Sight Unseen (6 page)

For a few seconds, he pictured a stubby object with a lot of wires sticking out of it in Japanese hands.

“Make more of them,” he answered.

“And do what with them?”

“Bomb something, I guess.”

“And do you think they’re likely to stop at our shores if they’re not
made
to stop—people who’ve slaughtered thousands, millions of innocent people over the past three or four years? Why should they?”

“Because we’re an ocean away.”

Her sarcasm hit him like a slap across his face. “Have you ever heard of the airplane, Mr. Lockwood? Can’t you get it through
your little Babbitt mind that this country is the richest prize these barbarians could grasp? And that once they’ve grasped
everything and everybody else in the world, even we’ll be no match for them?”

The waiter brought their main course, and what had seemed so appetizing in prospect, seemed lumpish to Lockwood with the turn
the conversation had taken. He had heard other arguments like this—too many—over the past few months; this was the first time
he had found himself embroiled in one. All he had bargained for had been a dinner companion, some information about the missing
instrument, and possibly a roll in the hay if she too felt inclined. Still, her arguments and heat moved him. What if the
world situation
was
as serious as she said, and what if he didn’t take it seriously and neither did other Americans? Would he wake up one morning
to the sound of bombs hitting the Empire State Building? But wasn’t this all far-fetched? Wasn’t Europe 3000 miles away? Not
even German bombers could fly the entire Atlantic Ocean with fuel for both directions and a load of bombs.

Lockwood said, “I read that the British were stopping Hitler in Czechoslovakia.”

Myra hissed a low-voiced, urgent reply, “Just weeks ago Great Britain reversed itself and refused to guarantee the Czechs
against Hitler! That was the number one point in the Chamberlain agreement.”

Lockwood threw his hands up. “I give up. I should pay more attention to world politics. Maybe you can give me pointers.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to spoil the evening. There aren’t many men out here for me to go out with to ruin a
perfectly good evening with you.”

“It’s okay, really.”

“I went to the Sorbonne in Paris for my Ph.D.,” she said. “I love Europe. I can’t stand what its leaders are getting the whole
continent into. This Hitler!” She shivered as if a glass of ice water had been dumped down her back.

Lockwood nodded sympathetically. For a few minutes they ate silently, and gradually peace fell between them. He asked her
to dance again, and they turned gaily across the floor in a foxtrot for almost a dozen numbers. Again they drew amused and
admiring looks from the small crowd.

For the rest of the evening they engaged in small talk, getting reacquainted all over again. The night was damp and cold when
they drove back in the silver Cord, and Lockwood turned the heater up full blast so they could leave the top down. Both found
the drive back—the cold, damp night air rushing inches over their bare heads, the brilliance of the stars, the cheery warmth
the powerful heater threw off—intoxicating, and by the time he pulled up in front of her house, she was leaning against his
shoulder, her head resting comfortably there as she spun the Motorola’s dial from station to station.

Neither moved.

“You going to forgive me my passion for politics?” she asked.

She glanced up toward him. He knew what she was really asking—Are we going out again, or was I too much of a pain in the neck
tonight?

He said, “I’m not a Babbitt. That stung. I have things I care about, and I wouldn’t call you names because you weren’t hot
for them.”

“I’m sorry. I should watch my temper.” She sighed. “It’s that my mother’s Irish.”

Myra turned her head up and kissed him gently on the lips. He knew from the coolness of the kiss it was no-go tonight, and
he felt something inside himself droop in disappointment.

“How’d you like to come over for a home-cooked meal tomorrow night?” she asked. “Won’t be lobster Thermidor—I’m a working
girl—but I’ll try to give you a good enough meal to make up for calling you names.”

The wide grin that sprang to his face told the whole story. “Sounds wonderful. I’ll bring the wine.”

“A red.”

“A red,” he agreed, and he leaned down and gave her a kiss that was no warmer than the friendly kiss she’d given him. He thought
he was getting her number. Tonight they were friends, but tomorrow night, in the privacy of her house, perhaps he would find
that she could express her passion in more than just politics.

She slid across the seat, murmured a goodnight, and disappeared into her house.

Lockwood spent an hour of the following morning on the phone with Mr. Gray,’ who assigned Steven McPherson, another claims
investigator, to handle the office end of the investigation. He felt good about having Steve on his side. Steve knew all the
ropes. Lockwood got him to run checks on Dzeloski, Stanley Greer, and Myra Rodman, as well as half a dozen other men who worked
in Area C as engineers and mechanics on the project.

“I particularly want to know if any of them have foreign connections. Miss Rodman was in Europe several years getting her
doctorate. See if she belonged to any political outfits.”

“Right, Bill.”

“Mr. Gray says he has connections and favors owed to us from maybe a dozen insurance companies in Europe. Run all these names
through them.”

“You got it. Cable them?”

“Have to. Speed’s important. These thieves were smooth as silk—not a trace of them out here.”

“An inside scam, huh?”

“Sure feels that way. Look, Steve, don’t send me anything. I’ll call you every day or so, or I’ll call Mr. Gary if you’re
out. I can’t trust anybody here.”

As soon as Lockwood arrived at the gate of Northstar, the marine asked him to come directly to Dzeloski’s office.

He interrupted a meeting that looked to have been in progress for some time between Guy Manners, Josef Dzeloski, and a tall,
raw-boned Englishman introduced as Nigel Heather-ton, “A lieutenant commander of the RAF, and our liason with the British
government.”

“I quite fail to understand why your company hasn’t issued a check for the $75,000, Mr. Lockwood,” Heatherton opened. “Apparently
Dr. Dzeloski here cannot get more funds from his congressional committee till he delivers a working model, which is what was
stolen the other night and which
your
company insured against theft.”

Lockwood formed an instant dislike of the aloof, arrogant Heatherton, but he hid his feelings. He knew he needed diplomacy
if he was to avoid having a suit slapped against Transatlantic. It was the same story as usual in large claims, just that
the stakes were higher.

“Why don’t we all sit down and talk about it?” Lockwood asked mildly. “I don’t see why this English gent is here,” he said
to Manners and Dzeloski.

Josef answered, “Work on this project started in Britain four years ago. When the two governments discovered they had several
projects in common, it was thought better to pool efforts and share discoveries. We got the bombsight, and they got—another
project. Nigel here visits us every other week to see how it’s going, and sends progress reports back to Downing Street.”

“I see,” Lockwood said in a slow, pensive voice. “Is it possible, Mr. Heatherton, that a leak has sprung along the route your
reports take?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Heatherton in a voice so arrogant and rude that Lockwood had to restrain an impulse to smash him
one. No wonder we had broken away from England.

“Look, Heatherton, I’m not saying you’re leaking secrets. I’m asking if it’s possible your system’s sprung a leak.”

In a tone that declared this part of the conversation was finished, Heatherton said, “Perhaps I shall make inquiries, Mr.
Lockwood. And when shall I tell His Majesty’s government your company will deliver the $75,000 that will enable Dr. Dzeloski
here to rebuild the new prototype?”

“When I finish my investigation,” Lockwood answered.

Heatherton sighed a gust of impatience. “Just when might this be, Mr. Lockwood?”

With such a snotty tone, Lockwood wondered how the arrogant Englishman ever got cooperation from any human being. He forced
himself to answer civilly.

“Certainly not for another few days. Very likely not for a week or two.”

Heatherton’s face gathered the hurt and pain he might feel if he was forced to kick a dog peeing on his pants leg.

“I’m afraid, Guy and Josef, that I shall have to take this up with the ambassador, who—I am sure—will want to speak to Mr.
Roosevelt himself. Most of us of His Majesty’s government are certain that the time we have to prepare for an aerial war is
limited, and that the Northstar bombsight is essential if we are to put our meager supply of bombs precisely where we most
need to place them.”

“I know your hands are tied, Lockwood,” Dzeloski said. He smiled in a friendly fashion. “It won’t bother you if I talk to
Mr. Gordon himself, would it?”

“Talk to anybody you want,” Lockwood answered. “It’s his company, and if he wants to pay you, he’s welcome to by me. My job
is to make sure there was a theft, to ascertain the value of what was taken, to find out if the beneficiary had a hand in
the crime, and to write a report. It’s from that report that my boss, Mr. Gray, makes his recommendation to pay or not. On
a claim this size, probably Mr. Gray’ll want Mr. Gordon to review his decision, no matter what it is.”

“Gordon’s the one to speak to, Josef,” Heatherton said, dismissing Lockwood with a sniff and weak wave of his hand. “Obviously
Mr. Lockwood’s authority is severely limited.”

Obviously you’re a jerk, Lockwood told himself, but remembering what he was out here for, decided to bury his anger and learn
more about Heatherton’s reports and their route back to England.

“Could I interest you in some lunch, Mr. Heatherton?” Lockwood asked. “Maybe I could cover a few holes in my investigation
that would speed up Transatlantic’s issuance of a check.”

Heatherton took the bait. Half an hour later the two of them ordered lunch from the gum-chewing waitress at the Eagle Bar
in downtown Patchogue. Besides the bartender, the only other customers in the place were a couple of old-timers at the end
of the bar. The Eagle felt tired and settled, as if it, like the old-timers, was satisfied with a slow and easy pace.

Heatherton took a sip of his beer and shuddered. “God, I don’t see how you fellows drink this stuff.”

Lockwood frowned. “What’s the matter with it?”

“Too cold, too much fizzy water in it.” •

Lockwood laughed. Something in him relaxed a little; there was something small about Heatherton, something petty that needn’t
excite him. “I’ve heard English beer is flat and warm.”

“What is it you need from me, Mr. Lockwood?” Heatherton asked, clearly wanting to speed his business with Lockwood.

“Look, I’m no more crazy about you than you are about me,” Lockwood said. “I’ve got a job to do. It looks to me, and I’m sure
it looks to you, as if whoever lifted this 500-pound hunk of machinery knew precisely what he was doing. I want to find out
how that person knew so much about this place, and who inside cooperated with the thief.”

Heatherton seemed to muse over this last statement. “One of the employees could be the thief—could be a traitor.”

“Yeah.”

“And I could be that traitor.”

“I didn’t say that. But maybe your secretary is sloppy with her carbons, or whoever carries the pouch back to England is careless.
I don’t know—it’s my job, and Manners’ job, to find out what happened.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Heatherton said. He looked as if he was cooperating, but only under duress. “I arrive here from
Washington every second Wednesday, spend the afternoon at Northstar, make notes on what progress and problems Stanley Greer
and Myra Rodman have to report, go back to Washington, dictate the report to Miss Pigman, who types it up, and I sign it.”

“And Miss Pigman?”

“Been with the embassy staff for fifteen devoted years, Lockwood.”

“Carbons?”

“Sir?”

“How many carbons does she make?”

Heatherton smiled. “I’m beginning to admire your thoroughness, Lockwood.”

Lockwood gave him a slight smile and nodded. Why did Heatherton work so hard at being disagreeable? He waited for the answer.

“Just one,” Heatherton said finally.

“And the carbon paper?”

“What?”

“Is it possible that she uses fresh carbon paper sometime, and that it finds its way out of the office? The report would be
on it clearly.”

“Not Miss Pigman, I’m afraid. She’s penny-thrifty, our Miss Pigman. I don’t think she’s bought new carbon paper in ten years.”

“Do you keep the carbon copies yourself?”

“Yes. I correct them, if necessary, with pen. I seal one in an envelope and deliver it to the ambassador himself, who himself
seals it in the Downing Street pouch. The other I seal and put in my lockbox in the embassy safe.”

“How about checking to make sure all your reports are still there?”

“I check them every time I put one in,” the Englishman said. “And before coming today. I’ve been in this business rather a
great deal longer than you.”

Lockwood grinned, beginning to like something about the snotty Englishman in spite of his rude manners. For all his aristocratic
airs, Heatherton was a professional at his trade.

“How about another frigid beer, Sir Nigel?” Lockwood asked. He hoped to warm up the relationship between them; Heatherton
had the sort of mind that might see who had done what at Northstar.

At that moment the waitress brought their lunch.

“Listen, young lady, this is not what I ordered,” Heatherton said in his snottiest voice.

The stringy-haired woman stopped chewing her gum to stare at the strange creature who had addressed her as if she were a peasant
on his estate.