scoonts.theminotaur-第56部分

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cleaned　his　basement　on　the　same　schedule　used　by　every　other　bachelor　who　owned　one…never。　There　were　some　tools　piled　carelessly　in　one　corner：　a　drill；　a　saber　saw；　a　hammer；　a　box　of　hand　tools。　They　were　covered　with　the　same　thickness　of　dirt　that　covered　everything　else。　Some　cans　of　paint　that　looked　like　they　had　never　been　opened。　Perhaps　he　had　had　a　fit　of　enthusiasm　which　had　waned　on　the　way　home　from　the　hardware　store。　Camacho　went　back　upstairs；　consciously　reminding　himself　to　flip　off　the　light　switch　at　the　head　of　the　stairs。
　He　stopped　dead　in　the　kitchen。　He　turned　and　went　back　to　the　basement　door。　He　opened　it。　Light　switch　on。　What　was　that？　Was　it　a　noise？　Lights　off。　Yes；　there　was　a　noise；　some　kind　of　faint　grinding；　just　for　a　half　second　or　so。　He　repeated　the　procedure。　He　wasn't　imagining　things。　He　could　hear　something。
　In　the　slanted　ceiling　of　the　stairway；　down　about　three　feet　from　the　bulb；　was　a　dusty　screen。　Several　of　the　strands　had　been　pushed　aside；　perhaps　by　a　careless　jab　from　a　broom　handle；　leaving　a　hole。　He　flipped　the　light　several　more　times。　He　could　just　barely　hear　it；　the　most　minute　of　noises；　hard　to　recognize。
　The　screen　was　held　on　with　four　screws。　Bare　metal　could　be　seen　on　the　screw　slots。　When　he　got　them　out　and　lowered　the　screen　he　could　see　the　camera　lens。　Rubber　padding　held　on　with　rubber　bands　covered　the　camera　body。　A　wire　led　to　it　He　stood　on　the　stairs　and　examined　it　with　his　flashlight；　then　reached　up　and　removed　the　camera；　excess　wire　following　along。
　The　wire　was　connected　to　a　gadget　on　top　with　a　small　alligator　clip。　With　the　stairwell　light　off；　he　undipped　it　and　carried　the　camera　to　the　kitchen　table。　Unwrapping　the　rubber　padding　with　gloves　on　was　difficult；　so　he　took　them　off。
　The　gadget　on　top　was　some　kind　of　an　electromagnetic　doohickey　with　a　lever。　When　the　current　was　turned　on　by　flipping　the　light　switch；　the　magnet　was　energized　and　caused　this　steel　pin　to　push　the　camera　shutter　button；　tripping　the　shutter。　When　the　current　ceased；　a　spring　reset　the　lever；　which　released　the　shutter　button　and　allowed　the　film　to　be　automatically　advanced　by　the　camera。
　It　was　a　nice　camera；　a　Canon。　The　little　window　said　that　it　was　on　its　ninth　exposure。　How　many　times　had　he　turned　that　light　on　and　off。　He　tried　to　count　them。　Six。　No；　five。　So　the　film　counter　should　be　on　four。
　He　opened　the　camera　and　removed　the　film；　then　pulled　the　celluloid　pletely　from　its　cartridge　and　held　it　up　to　the　window。　Rewinding　the　film　back　onto　the　cartridge　was　a　chore；　but　he　managed；　and　after　wiping　the　cartridge　carefully；　he　reinstalled　it　in　the　camera。　He　used　a　dry　dishcloth　on　the　camera　and　wrapped　it　carefully。　Working　by　feel　with　the　overhead　stair　light　off；　he　returned　the　device　to　its　hole　and　screwed　the　screen　back　on。　He　nipped　the　light　switch　three　times　and　was　rewarded　each　time　with　that　faint　noise。
　There　were　three　bedrooms　upstairs；　exactly　the　same　floor　plan　here　as　in　his　house　next　door；　but　only　two　of　them　were　furnished。　The　largest　was　obviously　lived　in；　but　the　middle…sized　room　was　ready　for　a　guest。　Luis　Camacho　tried　to　remember　if　Harlan　Albright　had　ever　had　an　overnight　guest　that　he　knew　about。　No。
　He　checked　the　carpet。　Albright　might　have　some　kind　of　pressure　device　under　there；　or　perhaps　heat…sensitive　paper。　Nope。　Another　camera？　Apparently　not。
　There　was　a　little　trapdoor　in　the　hall　ceiling　that　led　to　the　unfinished　attic。　An　upholstered　chair　sat　just　inside　the　guest　bedroom。　He　put　his　nose　almost　to　the　seat　and　scrutinized　it　carefully。　Yes；　a　few　smudges　of　dirt　were　visible。
　Luis　Camacho　pulled　the　chair　under　the　trapdoor；　took　his　shoes　off　and　stood　on　it。　He　eased　the　door　up。　It　was　dark　up　there。　A　few　flakes　of　dust　drifted　down。　He　stood　on　tiptoe　and　used　the　flash。　He　felt　between　the　joists。
　Several　items。　One　was　a　soft　leather　baglike　thing；　a　zippered　pistol　rug。　The　other　was　a　large；　heavy　metal　toolbox　that　just　fit　through　the　trapdoor。　He　almost　dropped　the　toolbox　getting　it　down。
　The　pistol　rug　contained　a　Ruger　。22　autopistol　with　black　plastic　grips　and　a　partially　full　box　of　Remington　ammunition。　Bluing　was　worn　off　the　pistol　in　places。　The　front　sight　and　its　sleeve　were　amputated；　and　threads　were　machined　into　the　outside　of　the　barrel　to　take　the　silencer；　which　was　also　in　the　rug。　This　was　strictly　a　close…range　weapon：　with　no　front　sight；　it　would　be　useless　at　any　distance。
　He　sniffed　the　barrel　of　the　pistol。　Cleaned　since　last　use。　He　pushed　the　catch　and　the　magazine　dropped　out　of　the　grip　into　his　hand。　It　was　full。　He　shoved　it　back　in　until　it　clicked。　No　doubt　the　cleaning　rod　and　patches　and　gun　oil　were　up　there　in　the　joists　somewhere。　He　replaced　the　items　in　the　rug　and　zipped　it　closed。
　The　toolbox　wasn't　locked。　Neatly　packed　in　and　padded　to　prevent　damage　were　fuses；　a　roll　of　wire　and　a　two…channel　Futaba　radio　transmitter　for　radio…controlled　models。　Lots　of　servos；　ten　of　them。　A　little　bag　containing　crystals　to　change　the　frequency　of　the　transmitter。　Four　miniature　radio　receivers；　also　made　by　Futaba。　A　bunch　of　nickel…cadmium　batteries　and　a　charging　unit。　Four　six…cell　batteries　wrapped　with　black　plastic。　There　was　even　a　manual　alarm　clock。
　But　the　piece　of　resistance；　the　item　that　impressed　Luis　Camacho；　was　a　radio　receiver　with　a　frequency…adjustment　knob；　volume　knob；　earpiece　and　spike　meter。　This　device　would　allow　the　careful　craftsman　to　check　for　possible　radio　interference　in　the　area　in　which　he　intended　to　do　his　bit　to　improve　the　human　species；　before　he　armed　his　own　device。　Better　safe　than　sorry。
　All　in　all；　it　was　an　impressive　kit。　Everything　remended　by　Gentleman's　Quarterly　for　the　well…heeled　professional　bomber　was　in　there；　including　a　case　containing　a　set　of　jeweler's　screwdrivers　and　wrenches。
　Camacho　repacked　the　items　carefully；　trying　to　put　everything　back　exactly　as　he　found　it　After　much　straining　he　got　the　toolbox　back　through　the　trapdoor　into　the　attic。
　He　checked　carefully　in　the　joists　as　far　as　he　could　reach　and　see；　then　replaced　the　pistol　rug。　He　was　meticulous　in　restoring　everything　to　its　proper　place；　wiping　a　few　flecks　of　dust　from　the　chair　arms　and　retrieving　a　larger　piece　from　the　carpet。　When　he　had　given　everything　a　last　look；　he　went　down　to　the　kitchen　and　seated　himself　at　the　table。
　Where　was　the　plastique？　It　had　to　be　here　someplace。　Using　his　flashlight；　he　descended　again　to　the　basement　and　examined　the　paint　cans。　He　hefted　them；　shook　them　gently。　They　contained　something；　but　it　probably　wasn't　paint。　Oh　well。
　He　locked　the　kitchen　door　behind　him　and　crossed　through　the　back　gate　to　his　own　yard。
　Standing　in　his　own　kitchen　with　a　pot　of　coffee　dripping　through　the　filter；　he　thought　about　Albright's　treasure　as　he　maneuvered　a　cup　under　the　black　coffee　basket　to　fill　it。　With　the　Pyrex　pot　back　in　place；　he　sipped　on　the　hot　liquid　as　he　dialed　the　phone。
　After　talking　to　three　people；　he　was　connected　with　the　man　he　wanted；　an　explosives　expert。　〃Well；　the　material's　ability　to　resist　the　effects　of　heat　and　cold　and　humidity　depends　on　just　what　kind　of　stuff　it　is。　Semtex　is　a　brand　real　popular　right　now；　made　in　Czechoslovakia。　Heat　won't　do　it　any　good；　but　if　the　heat　is　not　too　severe　or　prolonged；　it　shouldn't　take　much　of　its　punch　away。〃
　〃How　about　storage　in　an　uninsulated　attic？〃
　〃Here；　in　this　climate？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃Not　remended。　Best　would　be　a　place　slightly　below　room　temperature；　a　place　where　the　temp　stays　pretty　constant。〃
　〃Thanks。〃
　〃I　keep　mine　in　the　wine　cellar。〃
　〃Sure。〃
　Camacho　finished　the　cup　of　coffee；　dumped　the　rest　of　the　pot　down　the　sink　and　turned　off　the　coffee　maker。　He　wiped　the　area　with　a　dishrag　and　threw　the　wet　grounds　into　the　garbage。　He　didn't　want　his　wife　noticing　he　had　been　there。
　It　was　three　o'clock　when　he　locked　the　front　door　and　drove　away。
　
　At　about　the　same　instant　that　Luis　Camacho　was　starting　his　car　to　return　to　his　office。　Toad　Tarkington　was　parking　at　the　Reno　hospital。　When　he　arrived　in　the　roo