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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