The Human Zero. The Science Fiction Stories of Erle Stanley Gardner

Captain Harder pressed a button.

“Take these letters. Have ’em photographed,” he told the man who answered the buzzer. “Check the typewriting with the others. Then get me everything you can get on Albert Crome. I want to know what he’s been doing with his time the last few days, who he associates with, who’s seen him lately, where he lives, what he’s doing with his work, everything about him.

“And if you can get a man into his offices and laboratory, I want a specimen of the typewriting that comes from the portable machine he’s got — a Royal.”

The man nodded, withdrew.

Captain Harder grinned at the little group.

“Well, we might go down to T-Bone Frank’s and have a cup of coffee and some eats. Maybe we’ll have something new when we get back.”

Sands fidgeted.

“I don’t want anything to eat.”

“Well, you’d better wait a little while, Sands. You know that threat may mean nothing. Then again, it may mean a lot.”

Sands nodded.

“Are you going to tell Soloman?”

“Yes. I’ll give him a ring, I guess. Maybe I’d better do it before he gets home and to bed. Let’s see, I’ve got his number here. I’ll give him a buzz and break the glad tidings and then put a couple of the boys on guard in front of the place. It’ll make him think a little. Didn’t like his attitude, myself... Oh, well!”

He gave the exchange operator the number, replaced the receiver, fished a cigar from his pocket, and scraped a noisy match along the sole of his shoe.

Ruby Orman scribbled on her pad of paper: “In tense silence, these men waited grimly for the dawn.”

Charles Ealy put a matter-of-fact question.

“Can we get these letters for the noon editions, Harry?”

“What’s the deadline?” asked the captain.

“We’d have to have them by eight o’clock in order to get the plates ready.”

“I guess so. It ain’t eight o’clock yet.”

Ealy perked up his ears.

“You speak as though you had something up your sleeve,” he said.

The officer nodded grimly.

“I have,” he said.

The telephone rang. Captain Harder cupped his ear to the receiver.

“Funny,” he said, “Soloman’s residence says he’s not home yet.” Then: “Keep calling. Tell him I want to speak to him. It’s important.”

They went to the all-night restaurant, lingered over coffee and sandwiches. They were all nervous, with the exception of Sid Rodney. That individual seemed to be utterly relaxed, but it was the inactivity of a cat who is sprawled in the sun, keeping a lazy eye upon a fluttering bird, trying to locate the nest.