Canarsie. The Scorpion rides again!"

Marshall looked at his watch. "It's only a little after one," he said. "We can talk to the mother before the boy comes home."

"Right," said Stevenson, getting to his feet.

V

Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn was a short, roundish, pleasant-faced woman in a flower-pattern apron. She looked at the identification Marshall showed her, and smiled uncertainly. "FBI? I don't under—Well, come in."

"Thank you."

The living room was neat and airy. The four men settled themselves.

Marshall, uncomfortably, was the spokesman. "I'm going to have to explain this, Mrs. Clayhorn," he said, "and frankly, it isn't going to be easy. You see—" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Well, here's the situation. Someone in New York has a rather strange machine of some sort—well, it's sort of a heat machine, I suppose you could say—and we've traced it, through its use, to, uh—well, to your son."

"To Eddie?" Mrs. Clayhorn was looking very blank. "Eddie?"

"I take it," said Marshall, instead of answering, "that your son hasn't told you about this machine."

"Well, no. Well, of course not. I mean, he's just a little boy. I mean, how could he have any sort of machine? What is it, a blowtorch, something like that?"

"Not exactly," said Marshall. "Could you tell me, Mrs. Clayhorn, what your husband does for a living?"

"Well, he runs a grocery store. The Bohack's up on Flatbush Avenue."

"I see."

Lang took over the questioning. "Are there any other persons living here, Mrs. Clayhorn? Any boarders?"

"No, there's only the three of us."

"Well, is Eddie interested in anything of a, well, a scientific nature? In school, perhaps?"

"Oh, Lord, no. He hasn't had any real science subjects yet. He's only in the fifth grade. His best subject is history, but that's because he likes to read, and history is all reading. He got that from me, I read all the time."

"He doesn't have one of these junior chemistry 

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