The Impossible Clue by Sarah Rubin Read Free Book Online Page B

times we got honked at. Twenty-two. Not even close to the record.
    Dad turned across traffic (twenty-three) and drove up between the two stone pillars that flanked the driveway. A large metal gate blocked us from driving any further. In fact, the whole area around the building was fenced off. A surveillance camera pointed at the driver-side door. Dad leant out of his open window and pressed the call button.
    â€˜Yes?’ The voice was covered with static.
    â€˜Arthur Jones. Philadelphia Daily News .’
    There was a long and official pause.
    â€˜I’m sorry Mr Jones. Your name isn’t on the list.’
    I leant across my father’s lap and stuck my face in the camera. ‘Try Alice Jones,’ I said.
    Another pause. And then without a word the large gate swung open and we drove inside.
    My father was quiet as we looked for a parking space. The kind of quiet a father gets when he’s been shown up by his pre-teen daughter. But by the time he pulled into a spot near the door, he was over it. Nothing gets Dad down for long when he’s on the trail of a good story. He climbed out of the car and whistled. ‘Now that is an office.’
    I had to agree. Delgado Industries was made of stone and ninety-degree angles. It looked like it had been designed on an Etch A Sketch. Maybe it wasn’t everyone’s style, but to me it was geometric perfection.
    The doors to Delgado Industries were as large and imposing as the rest of the building. We waited for someone inside the complex to unlock the doors. There was a soft click and we pushed them open. Mr Delgado ran a tight ship. I wondered how many different scientists worked there, and how many different experiments were going on at that very moment. For all I knew, someone was developing the next generation of superconductors less than thirty metres away from where I stood. The thought made my skin tingle.
    My dad and I stepped into a spacious vestibule, at least two storeys high. Long rectangles of glass chequered the outer walls, sending stripes of early-morning sun across the floor. There were two silver elevators behind the main reception desk. They matched the silver flecks in the greyfloor tiles. I bet someone did that on purpose. A hallway led out of the vestibule to my right, but it was blocked by waist-level turnstiles, the kind you get in subway and train stations but much more advanced. The busy hum of people filled the air. A lot of them wore lab coats, others suits, and there were a few in the unmistakable navy-blue uniforms of a private security firm, walkie-talkies strapped conspicuously to their utility belts. Everyone had a name badge.
    Dad whistled again, craning his head back as we made our way to the reception desk.
    â€˜OK, Alice,’ he said. His nose twitched like he could physically sniff out the story. He checked that his notebook was in his pocket and his pencil was behind his ear. ‘Let me do the talking.’
    But Dad never got the chance. As we got to the desk, one of the silver elevators opened. Mr Delgado’s assistant, and possible android, stepped out to greet us.
    â€˜Ah, Alice. Mr Delgado is so sorry he couldn’t be here to meet you personally.’ He held out his hand. I shook it. He was one of those people who sandwiched your hand between his palms. I pulled back quickly and wiped my hand on the back of my shirt. It looked like Dad and I were going to get special treatment. As far as he was concerned, I was going to keep Delgado Industries on the front page of every newspaper in town. Mr Delgado’s assistant was there to make sure Dad and I only saw its good side.
    â€˜I’m Andrew, Mr Delgado’s Personal Secretary, and I willbe supervising your tour of the facility.’ He put emphasis on the words ‘Personal’ and ‘Secretary’ as if they were capitalized, like a royal title.
    Dad cleared his throat.
    â€˜And Mr Jones, so nice of you to join us too.’