the wheel.

“Seems like quite an order for one man,” Herron said. “Two watchmen slugged, three doors jimmied, two electric-eye circuits ruined, one vault door blown, not to speak of the missing gold.”

“What might help us is the fact that the loot could be radioactive. I hate to think of it, Jack, but that might make it more convenient for us to track it down.”

“It hasn’t so far, Chief.”

“I know. But a thirty-six-pound block of radioactive gold is going to make somebody sick.”

“Yeah. Especially since the thief probably didn’t know the stuff could be radioactive. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have kept the stuff in the same room with him when he holed up in that crummy rooming house in Hamilton City.”

“That may not mean a thing. Don’t forget, we still haven’t a trace of the thief or the gold, which probably means he hasn’t slowed down any himself.”

The drive from Kelvin University back to St. Louis took them one hour, but at the end of that time, neither Jones nor Herron had come up with any new ideas. When the trip was over and they pulled into the underground garage of headquarters, they were glad to get out of the car. Herron looked rumpled and tired, but Jones appeared as bland and neat as ever.

“Who knows, perhaps we’ll have a break when we get to the office, eh, Chief?”

Jones smiled back for a moment, but didn’t answer. They took the elevator to their floor and entered the bureau.

“Come to my office, will you, Jack? I want you to look at the follow-ups I got on some of the possible brains behind this job. Right now we’re going on the assumption that this was not a syndicate job.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons. For instance, they would have used more than one man at the scene. I’ll show you the analysis later. Now, as I was saying, that narrows the field quite a bit. There aren’t too many independents left.”

Herron opened the door for Jones and they walked into the Chief’s office.

“All right, Jack. Here’s a dossier on Charles Letterman, alias Chauncey Lettre, alias Professor Letters. Sixty-five years old, convicted twice for complicity in bank robberies. Light sentence each time. One conviction for illegal possession of stolen goods. He’s suspected of planning a long list of crimes. Take a look at it. Present address, Two-o-seven Desbrosses Street, New York City. Next, there’s one Otto Schumacher, sixty-eight, no aliases. A very careful planner. When you look at the list, you’ll find he’s supposedly been behind a lot of inside jobs, but don’t let that prejudice you. Otherwise, little is known about him except that he was probably behind some of the biggest heists during the twenties. And he’s never been convicted of anything. Take the file along, Jack, and hold it, because we haven’t found him yet.”

The phone rang. Jones picked it up and said, “Jones.” He listened for a while, then said, “Good. Thanks.” He put the receiver down and told Herron not to bother with the other dossiers. “Just read the one on Otto Schumacher. They found him. It seems he spent last month in Kelvin, presumably to use the university library. He roomed at the same house as one of the night watchmen of the Research Center, and they often played checkers together. At present he lives in Detroit, where the local office has him staked out. They’re going to pull him in tomorrow, and I want you to be there. We have little to go on with Schumacher except that his cleaning woman showed up at the county clinic today. Complaint, headache and diarrhea, plus a possible radiation burn of the sole of one foot. Could be a coincidence, though. He’s your case, Jack, but remember, he’s never been convicted. Good luck.”

“Good luck, Otto. I think I found a contact out West who’ll take the stuff.”

“Tony, for God’s sake, where have you been.” Schumacher yelled into the phone. His hands were shaking. “Do you realize that damn thing is still in this apartment? Have you any idea what a time I had trying to keep from going nuts waiting for you? Either you come at once or I’ll get somebody else to take it out of here. Tony, are you listening?!”

There was a short silence at the other end of the wire and then Catell’s voice, very quiet: “Don’t do it, Otto. I’m warning you.”

“All right, all right. Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there, Otto. Have you moved it any?”

“Are you insane?