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."