The By-Pass Control Page 11

  I didn’t have to knock. The door opened as I went up the flagstone steps and a short, chunky guy with a big friendly smile grinned up at me and said, “Hello, hello. I’m Vincent Small. Something I can do for you?”

  I shook hands with him, almost smothering his with my own. “My name’s Mann, Mr. Small. I’m trying to locate a friend of mine and if I can bother you a few minutes, maybe you can help.”

  “Why sure ... sure. Come on in. Always glad to help out.” He ushered me in, closed the door and waved me into a spacious living room lined on two sides with fully packed bookshelves. “Make you a drink?”

  “Fine. Whatever you’re having.”

  “I’m for a beer.”

  “Good enough.”

  He popped open two cans, held one out to me and sat down in a wicker rocking chair opposite me. “Now,” he said, “what’s your problem?”

  “You knew Louis Agrounsky, didn’t you?”

  “Lou? Why, certainly. Is he the one you’re looking for?”

  I took a pull of the beer and put the can on the floor beside me. “Uh-huh.”

  His grin took on a puzzled twist. “Now that’s very funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Poor Lou ... having everybody looking for him and all the while he was right here he was a lonely guy who never knew a soul. Never saw anybody so much alone. Even after his accident when he couldn’t work any more, nobody but Claude Boster or me ever saw him.”

  “He wasn’t the type who made friends easily, Mr. Small. His work required so much secrecy the habit rubbed off on him.”

  Small nodded agreement, his mouth pursed in thought. “You’re right there. Never could get him into conversation about his job. Never really tried,” he added. “You understand that, of course. With Claude he always talked about his hobby—those miniature electronics he played with. Whenever we were together it was always philosophy.”

  “That your hobby?” I asked.

  “Goodness no,” he laughed. “That’s my profession. Teach it over at Bromwell University. Lou and I both graduated from there. I was two years ahead of him, but we became good friends when we roomed in the same dorm. Lou never studied philosophy ... majored in mathematics and all that, but after he had his breakdown he became interested in the subject and researched it as much as I did. It seemed to relieve him.”

  “I didn’t think that breakdown was that serious,” I said.

  Small shrugged and sipped his drink. “It wasn’t, really. Overwork, I think. Lou really crammed harder than most. He was capable of absorbing it all, but the late hours finally caught up with him. No sleep, hours of study, a part time job ... that’s a little too much for anybody.”

  “He really change after that?”

  “He learned not to push too hard,” Small told me. “He changed jobs and kept more reasonable hours.” He frowned in thought a moment, then added, “He became more introspective, I’d say. Social behavior seemed to concern him ... the state of the world ... that sort of thing. We spent many an hour discussing it from a philosophical viewpoint.”

  “What was his?”

  “Now that,” Vincent Small said, “I was hoping you could tell me. Lou never did arrive at a conclusion. He would ponder the subject endlessly, but never found an answer.”

  “What philosopher ever did?”

  He glanced at me, surprised at the tone of my voice. “Ah, Mr. Mann, I take it that you’re a realist.”

  “All the way.”

  “And philosophy ... ?”

  “Doesn’t fit the facts,” I answered him.

  His eyes brightened with humor, sparkling at the possibility of argument, seeing me take a fall. “Offer an example.”

  “Where do you go when you die?” I said. Before he could answer I grinned and put in, “And prove it.”

  Then, like all the others who strive so hard to make the simple difficult, he threw it back to me again because he didn’t know. “Maybe you’d like to offer your version.”

  “Sure,” I said, and finished the beer. “Six feet down.”

  “Ah, Mr. Mann ... that’s so ...”

  “Practical?”

  “But...”

  “Ever go to a funeral?”

  “Yes, but then ...”

  “And where did the body go?”

  “Realists are impossible to talk to,” he smiled.

  “Ever kill a man, Small?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, I have. Quite a few. That’s fact, not philosophical nonsense. It’s real and complete. It makes you think about more things than all the trivia Plato or Aristotle ever dealt out.”

  Small threw me a peculiar glance and put his empty can on the table beside him. “Mr. Mann ... you’re a strange sort of person for Lou to have known. May I ask how you came to meet him?”

  “I haven’t yet,” I said. “I hope to before somebody else does, though.”

  “That sounds rather mysterious.”

  “It isn’t. It’s something that can’t be explained because it involves his work, but it’s damned serious and I want to find him.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, suddenly concerned. “I can believe that.”

  “You mentioned other people interested in locating Louis Agrounsky....”

  “Several.”

  “They identify themselves as the police or a government agency?”

  “It wasn’t me they approached.”

  “Oh?”

  “Claude Boster mentioned it. He was queried twice by persons saying they were Lou’s friends and when he ran into one of Lou’s former associates at the project, that one had been approached too. However, neither could supply any information. Lou seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  “No communication at all?”

  “None whatsoever. Now, may I ask you a question?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What is your interest in this?”

  “Money, Mr. Small,” I said. “My employer wants to purchase one of Agrounsky’s inventions very badly, and if I can locate him before the competition, I’m in, so to speak.”

  “Then you’re a ... a ...”

  “Call it investigator.”

  “And you’ve killed people,” he stated.

  “Only when it was necessary.”

  “Do you think it will be necessary in this case?”

  “There’s a distinct possibility. We’re at war, Mr. Small. Right now a cold war, but war nevertheless.”

  His nod was solemn. “I see. And the competition isn’t the local commercial variety.”

  I didn’t answer him. I didn’t have to.

  Finally he said, “Can you identify yourself, sir?”

  “Curious?”

  “All philosophers are.”

  “Then call the New York office of I.A.T.S. and ask for Charles Corbinet. He’ll be glad to supply my ID.”

  “Perhaps I will,” he told me. “You interest me strangely. This whole affair is very peculiar. It will make for some curious speculation.”

  “Don’t philosophize on it, Small. If you can think of any place Agrounsky might be, keep it to yourself. I’ll contact you off and on while I’m around. That is ... if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Lou’s disappearance disturbs me deeply. I’m quite concerned for him.”

  I got up, stuck my hat on and held out my hand to Vincent Small. “Thanks for the talk.”

  “No bother at all.”

  “Know where I might locate Claude Boster right now?”

  “Without a doubt. He’ll be in his shop behind his house, brains deep in hairlike wiring, circuits he’s trying to reduce to pea size, and a headache as big as a house from squinting into microscopes.”

  And he was right. Twenty minutes after I left Vincent Small I was watching Claude Boster through the casement window of his small machine shop, back hunched over a small lathe he operated under an enlarging glass, stopping occasionally to rub his head over one ear and make a grima
ce of disgust.

  When I knocked he shut off his power and shuffled to the door, opened it to peer out at me, and said, “Yes?”

  “Claude Boster?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Mann is my name. I just came from Vincent Small who suggested I see you about a matter.”

  Small’s name wiped the puzzled frown from his face. “Oh. Yes, please come in.”

  I walked inside, took in the entire room with a sweep of my eyes, gauging the extent of his activities and cataloguing them in my mind. Although the layout was compact and gave no illusion of any size whatsoever, it was an extensive operation with equipment well into the five figure mark.

  At one corner was a table with two metal chairs and Boster pulled one out, offered it to me and sat in the other one. “Now, Mr. Mann ...”

  “Louis Agrounsky. I’m looking for him.”

  A shadow seemed to pass over Boster’s face and his eyes had a withdrawn look. “Yes, indeed,” was all he said.

  “I understand you’ve been approached before.”

  “That is correct. I also understand that Louis was engaged in project work that put him in a special category.”

  “There’s no security involved now. There’s a commercial aspect of one of his inventions I’m interested in. I’m authorized to locate him if possible.”

  “By whom, sir?”

  Sometimes you have to go all the way and I did the same thing with him I did with Vincent Small. I told him to contact I.A.T.S. in New York and ask for Charlie Corbinet. He studied me a moment, then, without answering, pulled a phone out from under the desk, dialed the operator and gave her the information. The call went through in thirty seconds and Claude Boster had Charlie on the other end giving him my name, a description, then handed the phone to me. I talked for ten seconds more, enough so Charlie was certain it was me, then handed the phone back. What he said satisfied Boster and he hung up.

  “Cloak-and-dagger business, eh?”

  I shrugged, watching his face relax, and said, “Can we get to Agrounsky now?”

  He opened his palms helplessly. “What can I say? Louis just disappeared.”

  “People like him don’t just disappear.”

  “He did,” Boster insisted.

  “How well did you know him?”

  “We were good friends, Mr. Mann. Closer, perhaps, from a technical viewpoint than a social one, but friends. I presume you know about his hobby.”

  “Slightly. You both seem to have the same one.” I nodded toward the rest of the room.

  “With me it isn’t a hobby. It started that way, but it’s serious work now. Miniaturization is a vital aspect of most engineering developments today and offers me a comfortable livelihood. I only wish Louis were with me now. I hate to admit it but he was well ahead of me in the major stages of mini-work.”

  “You familiar with the details?”

  Boster shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, otherwise I would be tempted to duplicate his experiments. If his work is lost to the world, it’s a great pity.” He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “Louis was a genius,” he said simply.

  “How great?”

  “Possibly one of the greatest. There was a power unit he developed that could be activated remotely, capable of lighting an entire house. The whole thing was small enough to hold in the hollow of your hand. His subminiature circuits, even at that time, were several times smaller than my most recent refinements, and I might say that I am foremost in this particular field at this moment. Yes, it was quite a pity.” He looked up at me seriously and added, “Have you any idea where he might be?”

  “No.”

  Claude Boster nodded again. “I believe you,” he told me. He seemed to purse his lips in thought, then: “But it is strange. He was always so vitally interested in his work. You see ... he too believed that subminiaturization was the answer to the complicated technical problems that beset space projects. He searched for the answers and found them. Then ... it was all changed. It was that accident,” he mused.

  “The car wreck?”

  “That’s right,” Boster agreed. “It seemed to be nothing at first. After he was released from the hospital everything seemed to be all right, then he started to change.”

  “How?”

  Boster made an impatient gesture. “Oh, nothing definite. He ... he seemed withdrawn, distant. We weren’t as close any more. It was a surprise to me when he sold everything and left. I never heard a word from him.”

  “No complaints about the accident ... no permanent injury?”

  “He never mentioned anything and he seemed fit enough except for periods of extreme nervousness. At these times he’d leave for a few days and come back feeling better. I assumed he merely rested somewhere. We never discussed it.” Boster paused, thought a moment, then went on. “Those periods became more frequent. Frankly, I couldn’t understand it and since he was loath to talk about it, I never mentioned it. Such a pity.”

  “And he left no records?” I prompted.

  Boster smiled wistfully. “None. I inquired personally. I searched what little effects he had here and found nothing. In fact ... one day ... it was one of those times when he was feeling very badly ... he mentioned in passing that when he completed his special project he was going to destroy all written details of it. Frankly, I didn’t think he would. It was much too unscientific a thing to do, so I passed it off to his condition. But ... I guess he meant it, all right.”

  I took a cigarette from the pack, offered one to Boster, and lit them up. “He ever discuss politics with you?”

  “Never. The subject didn’t seem to interest him. Only his work was important.”

  I said, “He discussed philosophy with Vincent Small.”

  “That and politics are far different matters. Occasionally he would make statements that seemed to be connected with his work—whether or not the world should exist with such products in its hands ... that sort of thing. A bit incoherent, I thought. The present world situation always distressed him, but doesn’t it everyone?”

  “Everyone with sense,” I agreed.

  “A few times he left and didn’t return for three days.”

  “I see,” I said absently.

  “I wish I did, Mr. Mann.”

  “Well, thanks for the talk.”

  “Did I help?”

  “Everybody helps somehow or other. I may call on you again. If anything occurs to you, keep it in mind.”

  “Gladly. I wish I could do more. He had few friends and I doubt if any of us could give a complete picture of him. However, you might consult the doctor who attended him after the accident. During that time he was fairly close to Louis. At least he saw him several times a day.”

  “Remember his name?”

  “Carlson. Dr. George Carlson. He has his own clinic now one block from the shopping center.”

  I stood up and held out my hand. “I’ll do that. And thanks. Hope I didn’t put you out.”

  “Not at all.”

  Boster went to the door and opened it for me. I stuck my hat on and flipped my cigarette out into the night, watching it arc like a tiny flare ... and that pinpoint of light saved my skin because it was cut off briefly by something that moved in front of it and I shoved Boster back with one hand and hit the floor even as two shots blasted above me and ricocheted around the room behind us.

  There wasn’t time to get the .45 out ... barely enough to kick the door shut and yell, “The lights!”

  Boster hit a switch by the door sill and the room went dark. I said, “Stay there,” then yanked the door open, pulled the gun from the sling and cocked it, then went out into the night in a diving roll, hoping I wasn’t going into a sucker trap.

  I hit the bushes, waited, watched for movement against the lights in the background, but whoever it had been hadn’t waited to see the results of his attempted kill. When I was sure the area was clear I went back inside, turned the lights back on and had Boster pull the blinds sh
ut.

  “Mr. Mann,” he said, his breath caught in his throat. “What ... was that for?”

  “I don’t know, friend,” I said. “I’m just curious about one thing.”

  “What ... is that?”

  “Were they shooting at me ... or you?”

  CHAPTER 7

  The police bought an easy story. On three occasions in the past few months attempts had been made to burglarize Claude Boster’s premises after a news story about his exploits had been published in a technical magazine. Now it was supposed that whoever was after his material was taking more drastic measures. The slugs they recovered were .38’s and were to be sent to Washington for a ballistic check, and a uniformed police officer was assigned to cover Boster until they had the situation cleared up. I was simply a visiting friend caught in the middle and Boster went along with it, suddenly aware of the implications.

  When they left I got back in the car, made no attempt to try anything fancy and deliberately left myself open for a tail. If those shots were meant for me the killer knew damn well he missed and would be making another try. I just wanted to make it easy for him.

  Eau Gallie wasn’t that big to hide in. But it wasn’t that big to lay on a tail that couldn’t be spotted, either. If those slugs were meant for Boster, nobody was interested in me. If they had my name on them, then the assassin was waiting for another time and another place.

  I wanted to be sure, so I made my call to Newark Control from a well lit booth adjoining a service station. I parked the car to cover me from the dark area behind the building, so if anybody took me on it would have to be where I could see them and the .45 in my hand was ready to talk.

  Virgil Adams taped our conversation completely, then told me he was sending Dave Elroy down by Martin Grady’s orders to back me up. Dave was to register at an assigned motel and to stay on tap for any emergency.

  “It isn’t necessary,” I told him. “I can handle it alone. Too many of our people around might cause trouble. Dave was on that narcotics bit in Hong Kong and the Soviets know him by sight.”