Three to Conquer (10 page)

             
Taking his ease.
in
a pneumatic chair, Harper amused himself tracking Slade's mind. The agent went along a short corridor, entered an office, spoke to somebody there.

             
"I've just picked up Wade Harper. He's in room number four."

             
"By himself?"

             
"Are you cracked? He can make a dive, and—
"

             
"
He was on his way here when I found him,"
interjected Slade, honestly refusing the credit for the grab.
"He
wanted
to come."

             
"Holy smoke!
There's something mighty funny about this."
A pause, then,
"Bring him in here."

             
Harper got up, walked along the passage, and arrived at the door just as Slade opened it. For the third successive time, Slade was taken aback. He stood aside, silent and puzzled, while Harper marched boldly in, took a seat and gazed at the lean-faced man behind the desk. The latter returned his gaze and gave
himself
away without knowing it. William Pritchard, thirty-nine, area supervisor.

             
" 'Morning
, Mr. Pritchard," said Harper, with the cheerful air of one who has not a worry in the world.

             
Pritchard blinked, marshalled his wits and said, "There's a cal
l
out for you. You're wanted for the murder of
Jocelyn Whittingham."

             
"Yes, I know. I read the papers."

             
"Somebody's blundered,"
thought Pritchard, impressed by this coolness.
"He's got an alibi."
Clearing his throat, he asked, "Well, do you wish to say anything about it?"

             
"Plenty—but not to you."

             
"Why not to me?"

             
"No personal reason, I assure you. I'd like to talk to Sam Stevens."

             
"Go see where he is," Pritchard ordered, after a little hesitation.

             
Slade went away, came back and said, "Stevens is in Seattle."

             
The phone rang shrilly. Pritchard picked it off his desk, said, "Yes? How did you know? Oh, he told you himself, did he? No, he wasn't fooling; he's here all right. He's in front of me right now." He racked the phone, stared hard at Harper. "You can't see Stevens. He isn't available."

             
"
A pity.
He could have got me somebody high up. I want to talk as high as I can get.
"

             
"
Why?"

             
"I refuse to say."

             
Frowning disapproval, Pritchard leaned forward. "Did you or did you not shoot this Whittingham girl?
"

             
"
Yes, I did."

             
"All right.
Are you willing to sign a confession to that effect?
"

             
"
No."

             
"You admit shooting her, but you refuse to sign a confession?"

             
"That's right."

             
"Care to offer a reason?" Pritchard invited, studying him carefully.

             
"I have a good reason. I didn't kill her.
"

             
"
But she's dead. She's as dead as mutton. Didn't you know that?"

             
Harper made two waves of his hand in a manner suggesting that this was a minor point.

             
"So you shot her, but didn't kill her?" Pritchard persisted. "You put a dozen steel beads through her skull, but somehow refrained from committing homicide?"

             
"Correct."

             
That did it. Pritchard's and Slade's minds reached a simultaneous verdict:
not guilty of murder by reason of insanity.

             
Sighing deeply, Harper said, "Sam Stevens is the only one I know in this outfit. He made a check on my plant once, about two years ago. He entered it on some sort of national security list which you people keep on file. He gave me a gun-permit and a bunch of bureaucratic instructions, the chief of which says I'm federal property the moment war breaks out. I become confiscated lock, stock, and barrel."

             
"So?" prompted Pritchard, seeing no point in this.

             
"The Whittingham business has to do more or less with the same issue—namely, national security. Therefore, I can talk only to somebody who'll know what I'm talking about.

             
"That would be Jameson,"
promptly whispered Pritchard's thoughts.

             
"Such as Jameson," Harper added.

             
They reacted as though he had uttered a holy name in unholy precincts.

             
"Or whoever is
his
boss," said Harper, for good measure.

             
With a touch of severity, Pritchard demanded, "You just said that Stevens is the only member of the F.B.I, known to you. So how do you know of Jameson? Come to that, how did you know
my
name?"

             
"He knew mine, too," put in Slade.

             
"That's a problem
I'll
solve only in the presence of somebody way up top," said "Harper. He smiled at Pritchard and inquired, "How's your body?"

             
"Eh?"

             
Out of the other's bafflement Harper extracted a clear, detailed picture, and said in helpful tones, "You have a fish-shaped birthmark on the inside of your left thigh."

             
"That's enough for me
!"
Pritchard stood up, badly worried. He said to Slade, "You keep an eye on this Houdini while I go see what Jameson says." He departed hurriedly.

             
Harper asked Slade, "May I have a sheet of paper, please?"

             
Extracting one from the desk, Slade slipped it across. He watched Harper take out a pen and prepare to write. The confession after all, he thought. Definitely a nut
who'd
refuse a thing one moment and give it the next.

             
Ignoring these uncomplimentary ideas, Harper waited a few moments, then began to write. He scribbled with great rapidity, finishing a short time before Pritchard's return.

             
"He won't see you," announced Pritchard with a that-is-that air.

             
"I know." Harper gave him the paper.

             
Glancing over it, Pritchard popped his eyes and ran out full tilt. Slade stared after him, turning a questioning gaze upon Harper.

             
"That was a complete and accurate transcript of their conversation," Harper informed. "Want to lay any bets against him seeing me now?"

             
"No," said Slade, developing the willies. "I don't care to throw away good money."

-

             
Jameson proved to be a middle-aged bull of a man with a thick mop of curly, gray hair. His eyes were blue and cold, his manner that of one long accustomed to the exercising of authority. Sitting erect in his chair, he kept one strong forefinger firmly planted on the sheet of paper lying on the desk before him.

             
"How did you do it?"

             
"Easily enough.
I took aim, fired, and down she slid."

             
"I'm not asking about that." The finger tapped impatiently. "I am referring to this."

             
"Oh, the eavesdropping."
Harper pretended to gain an understanding that he had not
lost  in
the first place. "I did it in the same way the enemy might be able to do it, whenever he wants to know what we're up to."

             
"You may go," Jameson said to Pritchard. "I'll call you when I want you." He waited until the door had closed, then fixed his full attention on Harper. "Are you categorically asserting that agents of other powers are able to read our minds at-will?"

             
"No."

             
"Then, why make such a suggestion?"

             
"I'm merely proposing that what one can do, another can do," said Harper. "It's a notion I've nursed for years. So far, I've been unable to find any evidence in support."

             
"Obviously you are talking about something
you
can do. What can you do?"

             
"That," said Harper, pointing to the paper.

             
Jameson was no fool. He had grasped the idea at the start, but still found considerable difficulty in absorbing it. The manifest explanation was proving indigestible.

             
"It would take a telepath to play these
sort
of tricks."

             
"Nothing else but," agreed Harper.

             
"Who ever heard of one?"

             
Harper merely shrugged.

             
Switching on his little intercom-board, Jameson spoke into its mike. "Is Miss Keyes there? Put her on. Miss Keyes, I want you to type a column of twenty eight-digit numbers,
chosen at random. Bring it to me immediately you have finished." He switched off, gave Harper a challenging look, poked the paper toward him and said, "See what you can do with that." '

             
"Now I've got to search through the general mess for somebody concocting meaningless numbers," Harper complained. "I may miss the first one or two while I'm feeling around."

             
"Never mind; do the best you can. If you get only a quarter of them, it will convince me that the age of miracles has not passed."

             
Harper wrote down eighteen of them, plus the last two digits of the nineteenth. Taking the paper without comment, Jameson waited for Miss Keyes. She arrived shortly, gave him her list and departed with no visible surprise. Jameson compared the two columns.

             
Finally he said, "This is worse than a bomb in the Pentagon. Nothing is private property any more."

             
"I know."