The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  A second passed. From the back of the plane a voice said: “Are we back in Washington, S—Mr. Malone?”

  “That’s right, Miss Thompson,” Malone told the Queen.

  “And Miss Garbitsch—”

  “I’m fine, Miss Thompson,” Luba said. She swung her feet around to the deck.

  “Wait a minute,” Malone said. “Do you think you ought to get up?”

  Lou’s smile seemed to reduce him to small, very hot ashes. “Ken,” she said, “the doctor said I was fine, so what are you worrying about? I can get up. I’ll be all right.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, and stepped back. Her Majesty had already left the plane. Lou got up, and wavered just a little. Malone held out his arms, and found her in them before he had thought about it.

  A long time seemed to pass. Malone wasn’t sure whether he was standing still because he wanted to, or because he was absolutely incapable of motion. Lou didn’t seem in any hurry to break away, either.

  Then she put her arms around his neck.

  “Sleuth,” she said, “don’t you ever follow up a hint?”

  “Hint?” Malone said.

  “Damn it,” Lou said in a soft, sweet voice, “kiss me, Ken.”

  Malone had no answer to that—at least, no verbal answer.

  One didn’t seem to be needed.

  When he finally came up for air, he said: “Lou…”

  “Yes, Ken?”

  “Lou, where are you going from here?”

  Lou stepped back a pace. “What?” she said.

  “I mean, back to New York?” Malone said. “Or someplace else? I mean—well, what are you going to do?”

  “Oh,” Lou said. “Oh, yes. I’ll be going back to New York. After all, Ken, I do have a living to make, such as it is, and Sir Lewis is expecting me.”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said, “but it still sounds funny. A girl like you working for—well, for the Psychical Research people. Ghosts and ectoplasm and all that.”

  Lou stepped back another pace. “Now, wait a minute,” she said. “You seemed to need their information, all right.”

  “But that was—oh, well,” Malone said. “Never mind. Maybe I’m silly. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “I guess it doesn’t, now,” she said. “Except that it does mean I’ve got to leave for New York almost at once.”

  “Can you cut out that ‘almost’?” Malone said. “Because I’ve got to be there myself, and right away. If you hurry, we can get the same plane.”

  “That would be great,” she said.

  “Okay, then,” Malone said. “Don’t you worry about a thing, I’ll take care of reservations and everything.”

  “My, my,” Lou said. “What it must be like to have all that pull and influence.”

  “What?” Malone said.

  Lou grinned. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

  “Then it’s all settled. I’ll take care of the reservations, and we’ll go in together,” Malone said.

  “Fair enough,” Lou said, “my fine feathered Fed.”

  * * * *

  Actually, it took Malone nearly three hours to get everything set in Washington for his New York departure. He had to make a verbal report to Andrew J. Burris first, and that consumed quite a lot of time, since Burris was alternately shocked, horrified, gleeful and confused about the whole trip, and spent most of his time interrupting Malone and crying out for God’s vengeance, mercy, justice or understanding.

  Then Malone had to dictate a longer report for the written record. This didn’t take quite as long, since there were no interruptions, but by the time it was over he felt as if he were going out to become a Carthusian monk. He felt, as he rubbed his raw throat, that it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to take a nice vow of silence for awhile. He could write people little notes, and they would all treat him kindly and gently. He would be pointed out to strangers, and people would try to do him favors.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t take the vow at once. During his absence, his desk log showed, several calls had come in, all of which had to be taken care of at once. Some of them dealt with evidence or statements from old cases, some were just nuisances. The most urgent was from Dr. O’Connor at Yucca Flats.

  “If you’re not too busy,” O’Connor said in his icily polite tone, “I would like to have Miss Thompson back as soon as possible.” He sounded as if Malone had borrowed his scalpel.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Malone said carefully.

  “There is a new series of tests,” O’Connor said, “on which I am now at work; the assistance of Miss Thompson would be invaluable to me at this time.”

  After he’d hung up, Malone called Her Majesty at her Washington hotel. She was very glad of the chance to return to Yucca Flats, she said. There, Malone knew, she would be able to return to her accustomed dignity as Queen of the Greater English Commonwealth, a district which, in her mind, seemed to include the greater part of the Western world. On her present mission, she was plain Miss Thompson and, though the idea of going about incognito had its charms, it became a little dull after awhile. The adventuring was fine, although a little rougher than she’d thought it would be; the sight of the Queen’s Own FBI in action was still a powerful attraction for Her Majesty. But the peace and quiet and dignity of Her Own Royal Palace won out without too much trouble.

  “Of course,” Malone said, “you’ll be on call in case I need you.”

  “I am always in touch with my subjects,” Her Majesty said with dignity, “and most especially with you, Sir Kenneth. I shall so remain.”

  And then there was a little paperwork to take care of. By the time Malone had finished, he would have been glad to teleport to New York on his own. But on reflection he decided that he would much rather travel with Lou, and hurried down to the airport.

  By the time the plane landed at La Guardia, and they’d taken a ’copter to the East Side Terminal and a taxi to the big blue-aluminum-and-glass Ravell Building, Malone had reached a new decision. It would be nothing short of wonderful, he felt, if he could spend the rest of his life traveling around with Luba Garbitsch.

  Of course, that name was something of a handicap. It was hardly a romantic one. He wondered, very briefly, whether or not “Luba Malone” were an improvement. But he buried the thought before it got any further. Enough, he told himself firmly, was enough.

  “It’s been a nice trip,” Lou said. She, too, sounded subdued, as if she were thinking about something terribly serious.

  “Great,” Malone said happily. “A wonderful trip.”

  “I enjoyed being with you,” Lou said.

  “Me, too,” Malone said. He paid off the taxi-driver and they got out at the corner. Malone went to the newsstand there and picked up a copy of the Post.

  “That,” Lou said over his shoulder, “is one whole hell of a headline.”

  It filled the entire page, four lines of thick black capitals:

  JUDGE DROPS UNION SUIT!

  “Well, well,” Malone said. “Let’s see what this is all about.” He flipped to page three. Lou craned her neck over his shoulder and they read the start of the story together.

  DISTRICT COURT RULES UNION HAS NO CASE

  New York [AP], August 23. Judge James Lefkowitz of the New York Supreme Court ruled today that the International Truckers’ Brotherhood had no grounds for their suit against the United Transport Corp. and its officers. The action, a bitterly fought contest, involved a complaint by the Brotherhood that UTC had violated their contract with the Brotherhood by hiring “unqualified drivers” to work for the corporation.

  In a statement made immediately after the ruling, Judge Lefkowitz said: “It is obvious that a man with a state-certified chauffeur’s license is not an ‘unqualified driver.’”

  Effects of this ruling are thought to be far-reaching. Comment from the international Truckers’ Brotherhood…

  There was more to it, a lot more, but Malone didn’t feel like reading it. It sounded just as c
onfused as he expected news to sound these days, but it also sounded a little dull. He could feel Lou’s breathing against his ear as he read, and he lost interest in the paper almost at once.

  “My, my,” she said. “And I expected a real exposé of a story, after that headline.”

  “This is an exposé,” Malone said. “But I’m not sure what of.”

  “It sounds pretty confused,” Lou said.

  “Everything seems to, these days,” Malone said. “Including any story of what’s been happening during the last little while.”

  “Agreed,” Lou said. “Without argument.”

  “Listen,” Malone said suddenly. “Would it help if I went up and told Sir Lewis that there’s no mark against your record?”

  “Mark?” Lou said. “Against my record?”

  “Well,” Malone said, “I mean—well, he isn’t the sort of man who’d fire somebody, because of—because of something like this?”

  “You mean because I know an FBI man?” Lou said.

  “I—”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I know what you mean. And he won’t. He’ll understand.” She came round to face him, and patted his cheek. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot, anyway.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “There won’t be,” Lou said. “You’ll call me, though, about tonight?”

  “Sure I will,” Malone said. He hoped that the tentative date he’d made with her for that evening wouldn’t be broken up because of a sudden onslaught of work. “I’ll let you know before five, for sure.”

  “Fine,” Lou said. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  She turned to walk away.

  “Hey,” Malone said. “Wait a minute.”

  “What?” she said, turning again.

  Malone looked judicious. “I think,” he said weightily, “that, considering all the fun we’ve had, and all the adventuring and everything else, the least you could do would be to kiss me goodbye.”

  “On Fifth Avenue?”

  “No,” Malone said. He tapped his lips. “Here.”

  She laughed, bent closer and pecked him on the cheek. Then, before he could say anything else, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  On the way to FBI Headquarters on 69th Street, he read the Post a little more carefully. The judge and his union suit weren’t the only things that were fouled up, he saw. Things were getting pretty bad all over.

  One story dealt with the recent factional fights inside the American Association for the Advancement of Medicine. A new group, the United States Medical-Professional Society, appeared to be forming as a competitor to the AAAM, and Malone wasn’t quite so sure, when he thought about it, that this news was as bad as it appeared on the surface. Fights between doctors, of course, were reasonably rare, at least on the high hysterical level the story appeared to pinpoint. But the AAAM had held a monopoly in the medical field for a long time; maybe it was about time some competition showed itself. From what he could find out in the story, the USMPS seemed like a group of fairly sensible people.

  But that was one of the few rays of light Malone could discern amid the encircling bloom of the news. The gang wars had reached a new high; the Post was now publishing what it called a Daily Scoreboard, which consisted in this particular paper of six deaths, two disappearances and ten hospitalizations. The six deaths were evenly scattered throughout the country: two in New York, one each in Chicago and Detroit, and two more in San Francisco. The disappearances were in Los Angeles and in Miami, and the hospitalizations were pretty much all over.

  The unions had been having trouble, too. Traditional forms of controversy appeared to have gone out the window, in favor of startling disclosures, beatings, wild cries of foul and great masses of puzzling evidence. How, for instance, Malone wondered, had the president of Local 7574 of the Fishermen’s Fraternal Brotherhood managed to mislay a pile of secret records, showing exactly how the membership was being bilked of dues, on a Boston subway train? But, somehow, he had, and the records were now causing shakeups, denials and trouble among the fishermen.

  Of course, the news was not all bad. There were always the comic strips. Pogo was busily staving off an approaching wedding between Albert Alligator and a new character named Tranquil Portly, who appeared to be a brown bear. He was running into some resistance, though, from a wolflike character who planned to abscond with Albert’s cigars while Albert was honeymooning. This character, Don Coyote by name, looked like a trouble-maker, and Malone vowed to keep a careful eye on him.

  And then there were other headlines:

  FUSION POWER SOON COMMERCIALLY AVAILABLE SAYS AEC HEAD

  Sees Drastic Cut in Power Rates

  UN POLICE CONTINGENT OKAYED: MILLION MEN TO FORM 1ST GROUP

  Member Countries Pledge $20 Billion in Support Moneys

  OFFICIAL STATES: “WE’RE AHEAD AFTER 17 YEARS!”

  US Space Program Tops Russian Achievements

  ARMED FORCES TO TOUGHEN TRAINING PROGRAM

  IN 1974 Gen. Foote: “Our aim is to train fighting men, not to run a country club.”

  GOVERNMENT TO SAVE $1 BILLION ANNUALLY?

  Senator Hits Duplication of Effort in Government, Vows Immediate Reform

  Malone read that one a little more carefully, because it looked, at first sight, like one of the bad-news items. There had been government-spending reforms before, almost all of which had resulted in confusion, panic, loss of essential services—and twice as many men on the payroll, since the government now had to hire useless efficiency experts, accountants and other such supernumerary workers.

  But this time, the reform looked as if it might do some good. Of course, he told himself sadly, it was still too early to tell.

  The senator involved was Deeks, of Massachusetts, who was also in the news because of a peculiar battle he had had with Senator Furbisher of Vermont. Congress, Malone noted, was still acting up. Furbisher claimed that the moneys appropriated for a new Vermont dam were really being used for the dam. But Deeks had somehow come into possession of several letters written by a cousin of Furbisher’s, detailing some of the graft that was going on in the senator’s home state. Furbisher was busily denying everything, but his cousin was just as busy confessing all to anybody who would listen. It was building up into an extremely interesting fracas, and, Malone thought, it would have been even funnier than Pogo except that it was happening in the Congress of the United States.

  He heaved a sigh, folded up the paper and entered the building that housed the New York contingent of the FBI.

  Boyd was waiting in his office when he arrived.

  “Well, there, Kenneth,” he said. “And how are all our little Slavic brothers?”

  “Unreasonable,” Malone said, “and highly unpleasant.”

  “You refer, no doubt,” Boyd said, “to the Meeneestyerstvoh Vnootrenikh Dyehl?”

  “Gesundheit,” Malone said kindly.

  “The MVD,” Boyd said. “I’ve been studying for days to pull it on you when you got back.”

  Malone nodded. “Very well, then,” he said in a stately, orotund tone. “Say it again.”

  “Damn it,” Boyd said, “I can’t say it again.”

  “Cheer up,” Malone said. “Maybe some day you’ll learn. Meantime, Thomas, did you get the stuff we talked about?”

  Boyd nodded. “I think I got enough of it,” he said. “Anyhow, there is a definite trend developing. Come on into the private office, and I’ll show you.”

  There, on Boyd’s massive desk, were several neat piles of paper.

  “It looks like enough,” Malone said. “As a matter of fact, it looks like too much. Haven’t we been through all this before?”

  “Not like this, we haven’t,” Boyd said. “Information from all over, out of the everywhere, into the here.” He picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Malone.

  “What’s this?” Malone said.

  “That,” Boyd said, “is a report on the Pacific Merchan
t Sailors’ Brotherhood.”

  “Goody,” Malone said doubtfully.

  Boyd came over, pulling at his beard thoughtfully, and took the top few sheets out of Malone’s hands. “The report,” he said, looking down at the sheets, “includes the checks we made on the office of the president of the Brotherhood, as well as the Los Angeles local and the San Francisco local.”

  “Only two?” Malone said. “That seems as if you’ve been lying down on the job.”

  “They’re the top two in membership,” Boyd said. “But listen to this: the president and three of his underlings resigned day before yesterday, and not quite in time. The law—by which I mean us, and a good many other people—is hot on their tails. It seems somebody accidentally mixed up a couple of envelopes.”

  “Sounds like a case for the Post Office,” Malone said brightly.

  “Not these envelopes,” Boyd said. “There was a letter that was supposed to go to the head of the San Francisco local, dealing with a second set of books—not the ones used for tax purposes, but the real McCoy. The letter didn’t get to the San Francisco man. Instead, it went to the attorney general of the state of California.”

  “Lovely,” Malone said. “Meanwhile, what was San Francisco doing?”

  Boyd smiled. “San Francisco was getting confused,” he said. “Like everybody else. The San Francisco man got a copy of an affidavit dealing with merchant-ship tonnage. That was supposed to go to the attorney general.”

  “Good work,” Malone said. “So when the Frisco boys woke up to what was happening—”

  “They called the head man, and he put two and two together, resigned and went into hiding. Right now, he’s probably living an undercover life as a shoe salesman in Paris, Kentucky.”

  “And, after all,” Malone added, “why not? It’s a peaceful life.”

  “The attorney general, of course, impounded the second set of books,” Boyd went on. “A grand jury is hearing charges now.”

  “You know,” Malone said reflectively, “I almost feel sorry for the man. Almost, but not quite.”

  “I see what you mean,” Boyd said. “It is a hell of a thing to happen.”

  “On the other hand—” Malone leafed through the papers in a hurry, then put them back on Boyd’s desk with a sigh of relief. “I’ve got the main details now,” he said. “I can go through the thing more thoroughly later. Anything else?”