troubles me deeply that we hear no hints of this in the marketplaces of the world. In Beirut, Marseilles, and New York we hear not a whisper. This is most exceptional, a group this organized turning to this type of crime and no informants, no leaks, no tips.”
“Queries everywhere?”
“Everywhere, if you please. The plutonium has to find a market eventually, does it not? And we
must
know who is buying it. Otherwise, my friend,” he said flatly, “the balance of power will tip, slide, and perhaps send us all into oblivion.”
“You still believe it’s one of the international crime syndicates, forsaking drugs for plu—” The telephone interrupted Carstairs and he reached over to pick it up and bark his name into it. “What? Yes, he’s here,” he said, and handed the telephone to Schoenbeck. “You keep your office well-informed,” he commented dryly.
Schoenbeck, smiling, took the phone. He listened, replied in rapid French, listened again and seemed to visibly sag in his chair.
“Qui,”
he added, and hung up. “Well, my friend, I must go,” he said, standing up. An ironic smile played over his lined and weary face. “That was Geneva calling. There has been a third theft of plutonium.”
“What?” thundered Carstairs.
“Yes, a third. In France this time. Two how-you-call-it metal buttons of plutonium, each weighing a kilogram.” He leaned over and picked up a pencil. “A kilogram in pounds is 2.2046 for your edification, my friend. Six kilograms are now missing.” He was figuring with the pencil and paper, and at last he held it out to Carstairs.
Carstairs reached for it and whistled. “Thirteen pounds and two ounces altogether,” he said.
Schoenbeck nodded. “They now have their atom bomb,” he said. “I leave you, my friend, but I think you will find me in France, not Geneva. In the meantime—
c’est la guerre
. Literally.”
He went out, leaving Carstairs thoughtful and depressed.
Six
Earlier, during dinner, Mrs. Pollifax had mentally compiled a list of what to avoid: the elevator, of course, which purred almost silently but still sent out vibrations of movement and whispering cables; the night concierge or whoever manned the counter and telephones at night; and she supposed that someone—somewhere—must be available for patients who were restless. She would have to discover for herself where the pockets of activity lay at night.
She changed into pajamas and robe and checked the jewelry box, leaving the tray inside but removing the jewels and tucking them into her pocket. “Fortune favors the bold,” she reminded herself as she looked out on the dimly lighted, deserted hall. For one overwhelming moment she longed to retreat and go to bed and then she remembered Fraser. She walked down the hall to the elevator and took the broad, carpeted stairs beside it to the Reception floor. The switchboard was unmanned and the concierge’s counter empty. She stood a moment listening and heard a low murmur from the television room; the night porter had forsaken his post for a program. Quietly she followed the stairs down and around to the ground floor. This was the unknown, a rabbit warren of therapy and equipment rooms, offices, baths and pools and the kitchen. It was also, she felt, the most likely place in which to hide anything illicit, especially if it had been labeled M EDICAL S UPPLIES .
Down here the lights had not been dimmed and the brightly lighted hall alarmed her; before doing anything else she looked for a hiding place. An unmarked door concealed a utility room that was mercifully dark, and she slipped inside. Her flashlight moved across tubs, pails, brooms, mops, and a wall filled with fuse boxes and circuit breakers. From this vantage point she opened the door a few inches and waited, listening.
To her right, far down the hall, someone had begun to whistle monotonously through his teeth. The sound came from the kitchen but the frosted-glass doors remained closed; a pastry
“Queries everywhere?”
“Everywhere, if you please. The plutonium has to find a market eventually, does it not? And we
must
know who is buying it. Otherwise, my friend,” he said flatly, “the balance of power will tip, slide, and perhaps send us all into oblivion.”
“You still believe it’s one of the international crime syndicates, forsaking drugs for plu—” The telephone interrupted Carstairs and he reached over to pick it up and bark his name into it. “What? Yes, he’s here,” he said, and handed the telephone to Schoenbeck. “You keep your office well-informed,” he commented dryly.
Schoenbeck, smiling, took the phone. He listened, replied in rapid French, listened again and seemed to visibly sag in his chair.
“Qui,”
he added, and hung up. “Well, my friend, I must go,” he said, standing up. An ironic smile played over his lined and weary face. “That was Geneva calling. There has been a third theft of plutonium.”
“What?” thundered Carstairs.
“Yes, a third. In France this time. Two how-you-call-it metal buttons of plutonium, each weighing a kilogram.” He leaned over and picked up a pencil. “A kilogram in pounds is 2.2046 for your edification, my friend. Six kilograms are now missing.” He was figuring with the pencil and paper, and at last he held it out to Carstairs.
Carstairs reached for it and whistled. “Thirteen pounds and two ounces altogether,” he said.
Schoenbeck nodded. “They now have their atom bomb,” he said. “I leave you, my friend, but I think you will find me in France, not Geneva. In the meantime—
c’est la guerre
. Literally.”
He went out, leaving Carstairs thoughtful and depressed.
Six
Earlier, during dinner, Mrs. Pollifax had mentally compiled a list of what to avoid: the elevator, of course, which purred almost silently but still sent out vibrations of movement and whispering cables; the night concierge or whoever manned the counter and telephones at night; and she supposed that someone—somewhere—must be available for patients who were restless. She would have to discover for herself where the pockets of activity lay at night.
She changed into pajamas and robe and checked the jewelry box, leaving the tray inside but removing the jewels and tucking them into her pocket. “Fortune favors the bold,” she reminded herself as she looked out on the dimly lighted, deserted hall. For one overwhelming moment she longed to retreat and go to bed and then she remembered Fraser. She walked down the hall to the elevator and took the broad, carpeted stairs beside it to the Reception floor. The switchboard was unmanned and the concierge’s counter empty. She stood a moment listening and heard a low murmur from the television room; the night porter had forsaken his post for a program. Quietly she followed the stairs down and around to the ground floor. This was the unknown, a rabbit warren of therapy and equipment rooms, offices, baths and pools and the kitchen. It was also, she felt, the most likely place in which to hide anything illicit, especially if it had been labeled M EDICAL S UPPLIES .
Down here the lights had not been dimmed and the brightly lighted hall alarmed her; before doing anything else she looked for a hiding place. An unmarked door concealed a utility room that was mercifully dark, and she slipped inside. Her flashlight moved across tubs, pails, brooms, mops, and a wall filled with fuse boxes and circuit breakers. From this vantage point she opened the door a few inches and waited, listening.
To her right, far down the hall, someone had begun to whistle monotonously through his teeth. The sound came from the kitchen but the frosted-glass doors remained closed; a pastry
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