Occasion ... for Disaster 7 – Janifer · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Occasion ... for Disaster 7Chapter 7
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Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Occasion ... for Disaster 7
Chapter 7
JaniferEnglish
Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he'd never seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was talking to him about his report. It was, Malone told himself heavily, a hell of a life.
"Now, Malone," Burris said in a kindly voice, "this is a very interesting report."
"Yes, sir," Malone said automatically.
"A very interesting report indeed, Kenneth," Burris went on, positively bursting with good-fellowship.
"Thank you, sir," Malone said dully.
Burris beamed a little more. "You've done a fine job," he said, "a really fine job. Hardly on the job any time at all, and here you've managed to get all three of the culprits responsible."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said in sudden panic. "That isn't what I said."
"No?" Burris said, looking a little surprised.
"Not at all," Malone said. "I don't think those three spies have anything to do with this at all. Not a thing."
There was a brief silence, during which Burris' surprise seemed to expand like a gas and fill the room. "But they've confessed," he said at last. "Their job was to try and get information, and also to disrupt our own work here."
"I know all that," Malone said. "But--"
Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated. It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone," Burris said slowly, "just what's bothering you? Don't you think those men are spies? Is that it?"
"Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused.
"You know," Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men you wrote this report about."
Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had five fingers. "Sure they are," he said. "They're spies, all right. And they're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causing all the confusion around here."
"Well, of course they're not," Burris said, the beam of kindliness coming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them."
"I mean," Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before I caught them."
"Then why," Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?"
"Because they're spies," Malone said. "Besides, I didn't."
"Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize he was still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone felt sad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on except the conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what was happening to that.
"Didn't arrest them," he said. "Tom Boyd did."
"Acting," Burris pointed out gently, "under your orders, Kenneth."
It was the second time Burris had called him Kenneth, Malone realized. It started a small warning bell in the back of his mind. When Burris called him by his first name, Burris was feeling paternal and kindly. And that, Malone thought determinedly, boded Kenneth J. Malone very little good indeed.
"He was under my orders to arrest them because they were spies," he said at last. He wondered if the sentence made any real sense, but shrugged his shoulders and plunged on. "But they're not the real spies," he said. "Not the ones everybody's been looking for."
"Kenneth," Burris said, his voice positively dripping with what Malone thought of as the heavy, Grade A, Government-inspected cream of human kindness, "all the confusion with the computer-secretaries has stopped. Everything is running fine in that department."
"But--" Malone began.
"The technicians," Burris said, hypnotized by this poem of beauty, "aren't making any more mistakes. The information is flowing through beautifully. It's a pleasure to see their reports. Believe me, Kenneth--"
"Call me Chief," Malone said wearily.
Burris blinked. "What?" he said. "Oh. Ha. Indeed. Very well, then: Malone, what more proof do you want?"
"Is that proof?" Malone said. "The spies didn't even confess to that. They--"
"Of course they didn't, Malone," Burris said.
"Of course?" Malone said weakly.
"Look at their confessions," Burris said. "Just look at them, in black and white." He reached for a sheaf of papers and pushed them across the desk. Malone looked at them. They were indeed, he told himself, in black and white. There was no arguing with that. None at all.
"Well?" Burris said after a second.
"I don't see anything about computer-secretaries," Malone said.
"The Russians," Burris began slowly, "are not stupid, Malone. You believe that, don't you?"
"Of course I believe it," Malone said. "Otherwise we wouldn't need an FBI."
Burris frowned. "There are still domestic cases," he said. "Like juvenile delinquents stealing cars inter-state, for instance. If you remember." He paused, then went on: "But the fact remains: Russians are not stupid. Not by a long shot."
"All right," Malone said agreeably.
"Do you really think, then," Burris said instantly, "that a spy ring could be as utterly inefficient as the one described in those confessions?"
"Lots of people are inefficient," Malone said.
"Not spies," Burris said with decision. "Do you really believe that the Russians would send over a bunch of operatives as clodheaded as these are pretending to be?"
"People make mistakes," Malone said weakly.
"Russian spies," Burris said, "do not make mistakes. Or, anyhow, we can't depend on it. We have to depend on the fact that they're operating at peak efficiency, Malone. Peak."
Malone nearly asked: "Where?" but controlled himself at the last minute. Instead, he said: "But the confessions are right there. And, according to the confessions--"
"Do you really believe," Burris said, "that a trio of Soviet agents would confess everything as easily as all that if they didn't intend to get something out of it? Such as, for instance, covering up their methods of doing damage? And do you really believe--"
Malone began to feel as if he were involved in the Athanasian Creed. "I don't think the spies are the real spies," he said stubbornly. "I mean the spies we're all looking for."
"Do you mean to stand there and tell me," Burris went on inexorably, "that you take the word of spies when they tell you about their own activities?"
"Their confessions--"
"Spies can lie, Malone," Burris said gently. "As a matter of fact, they usually do. We have come to depend on it as one of the facts of life."
"But Queen Elizabeth," Malone said stubbornly, "told me they weren't lying." As he finished the sentence, he suddenly realized what it sounded like. "You know Queen Elizabeth," he said chummily.
"The Virgin Queen," Burris said helpfully.
"I wouldn't know," Malone said, feeling uncomfortable. "I mean Rose Thompson. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth and I just said it that way because--"
"It's all right, Malone," Burris said softly. "I know who you mean."
"Well, then," Malone said. "If Queen Elizabeth says the spies aren't lying, then--"
"Then nothing," Burris said flatly. "Miss Rose Thompson is a nice, sweet, little old lady. I admit that."
"And she's been a lot of help," Malone said.
"I admit that, too," Burris said. "But she is also somewhat battier, Malone, than the entire Order Chiroptera, including Count Dracula and all his happy friends."
"She only thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said defensively.
"That," Burris said, "is a large sort of only. Malone, you've got to look at the facts sensibly. Square in the face."
Malone pictured a lot of facts going by with square faces. He didn't like the picture. "All right," he said.
"Things are going wrong in the Congressional computer-secretaries," Burris said. "So I assign you to the case. You come back to me with three spies, and the trouble stops. And what other information have you got?"
"Plenty," Malone said, and stopped for thought. There was a long pause.
"All this business about mysterious psionic faculties," Burris said, "comes direct from the testimony of that sweet little old twitch. Which she is. Dr. O'Connor, for instance, has told you in so many words that there's no such thing as this mysterious force. And if you don't want to take the word of the nation's foremost authority, there's this character from the Psychical Research Society--Carter, or whatever his name is. Carter told you he'd never heard of such a thing."
"But that doesn't mean there isn't such a thing," Malone said.
"Even your own star witness," Burris said, "even the Queen herself, told you it couldn't be done."
"Nevertheless--" Malone began. But he felt puzzled. There was no way, he decided, to finish a sentence that started with nevertheless. It was the wrong kind of word.
"What are you trying to do?" Burris said. "Beat your head against a stone wall?"
Malone realized that that was just what he felt like. Of course, Burris thought the stone wall was his psionic theory. Malone knew that the stone wall was Andrew J. Burris. But it didn't matter, he thought confusedly. Where there's a stone, there's a way.
"I feel," he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head."
"And I don't blame you," Burris said in an understanding tone. "Here you are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What real evidence is there, Malone, that these three spies ... these three comic-opera spies--are innocent?"
"What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now, listen, Chief--"
"Don't call me Chief," Burris murmured.
"Another five minutes," Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won't even call you."
"Malone!" Burris said.
Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said at last. "But isn't it just barely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals? Suppose you were a spy."
"All right," Burris said. "I'm a spy." Something in his tone made Malone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, was humoring him.
Is it possible, Malone asked himself, that I am the one who is as a little child?
Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russian spies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed.
He stopped thinking about sleep in a hurry, and got back to the business at hand. "If you were a spy," he said, "and you knew that a lot of other spies had been arrested and charged with the crimes you were committing, what would you do?"
Burris appeared to think deeply. "I would celebrate," he said at last, in a judicious tone.
"I mean, would you just go on with the same crimes?" Malone said.
"What are you talking about, Malone?" Burris said cautiously.
"If you knew we'd arrested Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch," Malone went on doggedly, "you'd lay off for a while, just to make us think we'd caught the right men. Doesn't that make sense?"
"Of course it makes sense," Burris said in what was almost a pitying tone. "But don't push it too far. Malone, I want you to know something."
Malone sighed. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"Contrary to popular opinion," Burris said, "I was not appointed Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just because I own a Hoover vacuum cleaner."
"Of course not," Malone said, feeling that something of the sort was called for.
"And I think you ought to know by now," Burris went on, "that I wouldn't fall for a trick like that any more than you would. There are obviously more members in this spy ring. Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch are just a start."
"Well, then--" Malone began.
"I'm not going to be taken in by what these three say," Burris said. "But now, Malone, we know what to look for. All we have to do is pretend to be taken in. Get it?"
"Sure," Malone said. "We pretend to be taken in. And in the meantime I can go on looking for--"
"We don't have to look for anything," Burris said calmly.
Malone took a deep breath. Somehow, he told himself, things were not working out very well. "But the other spies--"
"The next time they try anything," Burris said, "we'll be able to reach out and pick them up as easy as falling off a log."
"It's the wrong log!" Malone said.
Burris folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a second, frowning slightly like a psychiatrist. "Malone," he said at last, "I want you to listen to me. Calmly. Coolly. Collectedly."
Malone shrugged. "All right," he said. "I'm calm and cool."
"And collected," Burris added.
"That, too," Malone said vaguely.
"Malone," Burris began, "you've got to get rid of this idea that everything the FBI investigates these days is somehow linked with psionics. I know you've done a lot of work in that connection--"
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "There are those errors. How did the technicians feed the wrong data into the machines?"
"Errors do happen," Burris said. "If I slip on a banana peel, do I blame psionics? Do I even blame the United Fruit Growers? I do not, Malone. Instead, I tell myself that errors do happen. All the time."
"I have?" Burris said with a look of complete surprise.
"Sure," Malone said. He leaned forward across the desk. "If the errors were just ordinary accidental errors, then how were the spies responsible? And why did they stop after the spies were arrested? When you slip on a banana peel, does it matter whether or not the United Fruit Growers are out on strike?"
"Oh," Burris said.
"You see?" Malone said. "You've gone and contradicted yourself." He felt victorious, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the horrible sensation that someone was about to come up behind him and hit him on the head with a wet sock full of old sand.
A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to give you the analysis report."
That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, he told himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. It was a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he had heard didn't really make any sense. "Analysis report?" he said.
"On the water cooler," Burris explained cheerfully.
"There is an analysis report on a water cooler," Malone said. "Everything now becomes as clear as crystal." He heard his voice begin to rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was a Siberian spy in disguise," he said, trying to make himself sound less hysterical.
"No, no," Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water in it, Malone. The water in it."
"No Siberian spy," Malone said with decision, "could disguise himself as the water in a water cooler."
"I didn't say that," Burris went on. "But what do you think was in that water cooler, Malone?"
"Water," Malone said. "Cool water."
"Congratulations," Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reserved for announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "You are just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per cent correct."
"The rest of the water," Malone hazarded, "was warm?"
"The rest of the water," Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from the usual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs."
The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knew perfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years, a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxious researchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous at normal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Some were relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any of the more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, by injection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other way conceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common. They affected the mental functioning--what seemed to be the personality itself--of the person dosed with them.
The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One might make a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on that one had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats running from surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Another drug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad with power. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almost waving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy in the presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormally suspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point where all decisions were made completely at random.
The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn't need the file to see what was coming. He asked the question anyhow, just for the record: "What particular psychodrug was this one?"
"One of the judgment-warpers," Burris said. "Haenlingen's Mixture; it's more or less a new development, but the Russians probably know as much about it as we do. In large doses, the drug affects even the automatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out of whack; but it isn't usually used in killing amounts."
"And in the water cooler?" Malone asked.
"There wasn't much of it," Burris said, "but there was enough. The technicians could be depended on to make a great many more mistakes than usual--just how many we can't determine, but the order of magnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water each one of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of getting anything like a precise determination of that now."
"Oh," Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felt hopeless.
"Just about," Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch's job to change the cooler jug--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "I think I see a hole in that."
"Really?" Burris said. He frowned slightly.
Malone nodded. "Sure," he said. "If any of the spies drank the water--their judgment would be warped, too, wouldn't it?"
"So they didn't drink the water," Burris said easily.
"How can we be sure?" Malone asked.
Burris shrugged. "Why do we have to be?" he said. "Malone, you've got to stop pressing so hard on this."
"But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a little conspicuous," Malone said. "After a while, anyhow."
Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth," he said. "Do you know what a janitor is?"
"Don't baby me," Malone snapped.
Burris shrugged. "A janitor doesn't work in the office with the men," he said. "He can drink out of a faucet in the broom closet--or wherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would think it odd."
Malone said: "But--" and stopped and thought it over. "All right," he went on at last. "But I still insist--"
"Now, Kenneth," Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admit that psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine work with it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go around blaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much sense it makes."
"I don't," Malone said, injured. "But--"
"But you do," Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magic were loose in the world. As though nothing were dependable any more."
"It's not magic," Malone said.
"But it is," Burris told him, "when you use it as an explanation for anything and everything." He paused, "Kenneth," he said in a more kindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've been working. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallant fight against this country's enemies."
Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing," he said at last. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed. Burris' expression was still kindly and concerned.
"Oh, but it was," Burris said. "Something, I mean. You've been working very hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need a rest, Kenneth. A nice rest."
"I do not," Malone said indignantly.
"A lovely rest," Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful and quiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully about peaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. A nice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation."
Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last time Burris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turned out to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of the teleporting delinquents.
"Nice?" Malone said. "Peaceful? Lovely? Wonderful? I can see it now."
"What do you mean, Malone?" Burris said.
"What am I going to get?" Malone said. "A nice easy job like arresting all the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?"
Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. I mean it. You've earned a vacation, Kenneth, a real vacation. A nice, peaceful--"
"You're one of my best agents," Burris said. "I might almost say you're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've been overworking you."
"But--"
"Now, now," Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have been overworking you, Kenneth, and I'm sorry. I want to make amends."
"A what?" Malone said, feeling confused again.
"Amends," Burris said. "I want to do something for you."
Malone thought about that for a second. Burris was well-meaning, all right, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very much as if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word.
The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home." Or possibly even "insane asylum."
"I don't want to stop work," he said grimly. "Really, I don't."
"You'll have lots of time to yourself," Burns said in a wheedling tone.
Malone nodded. "Sure I will," he said. "Until they come and put me in a wet pack."
Burris blinked, but recovered gamely. "You don't have to go swimming," he said, "if you don't want to go swimming. Up in the mountains, for instance--"
"Where there are nice big guards to watch everything," Malone said. "And nuts."
"Guides," Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take things easy."
"All locked up," Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it."
"If you want to go out," Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Just do whatever you feel like doing."
Malone sighed. "O.K.," he said. "When do the men in the white coats arrive?"
"White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth," he said, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is my way of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation--going anywhere you want to go, doing anything you want to do."
"Avacado," Malone muttered at random.
Burris stared. "What?"
"Nothing," Malone said shamefacedly. "An old song. It runs through my mind. And when you said that about going where I want to go--"
"An old song with avacados in it?" Burris said.
Malone cleared his throat and burst into shy and slightly hoarse song.
"Avacado go where you go," he piped feebly, "do what you do--"
"Oh," Burris said. "Oh, my."
"Sorry," Malone muttered. He took a breath and waited. A second passed.
"Well, Kenneth," Burris said at last, with an attempt at heartiness, "you can do anything you like. The mountains. The seashore. Hawaii. The Riviera. Just go and forget all about gangsters, spies, counter-espionage, kidnapings, mad telepaths, juvenile teleports and anything else like that."
"You forgot water coolers," Malone said.
Burris nodded. "And water coolers," he said, "by all means. Forget about FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax."
It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case to finish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted to argue about it some more, but he was fresh out of arguments.
And besides, the idea of being able to forget all about Andrew J. Burris for a little while was almost insidious. Malone liked it more the more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots and drawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life could be, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else to say. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and another guaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would be expected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place he could teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane or a train back from wherever he went.
"And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down the hall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think of looking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much of that. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was in full agreement with him.
"After all," Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water--and it looks like pretty solid proof to me, Ken."
"It's not proof of anything," Malone said sourly.
"Sure it is," Boyd said. "Why would anybody put it there otherwise?"
Malone shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "But I'm not surprised you like Burris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?"
"Not very," Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I can cope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go and complicate it, Ken. None at all."
Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from the Justice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowly and sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where he was going, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that he was going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a rest cure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may result in your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a good thing.
Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Not quite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignation and go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he told himself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by any means. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectly well, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father's reputation. And besides, he liked being an FBI agent. It had glamour. It had standing.
It had everything. It even had trouble.
Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing. Where, he asked himself, was he going?
He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparently suspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even sounded like a good possibility.
After all, what evidence did he have for his psionic theory? Her Majesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy, true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn't it possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolley of her one-track psychosis?
At that thought a quick wave of guilt swept through him. Her Majesty, after all, might be reading his mind from Yucca Flats, where she had returned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if he had committed high, middle and low treason all in one great big package, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately.
"Nevertheless," he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started over again. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theory certainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively.
The big question was whether or not he wanted to consider it objectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continued packing slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the last suitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for a vacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts, beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. But nothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair, found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes while his mind began to wander.
Her Majesty, he was quite certain, wouldn't lie purposely. Granted, she had misled him now and again, but even when she felt misleading necessary she hadn't lied; she had merely juggled the truth a little. And Malone was sure she would continue to tell him the truth as she knew it.
Of course, that was the stopper: as she knew it. And she might have developed another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burris was very probably right.
But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malone thought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting in various minds. These little pops had an effect, or an apparent effect: they made people change their minds about doing one thing or another.
And that meant--Malone stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth.
Wasn't it possible that just such a burst of energy had made Burris call him off the case?
It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malone felt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his own mind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd have to check every decision he made to be sure that it was not capricious; now he made a resolve that he'd kept his mental faculties on a perpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was more than barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened. But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatism now, he told himself grimly.
Now that everything was narrowing down so nicely, anyhow, he thought. There were only two real possibilities. Malone numbered them in his mind:
1. Her Majesty has developed a new delusion. In this case, he thought, Burris was perfectly right. I can enjoy a month of free vacation.
2. Her Majesty is no nuttier than before. If this is the case, he thought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and Kenneth J. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom of it.
Therefore, he summed up, everything now hinged on whether or not Her Majesty was unhinged.
That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after a second. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stood up. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted number of the FBI.
The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelham here," it said in the tones of a discouraged horse.
"Trouble?" Pelham said. It was obvious that he expected trouble, and always had, and probably always would.
"Nope," Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out for vacation. You can tell the Chief I'm going to take off for Las Vegas. I'm taking his advice, tell him; I'm going to carouse and throw my money away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay out late. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I get there, just in case something comes up."
"O.K.," Pelham said unhappily. "I'll check you out." He tried a smile, but it looked more like the blank expression on the face of a local corpse. "Have fun," he said.
"Thanks," Malone said. "I'll try."
But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as he broke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in no uncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure.
"Nevertheless," Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started for the suitcase and the door.
