The Scotsman shrugged. “Very well. As unlikely as flying saucers. Put it that way.
On the other hand, grant, for a second, it’s true. What then?”
“That’s what I’d really like to discuss.” McIntosh put away his key and folded his hands across his chest. “All right. We’ll discuss it. I will. In the first place, any such an underground outfit actually doing any such thing wouldn’t hesitate for a second to murder this Bogan lad, or the whole Yates family, or any hundred other people.”
“Obviously.”
“Second, such an outfit actually might use the Yates house. It’s off the beaten track.
No other houses near. Rundown. Surrounded by big trees. Not conspicuous. And protected.
Those Yateses would be about the last persons anyone would suspect of doing anything criminal or haboring criminals. Mother a cripple. Beautiful young daughter — Orange Bowl Queen. Normal Americans. Two boarders. And a man like Ellings, if he were an enemy agent, would be ideal because he’s got such a long, hardworking, churchgoing, commonplace history.”
“Check.”
“Third, the whole routine you’re trying to sell me would therefore have worked — except this Bogan lad had a lot of cockeyed hobbies. Like picking locks. Like housework.
And he’s a physics graduate student, so when he sees metal, he’s curious. He has, besides, a hobby of raising tropical fish and water lilies. When he can’t get a satisfactory answer from us, he takes on another hobby.”