the insults," Malone said. "How about the spies?"
"Well," Boyd said, a trifle reluctantly, "they've been working asjanitors and maintenance men, and of course we've made sure theyhaven't been able to get their hands on any really valuableinformation."
"So they've suddenly turned into criminal masterminds," Malone said."After being under careful surveillance for years--"
"Well, it's possible," Boyd said defensively.
"Almost anything is possible," Malone said.
"Some things," Boyd said carefully, "are more possible than others."
"Thank you, Charles W. Aristotle," Malone said. "I hope you realizewhat you've done, picking up those three men. We might have been ableto get some good lines on them, if you'd left them where they were."
There is an old story about a general who went on an inspection tourof the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously upout of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper's bullet. He turnedto a nearby sergeant and bellowed: "Get that sniper!"
"Oh, we've got him spotted, sir," the sergeant said. "He's been therefor six days now."
"Well, then," the general said, "why don't you blast him out ofthere?"
"Well, sir, it's this way," the sergeant explained. "He's fired aboutsixty rounds since he's been out there, and he hasn't hit anythingyet. We're afraid if we get rid of him they'll put up somebody who_can_ shoot."
This was standard FBI policy when dealing with minor spies. A greatmany had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries.But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, aslong as they're allowed to think they haven't been spotted, they maylead the way to other spies or spy networks.
"I thought it was worth the risk," Boyd said. "After all, if they havesomething to do with the case--"
"But they don't," Malone said.
Boyd exploded, "Let me find out for myself, will you? You're spoilingall the fun."
"Well, anyhow," Malone said, "they don't."
"You can't afford to take any chances," Boyd said. "After all, when Ithink about William Logan, I tell myself we'd better take care ofevery lead."
"Well," Malone said finally, "you may be right. And then again, youmay be normally wrong."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Boyd said.
"How should I know?" Malone said "I'm too busy to go around and aroundlike this. But since you've picked up the spies, I suppose it won't doany harm to find out if they know anything."
Boyd snorted again. "Thank you," he said, "for your kind permission."
"I'll be right down," Malone said.
"I'll be waiting," Boyd said. "In Interrogation Room 7. You'llrecognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange SouthAmerican poison, hitherto unknown to science, in my oesophagus."
"Very funny," Malone said. "Don't give up the ship."
* * * * *
Boyd switched off without a word. Malone shrugged at the blank screenand pushed his own switch. Then he turned slowly back to Her Majesty,who was standing, waiting patiently, at the opposite side of the desk.Interference, he thought, located around him--
"Why, yes," she said. "That's exactly what I did say."
Malone blinked. "Your Majesty," he said, "would you mind terribly if Iasked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see themin my mind, but it's simpler for me to do things the normal way, justnow."
"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I do agree that matters are confusedenough already. Please go on."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Malone said. "Well, then. Do you mean that_I'm_ the one causing all this ... mental static?"
"Oh, no," she said. "Not at all. It's definitely coming from somewhereelse, and it's beamed at you, or beamed around you."
"But--"
"It's just that I can only pick it up when I'm tuned to your mind,"she said.
"Like now?" Malone said.
She shook her head. "Right now," she said, "there isn't any. It onlyhappens every once in a while--every so often, and not continuously."
"Does it happen at regular intervals?" Malone said.
"Not as far as I've been able to tell," Her Majesty said. "It just ...happens, that's all. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason toit. Except that it did start when you were assigned to this case."
"Lovely," Malone said. "And what is it supposed to mean?"
"Interference," she said. "Static. Jumble. That's all it means. I justdon't know any more than that, Sir Kenneth; I've never experiencedanything like it in my life. It really does disturb me."
That, Malone told himself, he could believe. It must be an experience,he told himself, like having someone you were looking at suddenlydissolve into a jumble of meaningless shapes and lights.
"That's a very good analogy," Her Majesty said. "If you'll pardon mespeaking before you've voiced your thought--"
"Not at all," Malone said. "Go right ahead."
"Well, then," Her Majesty said. "The analogy you use is a good one.It's just as disturbing and as meaningless as that."
"And you don't know what's causing it?" Malone said.
"I don't know," she said.
"Nor what the purpose of it is?" he said.
Her Majesty shook her head slowly. "Sir Kenneth," she said, "I don'teven know whether or not there _is_ any purpose."
Malone sighed deeply. Nothing in the case seemed to make any sense. Itwasn't that there were no clues, or no information for him to workwith. There were a lot of clues, and there was a lot of information.But nothing seemed to link up with anything else. Every new fact was abright, shiny arrow pointing nowhere in particular.
"Well, then--" he started.
The intercom buzzed. Malone jabbed ferociously at the button. "Yes,"he said.
"The ghosts are here," the agent-in-charge's voice said.
Malone blinked. "What?" he said.
"You said you were going to get some ghosts," the agent-in-chargesaid. "From the Psychical Research Society, in a couple of largebundles And they're here now. Want me to exorcise 'em for you?"
"No," Malone said wearily. "Just send them in to join the crowd. Gota messenger?"
"I'll send them down," the agent-in-charge said. "About one minute."
Malone nodded, realized the man couldn't see him, said: "Fine," andswitched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour hadpassed since he had left the Psychical Research Society offices. That,he told himself, was efficiency.
Not that the books would mean anything, he thought. They would justtake their places at the end of the long row of meaningless,disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn't an FBIagent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. Hewas going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of ahermit. He would drink goat's milk and eat old shoes or something, andwhenever another human being came near he would run away and hide.They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles formagazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.
And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the wholecircle would start all over again.
"Now, now, Sir Kenneth," Queen Elizabeth said. "Things aren't quitethat bad."
"Oh, yes, they are," Malone said. "They're even worse."
"I'm sure we can find an answer to all your questions," Her Majestysaid.
"Sure," Malone said. "Even I can find an answer. But it isn't theright one."
"You can?" Her Majesty said.
"That's right," Malone said. "My answer is: To Hell with everything."
* * * * *
Malone's Washington offices didn't look any different. He sighed andput the two big packages from the Psychical Research Society down onhis desk, and then turned to Her Majesty.
"I wanted you to teleport along with me," he said, "because I needyour help."
"Yes," she said. "I know."
He blinked. "Oh. Sure you do. But let me go over the details."
Her Majesty waved a gracious hand. "If you like, Sir Kenneth," shesaid.
Malone nodded. "We're going on down to Interrogation Room 7 now," hesaid. "Next door to it, there's an observation room, with a one-waypanel in the wall. You'll be able to see us, but we won't be able tosee you."
"I really don't require an observation panel," Her Majesty said. "If Ienter your mind, I can see through your eyes--"
"Oh, sure," Malone said. "But the observation room was built for morenormal people--saving your presence, Your Majesty."
"Of course," she said.
"Now," Malone went on, "I want you to watch all three of the men we'regoing to bring in, and dig everything you can out of their minds."
"Everything?" she said.
"We don't know what might be useful," Malone said. "Anything you canfind. And if you want any questions asked--if there's anything youthink I ought to ask the men, or say to them--there's a nonvisionphone in the observation room. Just lift the receiver. Thatautomatically rings the one in the Interrogation Room and I'll pick itup. Understand?"
"Perfectly, Sir Kenneth," she said.
"O.K., then," Malone said. "Let's go." They headed for the door.Malone stopped as he opened it. "And by the way," he said.
"Yes?"
"If you get any more of those--disturbances, let me know."
"At once," Her Majesty promised.
They went on down the hall and took the elevator down to InterrogationRoom 7, on the lowest level. There was no particular reason forputting the Interrogation section down there, except that it tended tomake prisoners more nervous. And a nervous prisoner, Malone knew, wasvery possibly a confessing prisoner.
Malone ushered Her Majesty through the unmarked door of theobservation chamber, made sure that the panel and phone were inworking order, and went out. He stepped into Interrogation Room 7trying hard to look bored, businesslike and unbeatable. Boyd and fourother agents were already there, all standing around and talkingdesultorily in low tones. None of them looked as if they had ever hada moment's worry in their lives. It was all part of the sametechnique, of course, Malone thought. Make the prisoner feelresistance is useless, and you've practically got him working for you.
The prisoner was a hulking, flabby fat man in work coveralls. He hadblack hair that spilled all over his forehead, and tiny button eyes.He was the only man in the room who was sitting down, and that wasmeant to make him feel even more inferior and insecure. His hands wereclasped fatly in his lap, and he was staring down at them in aregretful manner. None of the FBI agents paid the slightest attentionto him. The general impression was that something really tough wascoming up, but that they were in no hurry for it. They were willing towait for the Third Degree, it seemed, until the blacksmith had done areally good job with the new spikes for the Iron Maiden.
The prisoner looked up apprehensively as Malone shut the door. Malonepaid no attention to him, and the prisoner unclasped his hands, rubbedthem on his coveralls and then reclasped them in his lap. His eyesfell again.
Boyd looked up, too. "Hello, Ken," he said. He tapped a sheaf ofpapers on the single table in the room. Malone went over and pickedthem up.
They were the abbreviated condensations of three dossiers. All threeof the men covered in the dossiers were naturalized citizens, but allhad come in us "political refugees"--from Hungary, fromCzechoslovakia, and from East Germany. Further checking had turned upthe fact that all three were actually Russians. They had been usingfalse names during their stay in the United States, but their realones were appended to the dossiers.
The fat one in the Interrogation Room was named Alexis Brubitsch. Theother two, who were presumably waiting separately in other rooms, wereIvan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. The collection sounded, toMalone, like a seedy musical-comedy firm of lawyers: Brubitsch,Borbitsch and Garbitsch. He could picture them dancing gaily across astage while the strains of music followed them, waving legal forms andtelephones and singing away.
Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to himnow, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him.
* * * * *
"This is the one who won't talk, eh?" Malone said, wondering if hesounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was astandard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows hadalready confessed.
"That's him," Boyd said.
"Hm-m-m," Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding betweenthe rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but hedidn't say anything.
"We didn't know whether we had to get this one to talk, too," Boydsaid. "What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought tohave a look at him." He sounded very bored. It was obvious from histone that the FBI didn't care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch neveropened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very shortlifetime.
"Well," Malone said, equally bored, "we might be able to get a fewcorroborative details."
Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him.
"Now, just look at him," Boyd said. "He certainly doesn't _look_ likethe head of a spy ring, does he?"
"Of course he doesn't," Malone said. "That's probably why the Russiansused him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob likethis. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man."
"I guess you're right," Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought wasoveracting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up tojerk at his collar.
"Who'd ever think," Malone said, "that he plotted those killings inRedstone--all three of them?"
"It is surprising," Boyd said.
"But, then," Malone said, "we know he did. There isn't any doubt ofthat."
Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinatingcolor, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it withinterest.
"Oh, sure," Boyd said. "We've got enough evidence from the other twoto send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to."
"More than enough," Malone agreed.
Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. Hislips moved silently.
"Tell me," Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man,"Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermindit all by yourself?"
Brubitsch's eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they'd been pulledby a string. "Me?" he said in a hoarse bass voice. "I know nothingabout this murder. What murder?"
There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to letBrubitsch know anything about that. "Oh, the ones you shot inRedstone," he said in an offhand way.
"The what?" Brubitsch said. "I shot people? Never."
"Oh, sure you did," Boyd said. "The others say you did."
Brubitsch's head seemed to sink into his neck. "Borbitsch andGarbitsch, they tell you about a murder? It is not true. Is a lie."
"Really?" Malone said. "We think it's true."
"Is a lie," Brubitsch said, his little eyes peering anxiously fromside to side. "Is not true," he went on hopefully. "I have alibi."
"You do?" Boyd said. "For what time?"
"For time when murder happened," Brubitsch said. "I was some placeelse."
"Well, then," Malone said, "how do you know when the murders weredone? They were kept out of the newspapers." That, he reflected, wasquite true, since the murders had never happened. But he watchedBrubitsch with a wary eye.
"I know nothing about time," Brubitsch said, jerking at his collar. "Idon't know when they happened."
"Then how can you have an alibi?" Boyd snapped.
"Because I didn't do them!" Brubitsch said tearfully. "If I didn't,then I _must_ have alibi!"
"You'd be surprised," Malone said. "Now, about these murders--"
"Was no murder, not by me," Brubitsch said firmly. "Was never anykilling of anybody, not even by accident."
"But your two friends say--" Boyd began.
"My two friends are not my friends," Brubitsch said firmly. "If theyt
ell you about murder and say it was me, they are no friends. I didnot murder anybody. I have alibi. I did not even murder anybody alittle bit. They are no friends. This is terrible."
"There," Malone said reflectively, "I agree with you. It's positivelyawful. And I think we might as well give it up. After all, we don'tneed your testimony. The other two are enough; they'll get maybe tenyears apiece, but you're going to get the chair."
"I will not sit down," Brubitsch said firmly. "I am innocent. I aminnocent like a small child. Does a small child commit a murder? It isridiculous."
* * * * *
Boyd picked up his cue with ease. "You might as well give us your sideof the story, then," he said easily. "If you didn't commit anymurders--"
"I am a small child," Brubitsch announced.
"O.K.," Boyd said. "But if you didn't commit any murders, just what_have_ you been doing since you've been in this country as a Sovietagent?"
"I will say nothing," Brubitsch announced. "I am a small child. It isenough." He paused, blinked, and went on: "I will only tell you this:no murders were done by our group in any of our activities."
"And what were your activities?"
"Oh, many things," Brubitsch said. "Many, many things. We--"
The telephone rang loudly, and Malone scooped it up with a practicedhand. "Malone here," he said.
Her Majesty's voice was excited. "Sir Kenneth!" she said. "I just gota tremendous burst of--static!"
Malone blinked. _Is my mind acting up again?_ he thought, knowing shewould pick it up. _Am I being interfered with?_
He didn't feel any different. But then, how was he supposed to feel?
"It's not _your_ mind, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "Not this time.It's _his_ mind. That sneaky-thinking Brubitsch fellow."
_Brubitsch?_ Malone thought. _Now what is that supposed to mean?_
"I don't know, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "But get on back toyour questioning. He's ready to talk now."
"O.K.," Malone said aloud. "Fine." He hung up and looked back to theRussian sitting on his chair. Brubitsch was ready to talk, and thatwas one good thing, anyhow. But what was all the static about?
What was going on?
"Now, then," Malone said. "You were telling us about your groupactivities."
"True," Brubitsch said. "I did not commit any murders. It is possiblethat Borbitsch committed murders. It is possible that Garbitschcommitted murders. But I do not think so."
"Why not?" Boyd said.
"They are my friends," Brubitsch said. "Even if they tell lies. Theyare also small children. Besides, I am not even the head of thegroup."
"Who is?" Malone said.
"Garbitsch," Brubitsch said instantly. "He worked in the StateDepartment, and he told us what to look for in the Senate OfficeBuilding."
"What were you supposed to look for?" Boyd said.
"For information," Brubitsch said. "For scraps of paper, or things weoverheard. But it was very bad, very bad."
"What do you mean, bad?" Malone said.
"Everything was terrible," Brubitsch said mournfully. "SometimesBorbitsch heard something and forgot to tell Garbitsch about it.Garbitsch did not like this. He is a very inflamed person. Once hethreatened to send Borbitsch to the island of Yap as a spy. That is avery bad place to go to. There are no enjoyments on the island of Yap,and no one likes strangers there."
"What did you do with your information?" Boyd said.
"We remembered it," Brubitsch said. "Or, if we had a scrap of paper,we saved it for Garbitsch and gave it to him. But I remember once thatI had some paper. It had a formula on it. I do not know what theformula said."
"What was it about?" Malone said.
Brubitsch gave a massive shrug. "It was about an X and some numbers,"he said. "It was not very interesting, but it was a formula, andGarbitsch would have liked it. Unfortunately, I did not give it tohim."
"Why not?" Boyd said.
"I am ashamed," Brubitsch said, looking ashamed. "I was lighting acigarette in the afternoon, when I had the formula. It is a veryrelaxing thing to smoke a cigarette in the afternoon. It is soothingto the soul." He looked very sad. "I was holding the piece of paper inone hand," he said. "Unfortunately, the match and the paper came intocontact. I burned my finger. Here." He stuck out a finger towardMalone and Boyd, who looked at it without much interest for a second."The paper is gone," he said. "Don't tell Garbitsch. He is veryinflamed."
Malone sighed. "But you remember the formula," he said. "Don't you?"
Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. "It was not veryinteresting," he said. "And I do not have a mathematical mind."
"We know," Malone said, "You are a small child."
* * * * *
"It was terrible," Brubitsch said. "Garbitsch was not happy about ouractivities."
"What did Garbitsch do with the information?" Boyd said.
"He passed it on," Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send ashort-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did notsend the message."
"Why not?" Malone said.
"The radio did not work," Brubitsch said simply. "We received ordersby short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radiowas of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send anymessages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages."
"Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said.
"A man named X," Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula."
"But what was his real name?" Malone said.
"Who knows?" Brubitsch said.
"What else did you do?" Boyd said.
"We met twice a week," Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home,sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At othertimes, we were friends, having a social gathering."
"Friends?" Malone said.
Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitschis the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once wehad some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors.They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country."
"I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming."
"Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honorour country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took usdown to the police station."
"Why?" Boyd said.
"He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the_Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable."
"Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?"
"He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after alittle while he let us go. I do not understand this."
"It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for asecond, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge thesethree clowns with everything in the book. We had a time springing themso we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though Inever did know their names until now."
Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up atthem with surly eyes.
"It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is notright."
"What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said.
"It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way."
He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of thespy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch'slong sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documentsand strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listeningofficers.
"I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered in a toneof absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side."
Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "Allright, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers thingsfor the moment. If we want any more information, though--"
"Call on me," Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going any place. And Iwill give you all the information you d
esire. But I did not commit anymurders--"
"Good-bye, small child," Malone said, as two agents led the fat manaway. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd werealone.
* * * * *
"Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said.
Malone nodded. "Nobody," he said, "could make up a story like that."
"I suppose so," Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up.
"Well?" he asked.
"He was telling the truth, all right," Her Majesty said. "There are afew more details, of course--there was a girl Brubitsch was involvedwith, Sir