“Tell me something,” he said, breaking the long period of quiet. “If you and your friends had succeeded today, what would you have done with them — with Doc Newcombe and Lafayette?”
She didn’t look him in the eye, but instead gazed out the window at the passing landscape. “We planned to take him to a safe house and keep him there. We felt certain that once we explained what Barron wanted, Dr. Newcombe would have voluntarily remained with us, in order to avoid having his work perverted. But we were prepared to hold him against his will, for as long as necessary to prevent his knowledge from being used for evil ends.”
Dodge didn’t think she was telling truth, but he did not challenge her. “Why did you grab Lafayette?”
This time, she turned to meet his gaze. “That was a mistake. I told Sergei and Ivan to get the scientist and the writer, but they misunderstood. You see, we meant to take you.”
Brian “Hurricane” Hurley read the message on the yellow paper again — he’d lost track of how many times — and breathed a silent oath. It had been a rotten day, his head hurt like the Dickens — in fact, his whole body felt like one great big bruise — and now Dodge had changed the play.
He and Nora had stayed with the wrecked vehicles for more than an hour, fielding a barrage of questions from the police and deflecting the really important ones about where Dodge and the blonde kidnapper had gone, and why. Hurley suggested that the woman had escaped on foot and that Dodge had gone off in pursuit, and while this didn’t quite agree with other accounts, the officers on the scene weren’t inclined to doubt the word of an upstanding citizen and hero like Hurricane Hurley. With their statements given, Hurley had retrieved his guns and a few other possessions from the Speedster, and then made the arrangements to have it towed to a repair shop. It had been his intention to send Nora home in a hired taxi, but she would have none of it.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight, buster,” she had told him defiantly. “Not until this is over.”
Hurricane had grumbled, but all things considered, he didn’t mind her company. Better her than “Lightning Rod” Lafayette. When he and Nora arrived at the Empire State Building, the note from Western Union was waiting.
It was just like Dodge to run off headlong into danger; it was one of the things he greatly admired about the young man. But that didn’t ease the sting of being left behind to tend the home fires and worry. Add to that the fact that Dodge was in the company of one of the people who had, earlier in the day, tried to blow them all to smithereens, and it was a recipe for an ulcer.
“Going to find Newton,” he muttered. “Like you have the slightest idea where they’ve taken him.”
He turned to Nora, who was gazing breathlessly out the large window at the vista of the city below. “My goodness, this is your office?”
“It was. I’m afraid it’s sort of outlived its purpose, but we signed a lease.”
The view was about the only thing to recommend the office space on the seventy-eighth floor of the world’s tallest building. Aside from the enormous windows, the room was virtually bare. There was no decor to speak of, only blank white walls. The furnishings consisted of a few chairs and a long folding banquet table, both supplied courtesy of building management. Of course, even when it had served the purpose to which Hurley had alluded, there hadn’t been much in the way of creature comforts.
Dodge and his friends had rented the space a few months before, solely for the reason of studying an artifact they had recovered from the ruins of an ancient outpost in Antarctica. That artifact, a rod made of an unidentifiable metal, had been the key to an amazing technology that imbued its holder with a range of uncanny abilities, including the power of flight, an invincible energy field, and even a weapon that could cast directed bolts of electricity. Although their possession of the relic, which they had called simply “the Staff,” had been wrapped in secrecy, a foreign agent had learned of its existence and launched an audacious campaign to seize control of the artifact, and ultimately the Antarctic outpost. A thief in the employ of that villain had breached their elaborate security measures and absconded with the Staff, doing considerable damage to their impromptu headquarters in the process. The battle scars had all been repaired, but in the final struggle with their foe, the Staff had lost its unique properties, obviating any further need for a special facility in which to study it.
Hurley sank wearily into one of the chairs, and he waved the telegram at his guest. “Walter Barron? Does that name ring any bells?”
“No, but that’s easily enough remedied.” Nora picked up the telephone, which sat innocuously on the floor near one wall, and brought it over to the table. She lifted the receiver from its cradle and held it to her ear, as she dialed the operator. “I’d like the Clarion newspaper office please.”
Within a matter of minutes, her call was put through to the Clarion morgue. If Hurley was amazed that it was possible to have a question answered simply by picking up the telephone, then he was also a little disappointed when, after about five minutes of searching, a negative answer came back. She put the earpiece back on its hook and frowned. “Why do you suppose Mr. Dalton wanted us to find out about this Barron fellow? Do you think he’s behind it all?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, miss. Dodge obviously didn’t know either.”
Nora’s face scrunched up in thought, then she reached for the phone again. “Operator? Brooklyn, please. Floyd Bennett Field.”
Hurley watched with mild amusement as he listened to Nora work her magic. He could only guess at the reaction on the other end of the line. “How do you do, sir… Sam, is it? Nora Holloway, with the Clarion, here. I’d like to know about autogyros… No, I know how they work. I want to know who makes them.”
As she spoke, she reached into her clutch and produced a pen and notebook, in which she jotted down the information she was getting. “And where are they located?…Spain? Well, that’s no good…Pennsylvania? Yes, that is a good deal closer to home…Right. One last question for you, Sam. Do you know of anyone who owns two autogyros? Newer models, judging by the look of them…Thanks, Sam, you’re a champ.”
She was smiling when she hung up again. “Well, Mr. Hurley, do you want the good news or the very good news?”
Hurricane chuckled. “I think I’ll defer to the lady’s judgment.”
“A regular southern gentleman, you are. All right, hang on to your hat. The autogyros we saw were probably Cierva C.30s. The design is from the parent company in Spain, but there are a number of companies that have the license to build the aircraft, and one of them is Pitcairn Cierva, located in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania.”
Hurley nodded. “As good as place any to start looking.”
“Hold your horses, big boy. That was just the good news. The really good news is that an American businessman recently purchased, not one, but several C.30s for his company.”
“Barron?”
She flashed a grin. “Sam at the airport didn’t know the name of owner, but the company is called Royal Industries. Care to guess what they make? I’ll tell you: war machines! Guns, munitions, battle tanks.”
Hurley put his fingertips together in thought. “I can think of a few reasons why a weapons manufacturer would want to get his hands on one of the world’s leading scientists.”