The Electronic Mind Reader Part 12

"You know anything we discuss never goes farther than this office. All right, Rick. Jerry will get the dope. Hop to it, hawkeye. Duty calls."

Jerry waved his arms dramatically. "Hold the presses! New barber in town! Here I go, after the story of the year!" He swept through the door, then made a sheepish reappearance. "Forgot my pencil and copy paper," he explained, grabbed them, and vanished.

Duke waved the boys to chairs. "It will take a little while. Get comfortable. I have to finish this copy."

Rick and Scotty waited as patiently as possible. Scotty, the more relaxed of the pair, borrowed a copy of a style manual and studied it with apparent interest. Rick watched him, envious as always of his pal's ability to let time pa.s.s without floor pacing, nail chewing, or other impatient actions.

Duke's a.n.a.lysis of the situation was pretty good, Rick thought, and it was based on very little real information. He supposed that an editor had more experience to draw on than most people. But so did intelligence agents. It wasn't hard to see how a few information leaks could add up to a pretty clear picture in an agent's head.

Jerry was back in a short time. Apparently the interview hadn't taken long. He produced his sheaf of copy paper with a flourish and pounded on a desk for attention. The gesture wasn't necessary. Rick, Scotty, and Duke were waiting eagerly.

"Louis Collins, Journeyman Barber," Jerry read. "Age 43. Originally from St. Louis, most recently from Washington, D.C. Twenty-five years experience. Inventor of the Collins treatment for dry hair, which is the machine he has. Claims to have invented it five years ago, while working at a hotel in Washington. Came to Whiteside because he prefers being near the sh.o.r.e. He's an ardent fisherman. Saw Vince Lardner's ad in _The New York Times_ a few days ago and applied at once by phone."

"What day and what time?" Rick asked quickly.

"Monday. He called about noon."

Scotty asked curiously, "How did you get that information out of him?"

"Nothing to it. I told Vince I'd like to look up his ad in the _Times_, because he claimed the ad plugged Whiteside as an excellent climate. Then I told this new guy he must have moved fast to get in his application ahead of all the other applicants, and he said he hadn't even seen the _Times_ until he went to lunch. He called right away. Vince nodded, so I guess the time worked out as Collins said it had. Vince said the ad had been running for a week, and no one else had applied."

Rick had been calculating. "Scotty, that means Collins phoned after we left Washington..." He stopped quickly.

Duke Barrows rubbed his hands in fiendish glee. "Ahah! Giving away information. So you've seen this Collins before, in Washington. No wonder you're worried about him. Jerry, I'll bet we can sell this information to some enemy for millions!"

Scotty grinned. "Not unless you have the plans for the death ray. Only death rays bring millions these days. Why, it's getting so a spy can't even sell atom bomb secrets for more than a buck apiece any more."

"Guess you're right," Duke admitted, crestfallen. "Well, Rick, anything else you need?"

"Middle initial or name?" Rick asked.

"M for Mayhew. Anything else?" Jerry asked with a superior air.

"That does it." Rick consulted his watch. "Let's go, Scotty. Time to pick up Barby. I won't thank you two, because you're going to get paid in steak and pie. See you later."

At the home of Barby's friend there was another wait while Rick chafed. He was anxious to get home and phone Steve Ames. However, as it developed, Steve couldn't be reached. It was after dinner before Rick made connections.

He gave Steve the information Jerry had collected, then asked, "Isn't this proof of something?"

Steve chuckled. "It's proof that Whiteside has a new barber. That's all. But it's certainly strongly presumptive, Rick. We knew about Collins moving before you called, and we're continuing the check on him. Meanwhile, I'll alert my boys at Spindrift and tell them to keep on their toes."

"I'll pa.s.s the word," Rick offered.

"No need. I'm in touch by radio. Now, I want you to do something for me. Dr. Marks is arriving at Newark by train at six tomorrow morning.

Tom Dodd is with him. Can you pick them up?"

"Sure. How?"

"Suppose you fly to Newark and have Scotty drive over. Then you can pick them up at the station by car and take them to the plane. If you fly them to Spindrift no one will know that Marks has even arrived.

Tom will try to make sure no one is tailing him, and he'll help you to lose any cars that might try to follow."

"We can do it," Rick a.s.sured him. "I can land close to the city. I've done it before with pontoons."

"Good. Ordinarily, I'd have an agent meet them, but my Newark man is in the woods with the Boy Scout group. Call me when Marks is safely with the team."

"Will do," Rick promised.

Rick reported the conversation to his father when the scientist came in from late work in the laboratory. Hartson Brant nodded wearily.

"Good. If Marks is on the way, that means he has answers we need badly to some of our mathematical problems."

"What I don't get is why he's coming on an overnight train," Scotty interjected. "That's doing it the hard way, because it's only a few hours from Washington to Newark. Why didn't he get a train at a decent hour? This way, he'll spend most of the night sitting on a siding somewhere."

The scientist smiled. "I gather that Marks has definite ideas of his own. I wouldn't care to be Tom Dodd. I'm sure Marks is giving him considerable trouble. He's convinced this security business is a plot to inconvenience him and the other people on the project."

"He didn't seem to have a very sweet disposition," Rick agreed. "Good night, Dad. Scotty and I are going to bed early, because we'll have to be up at dawn."

It was really the first sound night's sleep Rick had since the invasion of Spindrift by Steve and the Morrisons. Later, he had to smile at himself, because it seemed to be proof of what Scotty had said--that the real reason for his uneasiness was inactivity. He admitted that the problem of the stricken team members intrigued him.

He made no claim to being any great shakes as a detective, but trying to solve mysteries, whether scientific or real, was a part of him.

Scotty departed first by boat a few minutes after dawn. Rick warmed the Sky Wagon, then went in for a dish of cereal before taking off. He had plenty of time. Newark was only a few minutes away in the fast little plane.

He timed it perfectly. Scotty was just rolling up to the pier near Newark as Rick taxied in after landing. He got into a rowboat brought by an attendant, and tied the plane to an anchor buoy. In a moment he was in the car with Scotty.

"We'll get some excitement now," Rick predicted.

"Because Marks is arriving?"

"Yes, and because the barber has come to town. If he isn't up to his neck in this business, I'll eat his hair oil on pancakes."

Scotty shuddered. "You might at least wait until I've had more breakfast."

Rick ignored him. "Also, the team is now a.s.sembled in one place. That means the enemy has a single target to shoot at."

Scotty laughed out loud. "You should see yourself," he said, chuckling. "Since we found the barber yesterday, you've been a new man. Beaming and happy as can be. Now the enemy has a single target and you're pleased. Didn't it occur to you that the target is us, you simple meathead?"

"It did." Rick had to grin, too. "But who can locate the sharpshooter best? Why, the guy sitting on the bull's-eye."

Scotty parked and they walked into the station. A quick check of the bulletin board told them the train was on time. They walked to the gate just as the train announcer called the arrival.

Tom Dodd was one of the last off. He had two suitcases under one arm, and he was supporting Marks with the other. Rick and Scotty ran to help. Was the scientist ill?

Scotty took the suitcases while Rick grabbed Marks' other arm. The scientist shook him off. "I'm perfectly all right," he said irritably.

"Confound it! Rouse a man at the crack of dawn and expect him to respond like a ballet dancer to a cue. Nonsense!"

Marks' appearance belied his words. His face was drawn and pale, and it was obvious that his coordination wasn't very good. Tom Dodd was plainly worried.

"Let go of me," Marks demanded. He drew himself up and glared at the boys. "Which way is the car, please?"