“A welcher named Olin Whaley!” Turbot said in an aggrieved tone. “He borrowed that ten spot from me and never paid me back I Why? Do you know him?”
“No, but I’d like to meet him.”
“You and me both, pal!” Turbot grumbled. “I been tryin’ to trace the guy for the last week, but it looks like he blew town!”
Turbot’s remarks fitted in so well with Moose Wixman’s story that Tom felt the man was probably telling the truth. The young inventor agreed to give back the jacket.
“What’s your address?” Tom asked. After writing it down, he added, “When can I catch you at home?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m goin’ out o’ town on a truck-drivin’ job over the week end.
Won’t be back till suppertime Monday. But you could leave it with my landlady.”
“Okay. I’ll do that,” Tom promised.
He hung up, then telephoned Harlan Ames and gave him a complete report on the conversation. “Turbot claims to know nothing about Whaley, except that he’s seen him around the freight yard,” Tom said. “Might be a good idea to check on this guy, though, Harlan.”
“I’ll do that, Tom, and furthermore, I’ll have a 142 COSMIC ASTRONAUTS
couple of my security boys deliver the jacket, in case Turbot’s planning any funny stuff.”
“But-” Tom started to argue.
“No need to take any chances,” Ames insisted. “I’ll find out all about Alf Turbot, and let you know later.”
“Swell! Any news, Harlan, about the Sea Charger or Li Ching?”
“Not a word. Both have vanished. Too bad.”
“I haven’t given up hope,” Tom replied, then said good-by.
Four o’clock Monday afternoon Sandy and Phyl called for Tom and Bud at Swift Enterprises. Phyl was driving her newly repaired white convertible.
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