“Why don’t you work elsewhere?”

The old man looked at Isaac Bell. A strange light shone in his eyes as if he were staring so deeply inward that he could not quite see what was in front of him. “Edison bankrupted me. I had debts I could never repay. Edison bought them up. I owe him. I am forced to work here.”

“Why would Mr. Edison want you to work on something that doesn’t work?”

“Don’t you understand?” the old man railed, and Bell wondered about the man’s sanity. “He keeps me from inventing things that would put him out of business. He stole my greatest invention, and now he makes sure I will never invent another.”

“What invention?” Bell asked gently, feeling sorrow for the man’s distress.

“I invented an inexpensive gramophone. Edison copied it—poorly, shabbily. Mine was better, but he undercut the price and inundated the market with cheap copies. He named his ‘phonograph.’ People fell for it—people are such fools—and bought the less expensive one. He drove me out of business.”

“When was this?” asked Bell.

“Long, long ago.” His face worked, contorted, and he shouted, “Mine was a beautiful machine. He is a monster.”

The door flew open. The functionary had returned with a heavyset bruiser whose coat bulged with saps and a pistol. “O.K., mister, out of here,” he ordered, and took Bell’s arm.

The tall detective turned eyes on him as bleak as an ice field and said, very softly, “Don’t.”

The bruiser let go.

“Take me back to Mr. Edison.”

THOMAS EDISON WAS NOT SMILING when Isaac walked into the soundproof recording room, and Clyde Lynds’s normally cheery countenance had hardened into one tight-lipped with anger.

“There you are, Mr. Bell. We were just finishing up our discussion. Clyde, I look forward to hearing back from you as soon as you’ve had the opportunity to speak with your lawyer. Good day, gentlemen.”

The shadow of a grin crossed Clyde’s face, and he scrawled on his sketch pad, Good day.

“Would you leave your drawings with me?” Edison asked. “Let me peruse them at my leisure.”

To Isaac Bell’s surprise, Clyde handed them over.

He was unusually quiet on the trolley to Newark. Bell waited until they boarded a train for Pennsylvania Station to ask, “What did Mr. Edison think of your machine?”

“I believe he thinks that it is very, very valuable. Of course he didn’t say that.”

“What did he say?”

“In exchange for providing a laboratory, he demands complete control of the patent, not just license to manufacture it. In other words, he would own it.”

“Those are harsh terms.”

Clyde grinned. “I’m taking them as a genuine vote of confidence. If a man as smart as Thomas Edison wants to steal it, Talking Pictures must be worth a fortune.”