Read Online E.E. 'Doc' Smith SF Gateway Omnibus: The Skylark of Space, Skylark Three, Skylark of Valeron, Skylark DuQuesne by E. E. (Doc) Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E. E. (Doc) Smith
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it
couldn’t
have been DuQuesne. Everything out there is bugged and we’ve had him under continuous observation. I know exactly where he has been, every minute.’
‘You
think
you do,’ Seaton corrected. ‘He knows more about electricity than the guy who invented it. I’m going to ask you a question. Have you ever got a man into his house?’
‘Well … no, not exactly … but that isn’t necessary, these days.’
‘It might be, in this case. But don’t try it. Unless I’m wronger than wrong, you won’t.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Prescott agreed. ‘But you’re softening me up for something, Seaton. What is it?’
‘This.’ Seaton placed an object-compass on the table. ‘I set this on him late last night, and he didn’t leave his house all night – which may or may not mean a thing. That end of that needle will point at him from now on, wherever he goes and whatever comes between, and as far as I know – and I bashfully admit that I know all that’s known about the thing – it can’t be de-bugged. If you want to
really
know where DuQuesne is, take this and watch it. Top secret, of course.’
‘Of course. I’ll be glad to … but how on Earth can a thing like that work?’
After an explanation that left the common-sense-minded detective as much in the dark as before, Prescott left.
Late that evening, he joined his men at DuQuesne’s house. Everything was quiet. The scientist was in his study; the speakers registered the usual faint sounds of a man absorbed in work. But after a time, and while a speaker emitted the noise of rustling papers, the needle began to move slowly – downward. Simultaneously, the shadow of his unmistakable profile was thrown upon the window shade as he apparently crossed the room.
‘Can’t you hear him walk?’ Prescott demanded.
‘No. Heavy rugs – and for such a big man, he walks very lightly.’
Prescott watched the needle in amazement as it dipped deeper and deeper; straight down and then behind him; as though DuQuesne had actually walked right under him! He did not quite know whether to believe it or not, nevertheless, he followed the pointing needle. It led him beside Park Road, down the hill, straight toward the long bridge which forms one entrance to Rock Creek Park. Prescott left the road and hid behind a clump of shrubbery.
The bridge trembled under the passage of a high-speed automobile, which slowed down abruptly. DuQuesne, carrying a roll of papers, scrambled up from beneath the bridge and boarded it, whereupon it resumed speed. It was of a popular make and color; and its license plates were so smeared with dirt that not even their color could beseen. The needle now pointed steadily at the distant car.
Prescott ran back to his men.
‘Get your car,’ he told one of them. ‘I’ll tell you where to drive as we go.’
In the automobile, Prescott issued instructions by means of surreptitious glances at the compass concealed in his hand. The destination proved to be the residence of Brookings, the general manager of World Steel. Prescott told his operative to park the car somewhere and stand by; he himself settled down on watch.
After four hours a small car bearing a license number of a distant state – which was found later to be unknown to the authorities of that state – drove up; and the hidden watchers saw DuQuesne, without the papers, step into it. Knowing now what to expect, the detectives drove at high speed to the Park Road bridge and concealed themselves.
The car came up to the bridge and stopped. DuQuesne got out of it – it was too dark to recognize him by eye, but the needle pointed straight at him – and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. He stood, a dark outline against the gray abutment. He lifted one hand above his head; a black rectangle engulfed his outline; the abutment became again a solid gray.
With his flashlight Prescott traced the almost imperceptible crack of the hidden door, and found the concealed button
couldn’t
have been DuQuesne. Everything out there is bugged and we’ve had him under continuous observation. I know exactly where he has been, every minute.’
‘You
think
you do,’ Seaton corrected. ‘He knows more about electricity than the guy who invented it. I’m going to ask you a question. Have you ever got a man into his house?’
‘Well … no, not exactly … but that isn’t necessary, these days.’
‘It might be, in this case. But don’t try it. Unless I’m wronger than wrong, you won’t.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Prescott agreed. ‘But you’re softening me up for something, Seaton. What is it?’
‘This.’ Seaton placed an object-compass on the table. ‘I set this on him late last night, and he didn’t leave his house all night – which may or may not mean a thing. That end of that needle will point at him from now on, wherever he goes and whatever comes between, and as far as I know – and I bashfully admit that I know all that’s known about the thing – it can’t be de-bugged. If you want to
really
know where DuQuesne is, take this and watch it. Top secret, of course.’
‘Of course. I’ll be glad to … but how on Earth can a thing like that work?’
After an explanation that left the common-sense-minded detective as much in the dark as before, Prescott left.
Late that evening, he joined his men at DuQuesne’s house. Everything was quiet. The scientist was in his study; the speakers registered the usual faint sounds of a man absorbed in work. But after a time, and while a speaker emitted the noise of rustling papers, the needle began to move slowly – downward. Simultaneously, the shadow of his unmistakable profile was thrown upon the window shade as he apparently crossed the room.
‘Can’t you hear him walk?’ Prescott demanded.
‘No. Heavy rugs – and for such a big man, he walks very lightly.’
Prescott watched the needle in amazement as it dipped deeper and deeper; straight down and then behind him; as though DuQuesne had actually walked right under him! He did not quite know whether to believe it or not, nevertheless, he followed the pointing needle. It led him beside Park Road, down the hill, straight toward the long bridge which forms one entrance to Rock Creek Park. Prescott left the road and hid behind a clump of shrubbery.
The bridge trembled under the passage of a high-speed automobile, which slowed down abruptly. DuQuesne, carrying a roll of papers, scrambled up from beneath the bridge and boarded it, whereupon it resumed speed. It was of a popular make and color; and its license plates were so smeared with dirt that not even their color could beseen. The needle now pointed steadily at the distant car.
Prescott ran back to his men.
‘Get your car,’ he told one of them. ‘I’ll tell you where to drive as we go.’
In the automobile, Prescott issued instructions by means of surreptitious glances at the compass concealed in his hand. The destination proved to be the residence of Brookings, the general manager of World Steel. Prescott told his operative to park the car somewhere and stand by; he himself settled down on watch.
After four hours a small car bearing a license number of a distant state – which was found later to be unknown to the authorities of that state – drove up; and the hidden watchers saw DuQuesne, without the papers, step into it. Knowing now what to expect, the detectives drove at high speed to the Park Road bridge and concealed themselves.
The car came up to the bridge and stopped. DuQuesne got out of it – it was too dark to recognize him by eye, but the needle pointed straight at him – and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. He stood, a dark outline against the gray abutment. He lifted one hand above his head; a black rectangle engulfed his outline; the abutment became again a solid gray.
With his flashlight Prescott traced the almost imperceptible crack of the hidden door, and found the concealed button
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