Kator had made a smoke ring, blue and lazy, and they both watched it float. It disappeared after a while.
“Have you found your clue yet, Jesso?”
“I don’t know. I’m getting there, it’s starting to make sense. Snell kept telling me of dates, dates. He meant data. He must have meant that he had data on him.”
“Brilliant, Jesso.”
“Now don’t get snippish, Baron. I’m trying my best. Now that I know what you’ve told me, data makes sense. And something else makes sense. Dates in the head, he kept saying, dates in the head.” Jesso looked up, making his face intent. “You got there when he was dead?”
“Yes.”
“But you got his data-dates in the head. He must have carried something near his head, on his head, so that-I got it! Snell had typed information and carried the paper under a toupe!”
It sounded real hot. Kator looked impressed. But then he tapped ashes into the tray and looked bored again. “Of course, I knew this without your help.”
“Sure. But I didn’t. Not until you went along with me and gave out with information.”
“Go on, Jesso.” Kator was smoking again.
“What was it, the stuff Snell carried?”
“I told you, Jesso, my courier didn’t even know that, my agent for twenty years. And I don’t know you.” Kator hesitated, smiled. “Or rather, I do know you.”
“You’re only stalling yourself, Kator.”
Kator was rolling the cigar in his mouth and his lips looked like an inner tube. “You have convinced me, Jesso.” He sat up with a theatrical sigh. “I’ll say this once, hoping you will forget it quickly. I’ll say it now so that we can come to a conclusion.”
Jesso sat up too. This was the time when Kator would hand out the death certificate with the name of Jackie Jesso. Or, perhaps, the gilt-edged thing that spelled Jack’s billion-dollar jackpot.
Kator got up and smoothed his jacket. His suit was dark and simple, but on Kator it looked like a uniform. He walked to the desk where the bottle had landed against the wall, and brushed some splinters to the floor. There was a locked compartment in the back, and inside it was a small green box, the kind that cashiers use.
When Kator started to unlock it, he did it in a funny way. He lifted the handle up, making it awkward to get the key in right. Then the box sprang open.
Besides the oilskin packet inside, there was a compact battery, a small thing like a stick in brown wrapping paper, and a mess of wire. The wires were attached behind the handle.
“Suspicious, aren’t you?” said Jesso.
“Yes.”
Kator flipped a wire off and took the packet out of the box. It seemed thick, but there was nothing in it except a sheet of onionskin. There were two columns of figures on the sheet. An ordinary typewriter had done the printing.
“You don’t seem impressed, Jesso.” Kator turned the sheet so Jesso could see the figures. “Do these mean anything to you?”
Jesso didn’t hesitate. “No, Baron. Do they to you?”
“No.” Kator turned the sheet around again and started to tap on the figures with one small finger. The gesture looked idle and indifferent. “These are production figures, Jesso. They constitute the weekly output of two integral parts belonging to a certain bomb. The bomb is being made in the United States. A most important new bomb.”
“Important to whom?”
“To the highest bidder, Jesso.”
“I thought the figures didn’t mean a thing to you.”
“I haven’t finished. I said two parts are mentioned here. One is the trigger mechanism of the warhead; the other is the warhead housing.”
“You’re over my head, Kator. What about the bomb?”
“Yes. What about the bomb?” Kator poured himself a cup of coffee. It was barely lukewarm. “Let’s say I told you how many warhead housings were being produced, a lot of five hundred, and one bomb requires one such housing. Can you tell me how many bombs are being readied?”
“Five hundred.”
“No, Jesso, because the same housing is being used for a much more ordinary bomb. Five hundred housings could mean five hundred bombs of either kind, or none of one, or none of the other, or half and half. The figures for the housing mean nothing, Jesso. They leave a margin of guessing for which I cannot expect to collect a cent.”
“So it’s the trigger mechanism you got to know about.”
“Precisely. Five hundred trigger mechanisms mean five hundred bombs, plus or minus ten per cent. In other words, dear Jesso, a salable guess with half a dozen eager takers.”
The flimsy piece of onionskin started to look gilt-edged. Jesso chewed his dry lips and waited, but Kator wasn’t saying any more. Perhaps he thought that Jesso knew enough, should know enough to say the next thing, whatever that might be. The onionskin looked just like paper again, and Jesso racked his brain, trying to spot the next right move.
“Shall I go on?” Kator asked.
“With what? If you know all that, Baron, what do you want from me?” It sounded brash, ignorant, and maybe Kator would think that Jesso was just hedging.
Kator started tapping the paper again and didn’t raise his eyes. “One column on production of the housing, one column on production of the trigger part. Which is which, Jesso? Or which parts of the two columns go together?”
This time neither of them spoke for minutes. Only the idle tapping of the finger, a gentle, padded sound. After a while Kator began to crook his finger until he struck the paper with his nail. It sounded hard, nervous.
“Which is which, Jesso?”
“Stop scratching, damn it! I’m trying to think.”
Jesso jumped up and paced the cabin. “He mentioned figures. He kept rattling figures as if they were football scores.” Jesso paced, frowning, making a heavy play for just the right expression. Kator had to think that he was sifting information, that he was hard at work to find the clue in Snell’s jumbled talk. “It thought they were football scores, the way he put it. Rose Bowl, you know, and then he’d jabber on and on about this high-school game.” Jesso stopped, frowning. Better not bring in what Snell really said. He might have been saying a million-dollar word, the key that made the onionskin legal tender.
Kator was watching. Make up something, Jesso, make it busy and fever-crazy “It was just figures over and over. Christ, Kator, gimme a clue. Don’t just sit there.”
“Of course, of course.” Kator sounded soothing. “These places-Rose Bowl and so on. What other places did he mention?”
That high-school place… What was the name? He couldn’t think of it, but that was all right. He wasn’t going to repeat anything Snell had said, anyway
“He mentioned some town, but damned if I can remember the name of it.”
“Underwood?”
Jesso made his voice enthusiastic.
“Underwood! He mentioned Underwood, Kator. What about Underwood?”
“It’s a town in Arkansas. The factory in that town goes by the same name.”
“And?” Jesso felt tense.
“They make the housing for the warhead there. You see, Jesso, this list gives the production figures from two factories. One for Underwood, the other for the production from a second factory.”
It came to Jesso like a flash. He squinted once and then he said it.
“Honeywell! The other factory is Honeywell.”
Kator was convinced now. Nobody could have told Jesso about Honeywell except the courier, Snell.
“Yes, the other factory is at Honeywell. They make the trigger mechanism there.”
The gamble had paid off and Jesso started to breathe again. So Snell did tell him something.
