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to be made of a certain magnetic alloy to work.
     We had a man at the factory this morning, and their records show they’ve only made the four we’ve got.”
    “Could the factory have been infiltrated?” Lockwood asked. “These guys sound thorough.”
    “I’m one step ahead of you,” Manners said. “But you’re thinking the right way. Rabson received just enough blanks out of that
     alloy for these special keys, and not one’s missing.”
    “So Dzeloski, Greer, Myra Rodman, and whoever’s got the guard’s key ring are the only four people who had access last night?”
    “Right,” Manners said. “And any other night. When the guard finishes his tour, he has to turn his key ring over to one of
     these three.
And
sign a log, along with one of their signatures, to show it happened.”
    “That narrows it,” Lockwood said. “But it’s hard to suspect one of those three.”
    “Or Pops. You didn’t see anything in his house?”
    “Not even anything that looked like petty theft—boxes of paper clips, pencils, petty office supplies.”
    Manners looked sour. “That’s suspicious in itself.”
    Lockwood laughed. “Have your crime experts figured out how many guys were in here last night?”
    “At least two,” Manners replied. He pointed over his head to a long I-beam that ran down the length of the room to the elevator
     on which hung a hoist and chain, and he said, “But with that hoist up there, even one man could have winched the bombsight
     up and swung it onto the dolly by himself.”
    “Fingerprints?”
    “Not one. Maybe it was four guys. One drove the panel truck out, and the other three went back out through the hole in the
     fence.”
    “He could have driven right to the South Shore, couldn’t he?” Lockwood asked. “We’re only a couple miles from the Atlantic.
     That bombsight could be a hundred miles out at sea now.”
    “Well, naturally we thought of that first thing. By 7:20 this morning we had planes patrolling the coastline.”
    “But that was too late.”
    “Not really,” Manners said. “Low tide was at 3:00 this morning, and that’s not the Atlantic to the south of us, but Great
     South Bay, inside Fire Island. They’d have to have driven toward New York or out toward Montauk in order to get to deep water.
     How are you going to load a 500-pound hunk of machine made of steel and glass and fragile wire connections into even a pleasure
     boat without pulling up to a dock? And there aren’t many places out here with a dock big enough where by first light, if not
     before, fishermen aren’t going out. We don’t think so—and I’ve got men going over the North and the South Shore docks one
     by one, asking the fishermen questions. I’m convinced they went underground around here somewhere—maybe in a garage—and are
     going to wait for the heat to cool.”
    “Then ship it out,” Lockwood said.
    “Then ship it out,” Manners agreed. “But they’ve made one mistake.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The heat’s not going to cool on this one—not ever.”

Chapter 5
    Myra Rodman lived in a small neat house in a small neat town called Moriches that looked as if it had been transplanted to
     Long Island from New England.
    Lockwood had found a summer cottage he could rent for a few nights at next to nothing, for in April Long Island had few vacationers.
     In a buzz of excitement he had showered, changed his shirt and tie, and dressed again in his gray worsted suit, wishing now
     that he had taken the time to go by the Summerfield Hotel, to pack extra suits and slacks. Maybe he would drive in and give
     Mr. Gray the full poop in a day or so and pick up some clothes. This assignment was likely to take longer than an overnight
     stay.
    Myra had changed from her white lab coat to a green spring frock that slithered against the curves of her body.
    “Is this what the well-dressed Head of Research wears to dinner?” he asked.
    “It’s what this one wears,” Myra answered.