The Mind Reader Strikes
Jerry Webster often spoke of himself as "Whiteside's best reporter,"
which Rick considered a fair description, since he was the only
reporter in town. Of course Duke Barrows, the editor, did some
reporting himself, but that didn't count since he carried the title of
managing editor.
"I'm a good reporter because I can sense a story," Jerry told Rick and
Scotty. "You two have that certain look that spells trouble. What
gives?"
"No trouble," Rick answered swiftly. "We just need a little help."
Duke Barrows glanced up from the proof sheets he was editing. "When
Spindrift needs a little help, there's always a story in it. We'll
make a deal, won't we, Jerry? You give us the story and we'll supply
the help."
Rick knew Duke and Jerry well, so it wasn't necessary to beat around
the bush. "No story. At least not yet, and I can't even give you a
hint. Only we do need help."
"Two kinds," Scotty added.
"That's right. First of all, we have guests at Spindrift. Name of
Morrison. You'll pick that up sooner or later, because Barby is
running around town with Janice Morrison. What we need is a promise
that you won't mention it in the paper."
Duke's eyebrows went up. "Ahah! Trying to suppress legitimate news,
are you? What do you think, Jerry?"
Jerry Webster stared up at the ceiling. "I can see the headline now.
'Mysterious Visitors at Spindrift!' Lead paragraph: 'The mystery of
strange visitors at Spindrift Island deepened today as members of the
scientific foundation threatened the Whiteside _Morning Record_ with
drastic action unless the story was withheld.' How's that, Duke?"
"Needs editing," Duke replied, "but you're on the right track. What's
the drastic action you're threatening us with?"
Scotty grinned. "Item," he intoned. "Editor and reporter drowned in
own ink supply. Bodies found among leftover newspaper copies,
apparently discarded with other waste."
"Too good for 'em," Rick disagreed. "How about 'Editor and reporter
assume new dimensions. Rolled to paper thinness in own press.'"
"That's drastic," Duke admitted. "Seriously, Rick, you must have some
good reason for asking us to leave out what could only be a small
social item."
"It's a good reason, all right," Scotty answered him. "Only we can't
tell you what it is, Duke."
The editor looked at Jerry. "What say, can we take it on faith?"
"Too simple," Jerry objected. "We ought to get something in trade."
Scotty made eating motions. "Apple pie, with homemade ice cream?
Sunday night. Said apple pie would be used to pack down a nice, thick
steak."
Jerry sighed. "I'm tempted."
"It's a deal," Duke agreed. "Make mine rare. And I add one thing: If
there's a story, we get it first."
Rick looked pained. "Don't you always? But chances are, there never
will be a story out of this."
"Government deal," Duke said. "It has to be. Okay, Rick. We'll go
along. What's the second kind of help?"
Rick breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't doubted that Duke and Jerry
would hold the story, but it was always hard to ask a favor without
being able to give the reason. "There's a new barber in Vince
Lardner's shop."
"Think we're chumps who don't keep up with the news?" Jerry asked, his
expression disdainful. "Of course there's a new barber. What of it?"
"We need some information about him. If you'll just let me see your
notes, that should do it."
Jerry hesitated and Scotty grinned. "Bet he doesn't have any notes."
Duke glared at Jerry. "See? You've embarrassed the _Record_. I told
you to get the story on that barber this morning."
"Time enough later," Jerry retorted, unruffled. "We don't need the
dope until tonight, and I'll have it. What kind of information do you
want?"
Rick listed the points on his fingers. "Where he came from, his full
name, how he happened to get the job--I mean whether he applied
directly to Vince or whether he got the job some other way--and how
long he expects to stay."
Scotty had a few points, too. "If Vince had a vacancy, find out how
long he looked for a barber, and how he got this one. Timing is
important, Jerry. Get all you can on it. And ask him a few questions
about his massage machine, if it's in sight. It looks like the hair
gadgets they have in beauty shops."
Editor and reporter stared at the boys curiously. "Why so much
interest in the barber?" Jerry demanded.
Rick tried to look casual. "Why, one of our special guests might want
a haircut, and we couldn't take a chance that the barber might not be
government approved. Simple."
Duke Barrows tilted back in his chair and pushed the green eyeshade to
the top of his head. "I get the picture." He ticked off the points on
his fingers, mocking Rick. "Strangers at Spindrift. Not to be
mentioned. Government work of some kind, for sure, and pretty hot,
too. So hot, in fact, that a stranger in Whiteside might possibly be
a menace to the strangers at Spindrift. Rick Brant asks help of local
reporter. Gets name of stranger. Turns name and details in to some
government security officer for a check. How's that?"
"Too good," Rick admitted. He had known it would be impossible to put
anything over on Duke. The editor was a sharp cookie. "But keep it
quiet, will you, please?"
"You know anything we discuss never goes farther than this office. All
right, Rick. Jerry will get the dope. Hop to it, hawkeye. Duty calls."
Jerry waved his arms dramatically. "Hold the presses! New barber in
town! Here I go, after the story of the year!" He swept through the
door, then made a sheepish reappearance. "Forgot my pencil and copy
paper," he explained, grabbed them, and vanished.
Duke waved the boys to chairs. "It will take a little while. Get
comfortable. I have to finish this copy."
Rick and Scotty waited as patiently as possible. Scotty, the more
relaxed of the pair, borrowed a copy of a style manual and studied it
with apparent interest. Rick watched him, envious as always of his
pal's ability to let time pass without floor pacing, nail chewing, or
other impatient actions.
Duke's analysis of the situation was pretty good, Rick thought, and it
was based on very little real information. He supposed that an editor
had more experience to draw on than most people. But so did
intelligence agents. It wasn't hard to see how a few information leaks
could add up to a pretty clear picture in an agent's head.
Jerry was back in a short time. Apparently the interview hadn't taken
long. He produced his sheaf of copy paper with a flourish and pounded
on a desk for attention. The gesture wasn't necessary. Rick, Scotty,
and Duke were waiting eagerly.
"Louis Collins, Journeyman Barber," Jerry read. "Age 43. Originally
from St. Louis, most recently from Washington, D.C. Twenty-five years
experience. Inventor of the Collins treatment for dry hair, which is
the machine he has. Claims to have invented it five years ago, while
working at a hotel in Washington. Came to Whiteside because he prefers
being near the shore. He's an ardent fisherman. Saw Vince Lardner's ad
in _The New York Times_ a few days ago and applied at once by phone."
"What day and what time?" Rick asked quickly.
"Monday. He called about noon."
Scotty asked curiously, "How did you get that information out of him?"
"Nothing to it. I told Vince I'd like to look up his ad in the
_Times_, because he claimed the ad plugged Whiteside as an excellent
climate. Then I told this new guy he must have moved fast to get in
his application ahead of all the other applicants, and he said he
hadn't even seen the _Times_ until he went to lunch. He called right
away. Vince nodded, so I guess the time worked out as Collins said it
had. Vince said the ad had been running for a week, and no one else
had applied."
Rick had been calculating. "Scotty, that means Collins phoned after we
left Washington..." He stopped quickly.
Duke Barrows rubbed his hands in fiendish glee. "Ahah! Giving away
information. So you've seen this Collins before, in Washington. No
wonder you're worried about him. Jerry, I'll bet we can sell this
information to some enemy for millions!"
Scotty grinned. "Not unless you have the plans for the death ray. Only
death rays bring millions these days. Why, it's getting so a spy can't
even sell atom bomb secrets for more than a buck apiece any more."
"Guess you're right," Duke admitted, crestfallen. "Well, Rick,
anything else you need?"
"Middle initial or name?" Rick asked.
"M for Mayhew. Anything else?" Jerry asked with a superior air.
"That does it." Rick consulted his watch. "Let's go, Scotty. Time to
pick up Barby. I won't thank you two, because you're going to get paid
in steak and pie. See you later."
At the home of Barby's friend there was another wait while Rick
chafed. He was anxious to get home and phone Steve Ames. However, as
it developed, Steve couldn't be reached. It was after dinner before
Rick made connections.
He gave Steve the information Jerry had collected, then asked, "Isn't
this proof of something?"
Steve chuckled. "It's proof that Whiteside has a new barber. That's
all. But it's certainly strongly presumptive, Rick. We knew about
Collins moving before you called, and we're continuing the check on
him. Meanwhile, I'll alert my boys at Spindrift and tell them to keep
on their toes."
"I'll pass the word," Rick offered.
"No need. I'm in touch by radio. Now, I want you to do something for
me. Dr. Marks is arriving at Newark by train at six tomorrow morning.
Tom Dodd is with him. Can you pick them up?"
"Sure. How?"
"Suppose you fly to Newark and have Scotty drive over. Then you can
pick them up at the station by car and take them to the plane. If you
fly them to Spindrift no one will know that Marks has even arrived.
Tom will try to make sure no one is tailing him, and he'll help you to
lose any cars that might try to follow."
"We can do it," Rick assured him. "I can land close to the city. I've
done it before with pontoons."
"Good. Ordinarily, I'd have an agent meet them, but my Newark man is
in the woods with the Boy Scout group. Call me when Marks is safely
with the team."
"Will do," Rick promised.
Rick reported the conversation to his father when the scientist came
in from late work in the laboratory. Hartson Brant nodded wearily.
"Good. If Marks is on the way, that means he has answers we need badly
to some of our mathematical problems."
"What I don't get is why he's coming on an overnight train," Scotty
interjected. "That's doing it the hard way, because it's only a few
hours from Washington to Newark. Why didn't he get a train at a decent
hour? This way, he'll spend most of the night sitting on a siding
somewhere."
The scientist smiled. "I gather that Marks has definite ideas of his
own. I wouldn't care to be Tom Dodd. I'm sure Marks is giving him
considerable trouble. He's convinced this security business is a plot
to inconvenience him and the other people on the project."
"He didn't seem to have a very sweet disposition," Rick agreed. "Good
night, Dad. Scotty and I are going to bed early, because we'll have to
be up at dawn."
It was really the first sound night's sleep Rick had since the
invasion of Spindrift by Steve and the Morrisons. Later, he had to
smile at himself, because it seemed to be proof of what Scotty had
said--that the real reason for his uneasiness was inactivity. He
admitted that the problem of the stricken team members intrigued him.
He made no claim to being any great shakes as a detective, but trying
to solve mysteries, whether scientific or real, was a part of him.
Scotty departed first by boat a few minutes after dawn. Rick warmed
the Sky Wagon, then went in for a dish of cereal before taking off. He
had plenty of time. Newark was only a few minutes away in the fast
little plane.
He timed it perfectly. Scotty was just rolling up to the pier near
Newark as Rick taxied in after landing. He got into a rowboat brought
by an attendant, and tied the plane to an anchor buoy. In a moment he
was in the car with Scotty.
"We'll get some excitement now," Rick predicted.
"Because Marks is arriving?"
"Yes, and because the barber has come to town. If he isn't up to his
neck in this business, I'll eat his hair oil on pancakes."
Scotty shuddered. "You might at least wait until I've had more
breakfast."
Rick ignored him. "Also, the team is now assembled in one place. That
means the enemy has a single target to shoot at."
Scotty laughed out loud. "You should see yourself," he said,
chuckling. "Since we found the barber yesterday, you've been a new
man. Beaming and happy as can be. Now the enemy has a single target
and you're pleased. Didn't it occur to you that the target is us, you
simple meathead?"
"It did." Rick had to grin, too. "But who can locate the sharpshooter
best? Why, the guy sitting on the bull's-eye."
Scotty parked and they walked into the station. A quick check of the
bulletin board told them the train was on time. They walked to the
gate just as the train announcer called the arrival.
Tom Dodd was one of the last off. He had two suitcases under one arm,
and he was supporting Marks with the other. Rick and Scotty ran to
help. Was the scientist ill?
Scotty took the suitcases while Rick grabbed Marks' other arm. The
scientist shook him off. "I'm perfectly all right," he said irritably.
"Confound it! Rouse a man at the crack of dawn and expect him to
respond like a ballet dancer to a cue. Nonsense!"
Marks' appearance belied his words. His face was drawn and pale, and
it was obvious that his coordination wasn't very good. Tom Dodd was
plainly worried.
"Let go of me," Marks demanded. He drew himself up and glared at the
boys. "Which way is the car, please?"
"Straight ahead." Rick glanced at Dodd.
Marks stalked off, but his step was too careful to be convincing. He
just wasn't normal.
"He wasn't like this when we got on the train," Dodd said in a low
voice. "Let's get going. I'm anxious to get him to Spindrift."
In the parking lot, Rick ran to open the trunk so Scotty could stow
the bags. Then he beckoned to Marks, who was staring straight ahead,
his eyes glassy. "This is the car, sir."
Marks started for the open door. But instead of bending down to get
in, he walked straight ahead, rigid as a robot, and his face slammed
into the edge of the low turret top.
Dodd caught him as he fell.
Rick jumped to the scientist's side, afraid he had been knocked out,
and afraid, too, that something even more serious was wrong.
Marks was not unconscious, but his stare was fixed. "Are you all
right, sir?" the boy asked anxiously.
The reply was unintelligible.
Scotty bent over the scientist, too. "Are you all right, sir?" he
repeated urgently.
Marks' fixed stare never wavered. A spate of words poured from him,
but they made no sense. Now and then a single word emerged clearly.
Once it was "July," then "soup kettle" and "Planck's constant."
"Just like the others," Tom Dodd said helplessly.
Rick listened with horror. He had no doubt, no doubt at all. Steve had
described it accurately, and here it was. Marks was a victim of the
identical ailment that had stricken the other team members!