“Yes, I would. I’m sure I would. She almost always comes in with the boy. Or, no, she doesn’t, not any more. Not since school started. But she did all summer.”
“She comes in often, then.”
“I believe so,” said Miss English. “Fairly often.”
Marshall produced a small card, which he handed to Miss English. “The next time she comes in,” he said, “we’d appreciate it if you’d call us at that number. Ask for me, Mr. Marshall.”
“I will,” said Miss English. “I surely will.”
The four of them sat talking in Marshall’s office.
Tom Roberts had his shoes off, his feet on the windowsill, his spine curved into the chair and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He had one eye closed and was sighting between his socked feet at the building across the way.
“The thing that bothers me,” he said, the cigarette waggling in his mouth, “is just that I’m sure as I can be that I’ll never get to write a word of this story. You gimlet-eyed types will clamp down on this kid, and that’ll be the end of it. Security, by George. National defense. I wonder whatever happened to freedom of the press.”
“The press overworked it,” Marshall told him.
“The thing is,” said Lang, “whatever weapon or machine this boy is using, it’s something that the government knows absolutely nothing about. We’ve sent up a report on the effects of this thing, whatever it is, and there’s been the damnedest complete survey of current government research projects you can imagine. There is nothing at all like it even on the drawing boards.”
“Whatever the boy is using,” said Marshall, “and wherever he got it from, it isn’t a part of the government’s arsenal of weapons.”
“Which it has to be,” Lang added. “Can you imagine a weapon that selectively increases or decreases the temperature of any specific object or any specific part of an object? From a distance? I wouldn’t like to be sitting on a stockpile of hydrogen warheads with somebody aiming that weapon at me. He simply presses the ‘hot’ button, and blooey!”
“You see a jet bomber coming,” said Marshall. “You point the weapon, press the ‘cold’ button, and flame-out. That pilot bought the farm.”
“What I’d like to know,” said Lang, “is where he got his hands on this thing in the first place. Not only is there no machine or weapon we know of which can do this sort of thing, but our tame experts assure us that no such machine or weapon is possible.”
“Great,” said Stevenson. “We’re looking for a ten-year-old kid armed with a weapon that no adult in the country could even imagine as possible.”
The phone rang at that point, and for a second no one moved. They all sat and looked at the jangling phone. Then Marshall and Lang moved simultaneously, but it was Marshall who answered. “Marshall here.”
The others watched him, heard him say, “Yes, Miss English. Right.” And reach forward on the desk for pad and pencil. “Right, got it. You’re sure that’s the one? Right. Thank you very much.”
Marshall cradled the phone, and looked at the others. “The woman came in. Her name is Mrs. Albert J. Clayhorn, and she lives on Newkirk Avenue. Miss English said the number would be near East 17th.”
“Five blocks from the bank,” said Stevenson.
“And about eighty blocks from Higgins’ house,” said Roberts. “That’s why it took him so long to go to work that time. He saw what was happening on television, grabbed his weapon and his trusty bike and went riding out to Canarsie. The Scorpion rides again!”
Marshall looked at his watch. “It’s only a little after one,” he said. “We can talk to the mother before the boy comes home.”
“Right,” said Stevenson, getting to his feet.
V
Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn was a short, roundish, pleasant-faced woman in a flower-pattern apron. She looked at the identification Marshall showed her, and smiled uncertainly. “FBI? I don’t under— Well, come in.”
“Thank you.”
The living room was neat and airy. The four men settled themselves.
Marshall, uncomfortably, was the spokesman. “I’m going to have to explain this, Mrs. Clayborn,” he said, “and frankly, it isn’t going to be easy. You see—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, here’s the situation. Someone in New York has a rather strange machine of some sort — well, it’s sort of a heat machine, I suppose you could say — and we’ve traced it, through its use, to, uh — well, to your son.”
“To Eddie?” Mrs. Clayhorn was looking very blank. “Eddie?”
“I take it,” said Marshall, instead of answering, “that your son hasn’t told you about this machine.”
“Well, no. Well, of course not. I mean, he’s just a little boy. I mean, how could he have any sort of machine? What is it, a blowtorch, something like that?”
“Not exactly,” said Marshall. “Could you tell me, Mrs. Clayhorn, what your husband does for a living?”
“Well, he runs a grocery store. The Bohack’s up on Flatbush Avenue.”
“I see.”
Lang took over the questioning. “Are there any other persons living here, Mrs. Clayhorn? Any boarders?”
“No, there’s only the three of us.”
“Well, is Eddie interested in anything of a, well, a scientific nature? In school, perhaps?”
“Oh, Lord, no. He hasn’t had any real science subjects yet. He’s only in the fifth grade. His best subject is history, but that’s because he likes to read, and history is all reading. He got that from me, I read all the time.”
“He doesn’t have one of these junior chemistry sets, then, or anything like that?”
“No, not at all. He just isn’t interested. We even got him an Erector set last Christmas, and he played with it for a day or two and then gave it up completely and went back to reading.”
“The thing is,” said Stevenson, with ill-concealed desperation, “he does have this machine.”
“Are you sure it’s Eddie?”
“Yes, m’am, we’re sure.”
“Mrs. Clayhorn,” said Marshall, “the boy does have this machine. The government is very interested in it, and—”
“Well, I don’t see how a ten-year-old boy — but if you say so, then I suppose it’s so. Of course, he’ll be home from school at three-thirty. You could ask him, if you want.”
“We’d rather not, just yet,” said Marshall. “We think it might not be the best idea. As you say, Eddie is very interested in reading. He’s been using this machine, and, uh, well, he’s been making a big secret out of it, like the characters in comic books. We wouldn’t want to spoil that secret for him, at least not until we actually have the machine in our own possession.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Clayhorn doubtfully.
“Mam,” said Stevenson, “we don’t have any sort of search warrant. But we would like to take a look in Eddie’s room, with your permission.”
“Well, if you really think it’s important—”
“It is,” said Marshall.
“Then, I suppose it’s all right. It’s the door on the right, at the end of the hall.”
The three men, feeling large and cumbersome, searched the boy’s room. It was a boy’s room, nothing less and nothing more. The closet floor and shelves were stacked with comic books, there were baseball trading cards in the top bureau drawer, there were pennants on the walls. There was no heat machine, nor any hint of a heat machine.
“I just don’t know,” said Marshall at last.
“Unless he carries it all the time,” said Lang.