Philip Wylie - The Smuggled Atom Bomb

Some further part of her complicated life was made anxious, if not precisely exciting, by a decision to take into her own hands the matter of Duff’s refusal to make any further immediate contact with the FBI. She had thought over the situation and decided it was her duty to do something, whether Duff felt that way or not. So she phoned the bureau, asked for Mr. Higgins and made an appointment.

The G-man welcomed the girl in his office one evening after dinner and before she was due at work. He told her that the newspaper photographs — even the colored ones — didn’t do her justice. He asked her what was on her mind and she made the suggestion that had so startled Duff, “Did it ever occur to you that if nobody has stolen any of our bombs, somebody could be bringing parts into the country?”

She could see instantly that the idea had not occurred to the G-man. And he, realizing she could discern his surprise, made no effort to camouflage it. “No. Not me, anyhow.

McIntosh may have thought of it.”

“McIntosh?”

“Head of this office.” He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Interesting—

highly unpleasant idea.”

“There’s this.” She told him about the night Harry Ellings had gone for a stroll, about Duff’s secret pursuit and about the furtive meeting with the man seven feet tall.

He doodled while she talked. “That’s odd,” he said. “But, again, we’ve got everybody who might be involved in any such a thing pretty well tagged. And there’s no superman in the bunch. I know that. It’s my business to know.”

“Harry Ellings isn’t tagged.”

“No.”

“Isn’t it possible, somehow, that there could be a whole group you aren’t on to?”

His eyes flickered. “Hardly. I won’t say it couldn’t be. We’ve had one or two nasty surprises along that line. Like some of the scientists the high-ups cleared, who turned out later to be plain spies.”

“That’s what I mean.”

He pondered again. “Look here, Miss Yates. I’ll talk to Mac. We did a pretty good work-up on your boarder. There are a thousand reasons why a man could meet a pal in an empty lot at night. Some legal, some not, but none necessarily what you’re thinking about. I doubt, for instance, if the kind of organization you imagine would ever use a guy so big he’d be identified half a mile away. Ever think of that?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No.”

“Your other boarder, Bogan, probably never did either.”

“I guess not.”

“Well, I’ll talk to Mac. We may see Bogan again. We may want to talk to you again.

There’s a lot we might do. Of course, if anything else should come up — anything of the sort that young Bogan’s waiting for — inform us at once. And don’t let anybody else know you’ve noticed any such happening. You or Bogan.”

Eleanor flushed. “He doesn’t know I came here. He wouldn’t come. He was too much afraid he’d merely be starting another wild-goose chase.”

Higgins chuckled. “He should see our files! That’s our commonest form of chase!

Well, thanks.”

It wasn’t particularly satisfactory. Mr. Higgins had been polite, but not much worried.

He had thanked her. Yet she felt that if she had been Duff, instead of a pretty girl, Mr.

Higgins might have delivered a scolding for suspecting fire where there was hardly even smoke. She kept the visit to herself.

In the matter of learning the regular large customers of the Miami-Dade Terminal Trucking Company, Eleanor was more effective. She had no trouble finding the name of the insurance company that did the underwriting for Miami-Dade. She knew two girls who worked for the firm. She found out where they had lunch. She cut two classes to be at the right drugstore at the proper time. Both girls were flattered to eat lunch with what they called a “celebrity.” When they learned Eleanor had “a friend” who was thinking of using the Miami-Dade concern for shipping, but who was trying to find out exactly where the truck fleet went regularly — so as not to pay special or excessive rates — the girls were amused by Eleanor’s “friend’s” astuteness and readily agreed to supply her with a list of regular drop points.

Two days later Eleanor had the list: firm names, street addresses and cities. “Miami-Dade,” one of the girls had scrawled, “hits all these joints at least once per wk.”

Eleanor proudly gave the typewritten pages to Duff that evening.

He was pleased. “Marvelous! Marvelous!”

“Elementary,” she answered, in Sherlock Holmes’ conventional words. “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“What about a movie tonight?” he asked.

Her head shook. “Gotta work tonight. Overtime.”

“Doggone! It’s Saturday. I forgot!” He laughed. “Can’t go, myself. I’ve got a date with your boy friend again.”

“Which boy friend?”

He made a face at her. “Guess, gal.”

“You mean Scotty’s coming? For some more math tutoring?”

Duff chuckled. “Yep. And you know what? I’m getting paid! Three bucks for an hour of the old sines and cosines.” Suddenly he was embarrassed. “Is that all right? I did it for free the first time. He got by his next exam after that. But then he insisted on coughing up. Said he’d pay any other tutor. And he can afford it.”

Eleanor’s eyes were shadowy. She sighed. “Of course, it’s all right, Duff. It’s just too bad, somehow that you have to tutor my—”

He pushed the tip of her nose with his forefinger fraternally, fondly. “Tutor your suitor? Glad to. Three bucks a week comes in right handy.”

She looked away. “And Scotty can sure afford it. Goodness, he’s rich!”

“Pretty nice guy,” Duff nodded. “The dough doesn’t seem to dizzy him any. And he’s a bright lad, besides. It’s only that he and trig aren’t soul mates. Still he’s coming along. I taught him what trig was for. That interested him. Once Scotty got onto the fact that there’s a practical angle, he did real well.”

Eleanor smiled. “He’s a practical sort of boy, Duff, in spite of the gay-blade exterior.”

“Yeah.” Duff felt suddenly very much outside Eleanor — her life, her friends and the places where her life would undoubtedly lead her. “Yeah. He’s nice.”

That was when she kissed him. She kissed him hurriedly, almost in confusion, certainly impulsively, and she missed his cheek, getting his chin instead. But when she did it her eyes were shiny. And she said, “Duff, you’re a love!”

Then she ran out to the barn and drove away. Duff heard Scotty’s car hoot as they passed each other; the pink convertible came crackling up the drive. But during that time Duff stood where he was, beside the front door, even when he heard Scotty Smythe’s feet on the worn porch boards. She kissed me, Duff thought. And he thought, She kissed me because she feels sorry for me. It was the kind of idea that made a man want to kick walls down, even in sandals, such as he had on. Nobody wants to be felt sorry for by a girl. By anyone.

But when Scotty reached the door, Duff had recovered. His smile was hospitable; he took in Scotty’s new, herringbone-Angora sports jacket, and said, “Hello, Pythagoras.”

Scotty replied in the gravest tone, “Good evening, Euclid.”

After Scotty had paid gay respects to Mrs. Yates and briefly teased the younger children, who were studying, they went up to Duff’s room and settled down to work.

Duff possessed the second most important faculty of a true teacher, as well as the first — which is to present new knowledge lucidly. The second is the ability to perceive the mental gaps and blocks in a student — the points at which, for individual reasons, he fails to grasp the subject. Often it is not stupidity, but a particular shape of a special personality or a bad background in previous teaching which causes a student to appear unintelligent. In Scotty’s case it was both; no previous teacher had ever given him the feel, the sense and excitement of mathematics. Under Duff’s tutelage, Scotty’s attitude changed; he learned to appreciate the reasons behind die symbols.