Four hours later Frank closed another college yearbook and tossed it onto the long oak table in front of him and frowned. The table groaned from the heavy load of yearbooks, college newspaper archival collections, college departmental surveys … anything and everything which might give he and Turner an image of their dead Thomas Watson.
Nothing.
A complete zero. Full stop. Zilch. Nada. Nyet.
It looked as if Thomas Watson never existed. Everything they could think of which might give them a glimpse of the true Thomas Watson turned out to be futile. Futile and frustrating. But more than that. It was becoming one of those puzzling conundrums which worked on Frank’s nerves. The hulking mass of intellect was a man who preferred hard data. He was a Yes or No man. It either existed … or it didn
