And Tom-Tom sat up, his fingers tugging at the clamps that imprisoned him. * * * * * The Los Angeles papers made little enough fuss over the death of old Bratton. True, he was murdered--they found him stabbed, lying face down across the threshold of his rear room that was jammed full of strange mechanical junk--but the murder of a janitor is not really big crime news in a city the size of Los Angeles. The police were baffled, more so because none of them could guess what the great mass of machinery could be, if indeed it were anything. But they forgot their concern the following week, when they had a more important murder to consider, that of one Digs Dilson. Digs Dilson was high in the scale of local gang authority. He had long occupied a gaudy apartment in that expensive Los Angeles hotel which has prospered by catering to wealthy criminals. He was prudent enough to have a bedroom with no fire escape. He feared climbing assassins from without more than flames from within. In front of his locked room slept two bodyguards on cots, and his own bedside window was tightly wedged in such a fashion that no more than five inches of opening showed between sill and sash. The electric power-line that was clamped along the brickwork just outside could hardly have supported a greater weight than thirty or forty pounds. Yet Digs Dilson had been killed at close range, by a stab with an ordinary kitchen knife, as he slept. The knife still remained in the wound, as if defying investigators to trace finger-prints that weren't there. And the bodyguards had not been wakened and the door had remained locked on the inside. The blade of the knife, had anyone troubled to compare wounds, could have been demonstrated to be the exact size and shape as the one that had killed old Bratton. His landlord might have been able to testify that it came from old Bratton's little store of kitchen utensils. But nobody at police headquarters bothered to connect the murders of a friendless janitor and a grand duke of gangdom. After considerable discussion and publicity, the investigators called the case one of suicide. How else could Digs Dilson have received a knife in his body? Hope was expressed that the Dilson mob, formerly active and successful in meddling with film extras' organizations and the sea food racket, would now dissolve. But the hope was short-lived. A spruce lieutenant of the dead chief, a man by the name of Juney Saltz, was reputed to have taken command. He appeared briefly at the auction of old Bratton's effects, buying all the mysterious machinery at junk prices and carting it away. After that, the organization, now called the Salters, blossomed out into the grim but well-paid professions of kidnapping, alien-running and counterfeiting.