“There’s only one chance of finding out who did this,” Tom said.
“What’s that?”
“The fingerprints.”
“It’ll turn out that they belong to some scientific crook like those international spies you captured,” Bud ventured.
The young inventor shrugged. Then, before he could make a reply, Bud exclaimed, “Do you know what time it is? Nine o’clock and we haven’t had any dinner! Go on home, genius, and feed that brain of yours.”
“Okay.”
Tom dropped Bud off at an aunt’s with whom he had been staying, since Bud’s parents now lived in California. Then Tom drove to his own large, comfortable home. As he pulled into the garage he met his sister Sandra just coming from the kennels where the Swifts kept two fine bloodhounds.
“Hi, Sis! What’s for dinner?” Tom asked.
“You mean what was for dinner, Tom. We had
AMAZING FINGERPRINTS 27
steak and French fried potatoes,” said Sandy. She was a year younger than Tom and had the same light-colored hair and blue eyes as her brother. She laughed. “I’ll fix something for you.”
“Thanks, Sis. You’ll save my life! Boy, I’m starved!”
They walked into the house together and Tom went at once to greet his pretty mother. She was in the living room with Mr. Swift.
“Sorry I’m so late,” Tom said.
Mrs. Swift smiled. “I understand, dear. Your father thought you might be off hunting for the lost plane again.”
“Yes, I was,” he replied.
“How did you make out?” Mr. Swift asked, looking up from some papers he was reading.
They listened in amazement to their son’s story. He concluded by saying, “The plane itself wasn’t damaged, but my relotrol is gone. We dusted for fingerprints and-”