What interested Stan was the fact that the belt disappeared through a panel in the floor. He said:
“That’s big enough for us to go through, isn’t it?”
“It looks that way.”
They had walked to the end of the bench. Stan knelt, and prized up the metal lattice-guard surrounding the belt. He stared through the uncovered gap in the floor.
“It’s easy — only a seven or eight foot drop. I’ll go first.”
He gripped the sides of the opening, slid down into the aperture. The hole wasn’t too large — Stan’s chest and wide shoulders only scraped through. As he straightened out, his toe found the basement floor.
He stepped aside, reaching for the gun and the flashlight he had again stowed in his coat pockets. But there was no need for the flashlight. Ahead of him, the basement was dimly illuminated by the pale yellow glow of an electric bulb over the hulking form of a furnace.
He had dropped into the boiler room of the plant. And now Worthington was at his side again.
“There!” the blond man whispered. “There it is again!”
“Uh-huh, come on.”
They tiptoed past the toothless, fire-reddened gums of the gaping furnace door. Stan, ahead of Worthington, stopped and silently pointed. They had found the source of the groan. _
A man was propped on the bench under the dropcord bulb beyond the furnace. An elderly man, on the fattish side, he had one hand clapped to his forehead. He wore overalls and a denim jacket. A tin, live-pointed star pinned to the jacket’s upper left pocket said Watchman.
The elderly man’s body teetered unhappily on the bench, and as the two men stared, another woeful groan fell from the fellow’s lips.
On the coal-grimed floor some bits of rope and a wet wad of bandana handkerchief told their own story.
Worthington started toward the watchman, found his path barred by Stan’s arm. Stan pointed again.
Back of the watchman’s bench, a flight of wooden steps climbed through the boiler room ceiling. There was visible a pair of trouser legs, standing motionless on the third from the topmost step.
Stan and Worthington exchanged glances. Stan jerked his head, and both men backed around to the other side of the furnace. The watchman, preoccupied with his own troubles, had not noticed them.
Stan pointed at an iron poker propped against the furnace, then pantomimed what Worthington was to do with this poker in case the watchman pulled a gun.
The blondman nodded.
Stan’s hand firmed on the .38. The lacerated palm had swollen rather painfully. He went past the rear of the furnace, tiptoed toward the stairs. He looked up.
The steps climbed to a hallway, having a door which opened onto the right wing corridor of the ground floor. The door stood ajar. The man on the steps was peering out into the corridor. A cocked revolver glinted in his hand.
It would have been just too bad for an intruder in the corridor. Or for anyone coming out of the shipping room! Stan spoke softly:
“What goes on, Judge?”
The big man on the steps started convulsively. He lifted his hands, and then turned slowly. It was Judge Elmore, all right.
He stared at Stan Baxter, and dropped his hands. “You!” he ejaculated. “What are you doing here?” Then, in a theatrical whisper:
“Burglars!” the judge said. “They slugged the watchman — tied and gagged him. They’re up in the shipping department now!”
Stan glanced around, grinned. Worthington stood in front of the furnace, weighing the poker in his hand. There was no need for it. The watchman just sat and stared helplessly at the scene.
“I don’t think so, Judge,” Stan said. “We just came from the shipping department.”
“You what?” Elmore demanded. “But you couldn’t! I’ve been watching! Baxter, what the hell is all this?” He came heavily down the steps and saw Worthington. “And who is this fellow?”
The blond man gave Stan a warning look.
“He’s helping me with this affair,” Stan evaded.
“But what in the devil are you doing here?”
Stan said, “I wanted to see you, Judge. Selma told me you were at the plant, and I came here. Now it’s your turn.”
Elmore nodded. “I had a little work to clean up in my office. I beard a groan, and traced it to the boiler room. I found the watchman here writhing on the floor, tied hand and foot, with a handkerchief in his mouth. He says three men slugged him down here, about an hour ago.”
The watchman rubbed his forehead and groaned piteously.
“He was still practically unconscious,” Elmore continued. “It took me a while to revive him, enough so he could talk sense. Then I heard voices in the shipping room overhead. So I took his gun and went up to the top of the stairs.”
Stan turned to the watchman. “You’re revived now, aren’t you?”
“My head,” the old man mumbled. “My head hurls bad.”
“But you feel well enough to show my friend here to a telephone?”
“I guess,” the watchman said dubiously.
“Then go ahead. Here, Judge. Let’s have that gun.” Stan handed the weapon to Worthington. He grinned at the blond man. “You know what to phone the cops about all this.”
Elmore said, “We can all go now.”
“Oh, no, Judge. I want to talk to you — alone.”
“I see.” But Horace Elmore’s florid features looked confused. He watched Worthington and the watchman climb the stairs; he shook his head.
“It’s a mistake to leave a poor old duffer like that in this place alone at night. I always said so. It’s a job for a young fellow with red blood in him. Well, Baxter, what’s on your mind?”
Stan chuckled. “Judge,” he said, “do you expect me to take you seriously? Am I supposed to believe that you — in your office, in the other wing of the building — could hear a man groaning in the boiler room? Especially when that man was practically unconscious, and had a gag in his mouth?”
Elmore flared, “Certainly I heard him!”
“Baloney. It’s impossible!”
“Young man” — the judge’s tone was icy — “do you mean to call me a liar?”
Stan said, “Uh-huh. Not only a liar, but a damn poor one!”
Horace Elmore moistened his lips.
“Look,” said Stan. “You didn’t trace any groan here. You came here, and it was pure accident you found the watchman on the floor. Isn’t that the fact?”
“It is not.”
“Oh yes it is. And the reason you won’t admit it,” Stan went on, “is that someone might ask what you came to the boiler room for. You wouldn’t like to answer that, would you?”
The judge did not reply. His eyes seemed tortured under the younger man’s relentless inspection. His gaze shifted to the door.
Stan shrugged. “All right, don’t answer. I’ll just go through your pockets.” “You can’t do that!”
“No?” Stan eyed the bulge of Elmore’s coat-front. “You came down here to burn something in the furnace — and then didn’t do it. You worked over the watchman first. And then you wanted to get rid of him before you destroyed the stuff. And now you’re not going to have a chance to.”
He took a step toward Elmore. The man’s face had gone very pale.
“Wait a moment.” he said huskily. “This isn’t what you’re probably thinking. It... it’s personal, it concerns no one but myself.”
“You admit you came here to burn what you have in your pocket.”
“Yes,” said Elmore, his plump lips trembling. “Some personal papers — no longer important since Mr. Randt is dead. A little trouble he once had. That’s all. And out of respect for his memory, I think it best they be destroyed.”