placard in the windshield and said curtly:

“Okay, buddy! I saw you take that picture! Hand over the plate!”

CHAPTER
5
THE RED STAIN

“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.