theback of the car.
"What's this, the trunk again?" the cabbie said. "You think maybe I'msmuggling in showgirls from the edge of town?"
"Ha, ha," the cop said distinctly. "One more joke and it's thirtydays, buster. Just keep cool and nothing will happen."
"Nothing, he calls it," the cabbie said dismally. But he stayed silentuntil the second cop came back to rejoin his partner.
"Clean," he said.
"Here, too, I guess," the first cop said, and looked in again. "You,"he said to Malone. "You a tourist?"
"That's right," Malone said. "Kenneth J. Malone, at the GreatUniversal. Arrived this afternoon. What's happening here, officer?"
"I'm asking questions," the cop said. "You're answering them. Outsideof that, you don't have to know a thing." He looked very tough andofficial. Malone didn't say anything else.
After a few more seconds they went back to their positions and thecabbie started the car again. Ten yards past the roadblock he turnedaround and looked at Malone. "It's the sheriff's office every time,"he said. "Now, you take a State cop, he's O.K. because what does hecare? He's got other things to worry about, he don't have to bear downon hard-working cabbies."
"Sure," Malone said helpfully.
"And the city police--they're right here in the city, they're O.K. Iknow them, they know me, nothing goes wrong. Get what I mean?"
"The sheriff's office is the worst, though?" Malone said.
"The worst is nothing compared to those boys," the cabbie said."Believe me, every time they can make life tough for a cabbie, they doit. It's hatred, that's what it is. They hate cabbies. That's thesheriff's office for you."
"Tough," Malone said. "But the roadblock--what _was_ it for, anyhow?"
The cabbie looked back at the road, avoided an oncoming car with acasual sweep of the wheel, and sighed gustily. "Mister," he said, "youdon't ask questions, I don't give out answers. Fair?"
There was, after all, nothing else to say. "Fair," Malone told him,and rode the rest of the way in total silence.
* * * * *
Buying the papers in Las Vegas took more time than Malone hadbargained for. He had to hunt from store to store to get a good,representative selection, and there were crowds almost everywhereplaying the omnipresent slot-machines. The whir of the machines andthe low undertones and whispers of the bettors combined in the air tomake what Malone considered the single most depressing sound he hadever heard. It sounded like a factory, old, broken-down and unwanted,that was geared only to the production of cigarette butts and oldcellophane, ready-crumpled for throwing away. Malone pushed throughthe crowds as fast as possible, but nearly an hour had gone by when hehad all his papers and hailed another cab to get him back to thehotel.
This time, the cabbie had a smiling, shining face. He looked likePollyanna, after eight or ten shots at the middleweight title. Malonebeamed right back at him and got in. "Great Universal," he said.
"Hey, that's a nice place," the cabbie said heartily, as they startedoff. "I heard there was a couple TV stars there last week and they gotdrunk and had a fight. You see that?"
"Just arrived this afternoon," Malone said. "Sorry."
"Oh, don't worry," the cabbie assured him. "Something's always goingon at the Universal. I hear they posted a lot of guards there, justwaiting for something to come up now. Something about some shooting,but I didn't get the straight story yet. That true?"
"Far as I know," Malone said. "There's a lot of strange thingshappening lately, aren't there?"
"Lots," the cabbie said eagerly. He meandered slowly around a coupleof bright-red convertibles. "A guy owned the _Last Stand_, he killedhimself with a gun today. It's in the papers. Listen, Mister, funnythings happen all the time around here. I remember last week there wasa lady in my cab, nice old bat, looked like she wouldn't take off anearring in public, not among strangers. You know the type. Well, sir,she asked me to take her on to the Golden Palace, and that's a fairride. So on the way down, she--"
Fascinated as he was by the unreeling story of the shy old bat, Maloneinterrupted. "I hear there's a roadblock up now, and they're searchingall the cars. Know anything about that?"
The cabbie nodded violently. "Sure, Mister," he said. "Now, it's funnyyou should ask. I hit the block once today and I was saying to myself,I'll bet somebody's going to ask me about this. So when I was in townI talked around with Si Deeds ... you know Si? Oh, no, you justarrived today ... anyhow, I figured Si would know."
"And did he?" Malone said.
"Not a thing," the cabbie said. Malone sighed disgustedly and thecabbie went on: "So I went over and talked to Bob Grindell. I figured,there was action, Bob would know. And guess what?"
"He didn't know either," Malone said tiredly.
"Bob?" the cabbie said. "Say, Mister, you must be new here for sure,if you say Bob wouldn't know what was going on. Why, Bob knows moreabout this town than guys lived in it twice as long, I'll tell you.Believe me, he knows."
"And what did he say?" Malone asked.
The cabbie paused. "About what?" he said.
"About the roadblock," Malone said distinctly.
"Oh," the cabbie said. "That. Well, that was a funny thing and nomistake. There was this fight, see? And Shellenberger got in themiddle of it, see? So when he was dead they had to set up thisroadblock."
Malone restrained himself with some difficulty. "What fight?" he said."And who's Shellenberger? And how did he get in the way?"
"Mister," the cabbie said, "you must be new here."
"A remarkable guess," Malone said.
The cabbie nodded. "Sure must be," he said. "Gus Shellenberger's livedhere over ten years now. I drove him around many's the time. Rememberwhen he used to go out to this motel out on the outskirts there; therewas this doll he was interested in but it never came to much. He saidshe wasn't right for his career, you know how guys like that are, theygot to be careful all the time. Never hit the papers or anything--Imean with the doll and all--but people get to know things. You know.So with this doll--"
"How long ago did all this happen?" Malone asked.
"The doll?" the cabbie said. "Oh, five-six years. Maybe seven. Iremember it was the year I got a new cab, business was pretty good,you know. Seven, I guess. Garage made me a price, you know, I had tobe an idiot to turn it down? A nice price. Well, George Lamel who ownsthe place, he's an old friend, you know? I did him some favors so hegives me a nice price. Well, this new cab--"
"Can we get back to the present for a little while?" Malone said."There was this fight, and your friend Gus Shellenberger got involvedin it somehow--"
"Oh, that," the cabbie said. "Oh, sure. Well, there was a kind ofchase. Some sheriff's officers were looking for an escaped convict,and they were chasing him and doing some shooting. And Shellenberger,he got in the way and got shot accidentally. The criminal, he gotaway. But it's kind of a mess, because--"
A loud chorus of sirens effectively stopped all conversation. Two carsstamped with the insignia of the sheriff's office came into sight andstreaked past, headed for Las Vegas.
"Because Shellenberger was State's attorney, after all," the cabbiesaid. "It's not like just anybody got killed."
"And the roadblock?" Malone said.
"For the criminal, I guess," the cabbie said.
Malone nodded heavily. The whole thing smelled rather loudly, hethought. The "accident" wasn't very plausible to start with. And asearch for an escaped criminal that didn't even involve checkingidentification of strangers like Malone wasn't much of a search. Thecops knew who they were looking for.
And Shellenberger hadn't been killed by accident.
The roadblock was down, he noticed. The sheriff's office cars hadapparently carried the cheerful cops back to Las Vegas. Maybe they'dfound their man, Malone thought, and maybe they just didn't care anymore.
"Wouldn't a State's attorney live in Carson City?" he asked after awhile.
"Not old Gus Shellenberger," the cabbie said. "Many's the time
Italked with him and he said he loved this old town. Loved it. Like anold friend. Why, he used to say to me--"
At that point the Great Universal hove into view. Malone feltextraordinarily grateful to see it.
* * * * *
He went to his room with the bundle of papers in his hand and lockedhimself in. He lit a fresh cigar and started through the papers. LasVegas was the one on top, and he gave it a quick going-over. Sureenough, the suicide of the Golden Palace owner was on page one, alongwith a lot of other local news.
_Mayor Resigns Under Council Pressure_, one headline read. On page 3another story was headlined: _County Attorney Indicted by Grand Juryin Bribery Case_. And at the bottom of page 1, complete with picturesof baffled phone operators and linemen, was a double column spread:_Damage to Phone Relay Station Isolates City Five Hours_.
Carson City, the State Capitol, came in for lots of interesting news,too. Three headlines caught Malone's attention:
LT.-GOVERNOR MORRIS SWORN IN AS GOVERNOR TWELVE MEMBERS OF LEGISLATURE RESIGN
Ill Health Given As Reason
STATE'S ATTORNEY'S OFFICE: "NO COMMENT" ON RACKETS CONNECTION CHARGE.
The next paper was the New York Post. Malone studied the front pagewith interest:
MAYOR ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMM.
The story on page 3 had a little more detail:
MAYOR AMALFI ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMMISSIONER ON EVIDENCE SHOWING "COLLUSION WITH GAMBLING INTERESTS"
But Malone didn't have time to read the story. Other headlines onpages 2 and 3 attracted his startled attention:
TWELVE DIE IN BROOKLYN GANG MASSACRE
Ricardo, Numbers Head, Among Slain
"DANGEROUS DAN" SUGRUE LINKED WITH TRUCKER'S UNION
Admits Connection "Gladly"
HOUSING AUTHORITY DENIES, THEN CONFESSES GRAFT CHARGE
Malone wiped a streaming brow. Apparently all hell was busting loose.Under the _Post_ was the San Francisco _Examiner_, its crowded frontpage filled with all sorts of strange and startling news items. Malonelooked over a few at random. A wildcat waterfront strike had beencalled off after the resignation of the union local's president. The"Nob Hill Mob," which had grown notorious in the past few years, hadbeen rounded up and captured _in toto_ after what the paper describedonly as a "police tipoff." Two headlines caught his special attention:
BERSERK POLICE CAPTAIN KILLS TWO AIDES, SELF: CORRUPTION HINTED
The second hit closer to home:
FBI ARRESTS THREE STATE SENATORS ON INCOME TAX CHARGE
Malone felt a pang of nostalgia. Conquering it after a brief struggle,he went on to the next paper. From Los Angeles, its front page showedthat Hollywood, at least, was continuing to hold its own:
LAVISH FUNERAL PLANNED FOR WONDER DOG TOMORROW
But the Washington _Times-Herald_ brought things back to the messMalone had expected. All sorts of things were going on:
PRESIDENT ACCEPTS RESIGNATION OF THREE CABINET MEMBERS
New Appointees Not Yet Named
PENTAGON TO INVESTIGATE QUARTER-MASTER CORPS GRAFT
Revelations Hinted In Closed Hearing Thursday
RIOT ON SENATE FLOOR QUELLED BY GUARDS
Sen. Briggs Hospitalized
GENERAL BREGER, MISSILE BASE HEAD, DIES IN TESTING ACCIDENT
Faulty Equipment Blamed
Malone put the papers down with a deep sigh. There was some kind of apattern there, he was sure; there had to be. More was happening in thegood old United States inside of twenty-four hours than ordinarilyhappened in a couple of months. The big trouble was that some of itwas, doubtless, completely unconnected with the work of Malone'spsychological individual. It was equally certain that some of itwasn't; no normal workings of chance could account for the spate ofresignations, deaths, arrests of high officials, freak accidents andeverything else he'd just seen.
But there was no way of telling which was which. The only one he wasreasonably sure he could leave out of his calculations was Hollywood'sgood old Wonder Dog. And when he looked at the rest all he could seewas that confusion was rampant. Which was exactly what he'd knownbefore.
He remembered once, when he was a boy, his mother had taken him to anastronomical observatory, and he had looked at Mars through the bigtelescope, hoping to see the canals he'd heard so much about. Sure,enough, there had been a blurred pattern of some kind. It might haverepresented canals--but he'd been completely unable to trace any givenline. It was like looking at a spiderweb through a sheet of frostedglass.
He needed a clearer view, and there wasn't any way to get it withoutfinding some more information. Sooner or later, he told himself,everything would fall into one simple pattern, and he would give a cryof "Eureka!"
There was, at any rate, no need to go to the scene of the crime. Hewas right in the middle of it--and would have been, apparently, nomatter where he'd been. The big question was: where were all the factshe needed?
He certainly wasn't going to find them all alone in his room, hedecided. Mingling with the Las Vegas crowds might give him some sortof a lead--and, besides, he had to act like a man on vacation, didn'the? Satisfied of this, Malone began to change into his dress suit.People who came to Las Vegas, he told himself while fiddling with whatseemed to be a left-hand-thread cufflink of a peculiarly nastydisposition, were usually rich. Rich people would be worried about theway the good old United States was acting up, just like anybody else,but they'd have access to various sources both of information andrumor. Rumor was more valuable than might at first appear, Malonethought sententiously, sneaking up on the cufflink and fastening itsecurely. He finished dressing with what was almost an air of hope.
He surveyed himself in the mirror when he was done. Nobody, he toldhimself with some assurance, would recognize him as the FBI Agent whohad come into the Golden Palace two years before, clad in Elizabethancostume and escorting a Queen who had turned out to be a phenomenalpoker player. After all, Las Vegas was a town in which lots of strangethings happened daily, and he was dressed differently, and he'd agedat least two years in the intervening two years.
He put in a call for a hallway car--carefully refraining from askingfor Murray.
X
"Business, Mr. Malone," the bartender said, "is shot all to hell. Thewhole country is shot all to hell."
"I believe it," Malone said.
"Sure," the bartender said. He finished polishing one glass and set towork on another one. "Look at the place," he went on. "Half full. Youbeen here two weeks now, and you know how business was when you came.Now look."
It wasn't necessary, but Malone turned obediently to survey the hugegambling hall. It was roofed over by a large golden dome that seemedto make the place look even emptier than it could possibly be. Therewere still plenty of people around the various tables, and somethingapproaching a big crowd clustered around the _chemin de fer_ layout.But it was possible to breathe in the place, and even move from tableto table without stepping into anybody's pocket. Las Vegas wasdefinitely sliding downhill at the moment, Malone thought.
The glitter of polished gold and silver ornaments, the low cries ofthe various dealers and officials, the buzz of conversation, were allthe same. But under the great dome, Malone told himself sadly, youcould almost see the people leaving, one by one.
"No money around either," the bartender said. "Except maybe for a fewguys like yourself. I mean, people take their chances at the wheel orthe tables, but there's no big betting going on, just nickel-dimestuff. And no big spending, either. Used to be tips in a place likethis, just tips, would really mount up to something worth while. Now,nothing." He put the glass and towel down and leaned across the bar."You know what I think, Mr. Malone?" he said.
"No," Malone said politely. "What do you think?"
The bartender looked portentous. "I think all the big-money guys haverushed off home to look after their bus
iness and like that," he said,"everything's going to hell, and what I want to know is: What's wrongwith the country? You're a big businessman, Mr. Malone. You ought tohave some ideas."
Malone paused and looked thoughtful. "I'll tell you what I think," hesaid. "I think people have decided that gambling is sinful. Maybe weall ought to go and get our souls dry-cleaned."
The bartender shook his head. "You always got a little joke, Mr.Malone," he said. "It's what I like about you. But there must be somereason for what's happening."
"There must be," Malone agreed. "But I'll be double-roasted for extrafresh flavor if I know what it is."
His vacation pay, he told himself with a feeling of downright misery,was already down the drain. He'd been dipping into personal savings tokeep up his front as a big spender, but that couldn't go onforever--even though he saved money on the front by gambling verylittle while he tipped lavishly. And in spite of what he'd spent hewas no closer to an answer than he had been when he'd started.
"Now, you take the stock market,"