out in the face of an astonished bartender. This, Malone toldhimself, would not be pleasant. He wondered just how to hush her upwithout attracting attention. Knock-out pills in her drink? A handover her mouth? A sudden stream of unstoppable words?
He had reached no decision when she sat down on the stool beside him,turned a bright, cheerful smile in his direction and said: "I'veforgotten your name. Mine's Luba Ardanko."
"Oh," Malone said dully. Even the disclosure of what "Lou" stood fordid nothing to raise his spirits.
"I'm always forgetting things," Lou went on. "I've forgotten justabout everything about you."
Malone breathed a long, inaudible sigh of relief. If more people, hethought, had the brains not to greet FBI Agents by name, rank andserial number when meeting them in a strange place, there would befewer casualties among the FBI.
He realized that Luba was still smiling at him expectantly. "My name'sMalone," he said. "Kenneth Malone. I'm a cookie manufacturer,remember?"
"Oh," Luba said delightedly. "Sure! I remember last time I met you yougave me that lovely box of cookies. Modeled on the Seven Dwarfs."
Occasionally, Malone told himself, things moved a little faster thanhe liked. "On the Seven Dwarfs," he said. "Oh, sure."
"And I thought the model of Sneezy was awfully cute," she said. "Butdon't let's talk about cookies. Let's talk about Martinis."
Malone opened his mouth, tried to think of something clever to say,and shut it again. Luba Ardanko was, perfectly obviously, altogethertoo fast for him. But then, he reflected, I've had a hard day. "Allright," he said at last. "What _about_ Martinis?"
Luba's smile broadened. "I'd like one," she said. "And since you're awealthy cookie manufacturer--"
"Be my guest," Malone said. "On the other hand, why not buy your own?Since they're free as long as you're in the gambling room."
The bartender had approached them silently. "That's right," he said ina voice that betrayed the fact that he had memorized the entirespeech, word for word. "Drinks are free for those who play the gamingtables. A courtesy of the Great Universal."
He delivered a Martini and Luba drank it while Malone finished hisbourbon-and-water. "Well," she said, "I suppose we've got to go to thegambling tables now. If only to be fair."
"A horrible fate," Malone agreed, "but there you are: that's life."
"It certainly is," she said brightly, and moved off. Malone, shakinghis head, went after her and found her standing in front of a roulettewheel. "I just love roulette," she said, turning. "Don't you? It's soexciting and expensive."
Malone licked dry lips, said: "Sure," and started to move off.
"Oh, let's just play a little," Luba said.
There was nothing to do but agree. Malone put a small stack of silverdollars on Red, and the croupier looked up with a bored expression.There were three other people in the game, including a magnificent oldlady with blue hair who spent her money with a lavish hand. Two weeksbefore, she wouldn't even have been noticed. Now the croupier wasbending over backward in an attempt not to show how grateful he wasfor the patronage.
The wheel spun around and landed on Number Two, Black. Malone sighedand fished for more money. He felt his precognitive sense beginning tocome into play and happily decided to ride with it. This time thestack of silver dollars was larger.
Twenty minutes later he left the table approximately nine hundreddollars richer. Luba was beaming. "There, now," she said. "Wasn't thatfun?"
"Hysterical," Malone said. He glanced back over his shoulder. Theblue-haired old lady was winning and losing large sums with a speedand aplomb that was certainly going to make her a twenty-four-hourlegend by the end of the evening. She looked grim and secure, as ifshe were undergoing a penance. Malone shrugged and looked away.
"Now," Luba said, "you can take me dancing."
"I can?" Malone said. "I mean, do I? I mean--"
"I mean the Solar Room," Luba said. "I've always wanted to enter onthe arms of a handsome cookie manufacturer. It will make me thesensation of New York society."
* * * * *
The Solar Room was magnificently expensive. Malone had been thereonce, establishing his character as a man of lavish appetites, and hadthen avoided the place in deference to his real bankroll. Heremembered it as the kind of place where an order of scrambled eggswas liable to come in, flaming, on a golden sabre. But Luba wanted theSolar Room, and Malone was not at all sure she wouldn't use blackmailif he turned her down. "Fine," he said in a lugubrious tone.
The place shone, when they entered, as if they had come in from thedarkness of midnight. Along with the Universal Joint, it was the prideand glory of the Great Universal Hotel and no expense had been sparedin the attempt to give it what Primo Palveri called Class. Couples andfoursomes were scattered around at the marble-topped tables, andred-uniformed waiters scurried around bearing drinks, food and evenoccasional plug-in telephones. There seemed to be more of the lastthan Malone remembered as usual; people were worrying aboutinvestments and businesses, and even those who had decided to stick itout grimly at Las Vegas and, _enjoy_ themselves had to check up withthe home folks in order to know when to start pricing windows in highbuildings. Malone wondered how many people were actually getting theircalls through. Since the first breakdown two weeks before, Las Vegasand virtually every other United States city had sufferedinterruptions in telephone service. Las Vegas had had three breakdownsin two weeks; other cities weren't doing much better, if at all.
Vaguely, Malone began looking around for handbaskets.
"Let's dance," Luba said happily. "They're playing our song."
On a stand at the front of the room a small orchestra was working awaybusily. There were two or three couples on the postage-stamp dancefloor, whirling away to the strains of something Malone dimlyremembered as: "My heart's in orbit out in space until I see youagain."
"Our song?" he said.
Luba nodded. "You sang it to me the very first time we met," she said."At the cookie-manufacturer's ball. Remember?"
Malone sighed. If Luba wanted to dance, Luba was going to dance. Andso was Malone. He rose and they went to the dance floor. Malone tookher in his arms and for a few bars they danced silently. At the end ofthat time they were much closer together than they had been, andMalone realized that he was somehow managing to enjoy himself.Thoroughly.
He thought dimly of the stripper he'd seen when he walked in onPalveri. Like Luba, she had red hair. But somehow, she looked lessattractive undressed than Luba did in a complete wardrobe. Malonewondered what the funny feeling creeping up his spine was. After asecond he realized that it wasn't love. Luba's hand was tickling him.He shifted slightly and the hand left, but the funny feeling remained.
Maybe it _was_ love, he thought. He didn't know whether or not to hopeso.
Luba was pressed close to him. He wondered how to open theconversation, and decided that a sudden passionate declaration wouldbe more startling than welcome. At last he said: "Thanks for nottipping my hand."
Luba's whisper caressed his ear. "Don't thank me," she said. "Ienjoyed it."
"Why are you doing this?" Malone said. "Not that I don't appreciateit, but I thought you were sore."
"Let's just say that your masterful, explosive approach wasirresistible," Luba said.
Malone wondered briefly whether or not they'd turned off theair-conditioning. If he moved slightly away from Luba, he thought, hecould breathe more easily. But breathing just wasn't worth it. "I willcheerfully admit," he said, "that I am a ball of fire in thefeathers, as they say. But I didn't realize it was that obvious--evento a woman of your tender sensitivity."
Somehow, Luba had managed to get even closer to him. "You touch medeeply," she whispered into his ear.
Malone swallowed hard and tried to take another breath. Just one more,he thought; that would be all he needed. "What are you doing in LasVegas?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone. It didn't soundvery casual, though.
"I'm on vacation," Luba
said in an off-handed manner. "I won't askwhat you're doing; I can guess pretty well. Besides, you obviouslywant to keep it under cover."
"Well," Malone said, "I certainly wouldn't want what I'm doing to bebroadcast aloud to the great American public out there intelevision-land." It was a long speech for a man without any breath.Just one more, Malone told himself, and he could die happy.
"I felt that," Luba said. "You know, Mr. Malone--"
"Call me Ken," Malone said.
"It is silly to be formal now, isn't it?" Luba said. "You know, Ken,I'm beginning to realize that you are really a very nice person--inspite of your rather surprising method of attack."
"What's surprising about it?" Malone said. "People do it all thetime."
* * * * *
The orchestra suddenly shifted from the previous slow number to arapid fire tune Malone couldn't remember having heard before. "That,"he announced, "is too fast for me. I'm going to get some fresh air."
Luba nodded, her red hair brushing Malone's cheek silkily. "I'mcoming, too," she said.
Surrounding the Great Universal, Malone remembered, was a small beltof parkland. He flagged a hallway car--remembering carefully to checkwhether or not the driver was the sniggering Murray--and he and Lubapiled in and started out for the park. In the car, he held her handsilently, feeling a little like a bashful schoolboy and a little likeSir Kenneth Malone. It was a strange mixture, but he decided that heliked it.
They got out, standing in the cool darkness of the park. Overhead amoon and stars were shining. The little hallway car rolled away andthey were alone. Completely alone. Malone swallowed hard.
"Sleuth," Luba said softly in the darkness.
Malone turned to face her.
"Sleuth," she said, "don't you ever take a chance?"
"Chance?" Malone said.
"Damn it," Luba said in a soft, sweet voice, "kiss me, Ken."
Malone had no answer to that--at least, no verbal answer. But then,one didn't seem to be needed.
When he finally came up for air, he said: "Lou--"
"Yes, Ken?"
"Lou, how long are you going to be here? Or in New York? What I meanis--"
"I'll be around," Lou said. "I will be going back to New York ofcourse; after all, Ken, I do have a living to make, such as it is, andSir Lewis is expecting me."
"I don't know," Malone said, "but it still sounds funny. A girl likeyou working for ... well, for the Psychical Research people. Ghostsand ectoplasm and all that."
Suddenly Lou wasn't in his arms any more. "Now, wait a minute," shesaid. "You seemed to need their information, all right."
"But that was ... oh, well," Malone said. "Never mind. Maybe I'msilly. It really doesn't matter."
"I guess it doesn't, now," Lou said in a softer tone. "Except that itdoes mean I'll be going back to New York pretty soon."
"Oh," Malone said. "But ... look, Lou, maybe we could work somethingout. I could tell Sir Lewis I needed you here for something, and thenhe'd--"
"My, my," she said. "What it must be like to have all that influence."
"What?" Malone said.
Lou grinned, almost invisibly. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing. But, myfine feathered Fed, I don't want to be pulled around on somebodyelse's string."
"But--"
"I mean it, Ken," Luba said.
Malone shrugged. "Suppose we table it for now, then," he said, "andget around to it later. At dinner, say ... around nine?"
"And just where," Luba said, "will you be before nine? Making improperadvances to the local contingent of chorines?"
"I will make improper advances," Malone vowed, "only to you, Lou."
Lou's eyes sparkled. "Goody," she said. "I've always wanted to be aFallen Woman."
"But I have got some things to do before nine," Malone said. "I've gotto work, too."
"Well, then," Lou said in a suspiciously sweet voice, "suppose I talkto Sir Lewis Carter, and tell him to keep you in New York? Then--"
"Enough," Malone said. "Nine o'clock."
XI
Somebody somewhere was wishing all the world "a plague on both your houses," and making it stick. Confusion is fun in a comedy--but in the pilot of a plane or an executive of a nation....
Back in his room, Malone put on a fresh shirt, checked the .44 Magnumin his shoulder holster, changed jackets, adjusted his hat to theproper angle, and vanished.
He had, he'd realized, exactly one definite lead. And now he was goingto follow up on it. The Government was apparently falling to pieces;so was business and so was the Mafia. Nobody Malone had heard of hadgained anything. Except Mike Sand and his truckers. They'd beaten theMafia, at least.
Sand was worth a chat. Malone had a way to get in to see him, but hehad to work fast. Otherwise Sand would very possibly know what Malonewas trying to do. And that might easily be dangerous.
He had made his appearance in the darkness beneath one of the bridgesat the southwest side of Central Park, in New York. It was hardlyMalone's idea of perfect comfort, but it did mean safety; there wasvery seldom anyone around after dark, and the shadows were thickenough so that his "appearance" would only mean, to the improbablepasserby, that he had stepped out into the light.
Now he strolled quietly over to Central Park West, and flagged a taxiheading downtown. He'd expected to run into one of the roving muggerswho still made the Park a trap for the unwary--he'd almost lookedforward to it, in a way--but nobody appeared. It was unusual, but hedidn't have time to wonder about it.
The headquarters for the National Brotherhood of Truckers was east ofGreenwich Village, on First Avenue, so Malone had plenty of time tothink things out while the cab wended its laborious southeast way.After a few minutes he realized that he would have even more time tothink than he'd planned on.
"Lots of traffic for this time of night," he volunteered.
The cabbie, a fiftyish man with a bald, wrinkled head and surprisinglybright blue eyes, nodded without turning his head. "Maybe you thinkthis is bad," he said. "You would not recognize the place an hourearlier, friend. During the real rush hour, I mean. Things are whatthey call _meshuggah_, friend. It means crazy."
"How come?" Malone said.
"The subway is on strike since last week," the cabbie said. "The busesare also on strike. This means that everybody is using a car. Theycan make it faster if they wish to walk, but they use a car. It doesnot help matters, believe me."
"I can see that," Malone murmured.
"And the cops are not doing much good either," the cabbie went on,"since they went on strike sometime last Tuesday."
Malone nodded, and then did a double-take. "Cops?" he said. "Onstrike? But that's illegal. They could be arrested."
"You can be funny," the cabbie said. "I am too sad to be funny."
"But--"
"Unless you are from Rhode Island," the cabbie said, "or even fartheraway, you are deaf, dumb and blind. Everybody in New York knows whatis going on by this time. I admit that it is not in the newspapers,but the newspapers do not tell the truth since, as I remember it, theCity Council election of 1924, and then it is an accident, due to themajor's best friend working in the printing plants."
"But cops can't go on strike," Malone said plaintively.
"This," the cabbie said in a judicious tone, "is true. But they do notgive out any parking tickets any more, or any traffic citationseither. They are working on bigger things, they say, and besides allthis there are not so many cops on the force now. They are spread verythin."
Malone could see what was coming. "Arrests of policemen," he said,"and resignations."
"And investigations," the cabbie said. "Mayor Amalfi is a good Joeand does not want anything in the papers until a real strike comesalong, but the word gets out anyhow, as it always does."
"Makes driving tough," Malone said.
"People can make better time on their hands and knees," the cabbiesaid, "with the cops pulling a strike. They concentrate on big itemsn
ow, and you can even smoke in the subways if you can find a subwaythat is running."
Malone stopped to think how much of the city's income depended onparking tickets and small fines, and realized that a "strike" like theone the police were pulling might be very effective indeed. And,unlike the participants in the Boston Police Strike of sixty-odd yearsbefore, these cops would have public sentiment on their side--sincethey were keeping actual crime down.
"How long do they think it's going to last?" Malone said.
"It can be over tomorrow," the cabbie said, "but this is not generallybelieved in the most influential quarters. Mayor Amalfi and the newCommissioner try to straighten things out all day long, but the