"Dysprosium, Sodium and Molybdenum, are you sure?" said Othello, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Prada and Harold.
"Absolutely," declared Prada, "OK, there were other hits for the numbers, but when you add in the chemistry book, this has to be it."
"Well, it could be, I guess." acknowledged Othello, "I haven't found anything even remotely pertinent on Emerald's computer, so maybe this is the direction he wants us to go in. Sodium and Molybdenum, I've heard of but Dysprosium?"
"Should we google them too?" Asked Harold, brightly. He had been mightily impressed with this instant knowledge-giver and was keen to see it in action again.
"We could," said Othello, "but, I'm thinking the answer might be in front of us." He picked up the chemistry textbook from Emerald's apartment.
"Now, let's see..." He flipped open the book and turned to the inevitable reproduction of the Periodic Table of the Elements. The others leaned in to get a good look at what he was doing. With the combined stares of several people boring into him, Othello ran his eyes over the chart, looking for the three elements. Maybe Emerald had written something or left some other clue. The page, however, was as clean as the day the book was printed.
"Nothing here," murmured Othello, and began to turn the page.
"Wait a minute!" said Teatime, excitedly. "Go back to the chart." Othello did so.
"Look at the chemical names for those three elements!"
"Dy, Na, Mo!" breathed Othello, "Well I'll be.."
"Dynamo?" asked India, who had mentally been wishing Harold back to the Basement as hard as she could ever since he had entered the room and – just to be annoying – had deliberately stood right next to her.
"Does that mean something to you?" asked Prada.
"It's the name of an OGS project that was discontinued years ago."
"What was the project about?"
"That I don't exactly know, but I think I know someone who does."
"This is Peck," the Private Investigator's smooth voice reeked of culture and a private education.
"Go on." Mr Teeth had had a long day and had just exhausted himself at the gym. His skin still tingled from the pounding the masseur had inflicted upon it, but he was wide awake now and his attention was riveted to the telephone.
"My associates have traced the vehicle your boy was seen getting into. It belongs to a company called "Aunt Aggie's."
"Yes, they used to make cheesecake apparently. Used to – the company no longer exists."
"And yet they own a car?"
"Did you get an address?"
"Naturally." The temperature of Peck's voice dropped a few degrees at this slightest of hints that he had been less than completely efficient.
"Let me get a pen."
When the call was over, Mr Teeth stared thoughtfully at the slip of paper containing his barely legible scrawl. He could send Peck over there, he supposed, but he was curious now. Aunt Aggie's must be a front, but for what? It would be very interesting to find out. He yawned suddenly. Whatever it was, though, would have to wait till the next morning: Mr Teeth was beat.
Othello put down the phone. "Ok, it's all set. Reverend Box will meet with us tomorrow."
"Reverend Box?" asked Mercury, who had just joined the others. "The Reverend Box?"
"Who's Reverend Box?" asked India, "And why would he know about Dynamo?"
"Box used to be an agent," explained Mercury, "but he retired from active duty."
"And became a preacher?" said Prada.
"In a manner of speaking," replied Mercury. "He's not actually an ordained minister, but he's built himself a little church out in the desert."
"I can't imagine he'd have a very big congregation out there." Said Prada.
"He doesn't." said Mercury, "In fact, no-one actually goes to his church – unless you count the sheep."
"Sheep? In the desert?" cried India, "Wouldn't they die of thirst?"
"According to Box, the Gods provide for them."
"Plus the fact he's got a fairly decent well in back of his place." added Othello, drily.
"Hold on a minute," said Prada, "You said he said the Gods provide? The Gods, plural?"
"Yeah," sighed Mercury, "That's why he had to retire: he started telling everyone that the Gods of Ancient Greece were back and were demanding worship."
"Oh, great," groaned Prada, "So now our most reliable source of information is a nut-job. This just gets better!"