The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Sorry?" the patrolman said, frowning. He had an open, boyish face with freckles and a pug nose. He looked like somebody's kid brother, very dependable but just a little cute. "What for?" he said.

  Malone shrugged. "What else?" he said. "Speeding."

  "Oh, that," the patrolman said. "Why, don't you worry about that."

  "Don't worry about it?" Malone said. This particular kid brother was obviously a little nuts, and should have been put away years ago. He ground his teeth silently, but he didn't make any complaints. It was never wise, he knew, to irritate a traffic cop of any sort.

  "Sure not," the patrolman said. "Why, we don't pay any attention out here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That's okay."

  "Fine," Malone said cheerily. "Then I can drive on?"

  "Now, just hold it a second there," the patrolman said. "Let's see your identification if you don't mind."

  Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long, careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten and managed to say nothing.

  Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. "Kenneth J. Malone," he said in a tone of some surprise. "Special Agent of the FBI." He looked up. "That right?" he said. "What it says here?"

  "That's right," Malone said. "And you can have my autograph later." He regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the patrolman didn't seem to notice.

  "Then you're the man, all right," he said happily. "I caught your plate number as you went on by me, back there."

  "Plate number?" Malone said. "What am I supposed to have done?" He'd overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his personal code that he could think of. And it didn't seem likely that the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people who overslept.

  "Why, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said with honest surprise written all over his Norman Rockwell face, "as far as I know you didn't do a thing wrong."

  "But--"

  "They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you'd probably be driving it."

  "Good," Malone said. "And I am. And I'd like to continue doing so." He paused and then added, "But what happened?"

  "Well," the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish Succession, "well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond, and Highway Patrol Headquarters--"

  "Down in Richmond," Malone muttered resignedly.

  "That's right," the patrolman said in a pleased voice. "Well, they called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our radios." He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.

  Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was capable of speech. "What?" he said in a calm, patient voice, "was the message about?"

  "Well," the patrolman said, "it seems some fella down in Washington, fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you pretty bad."

  "He could have called me on the car phone," Malone said in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice. "He didn't have to--"

  "There's no call for yelling at me, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said reproachfully. "I only obeyed my orders, which were to locate your black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a message. That's all."

  "It's enough," Malone muttered. "He didn't have to send out the militia to round me up."

  "Oh, no, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said. "Not the militia. Highway Patrol. We don't rightly have any connection with the militia at all."

  "Glad to hear it," Malone said. He picked up the receiver of the car phone and waited for the buzz that would show that he was connected with Communications Central in Washington.

  It didn't come.

  "Oh, yes," the patrolman said suddenly. "I suppose that's why this Mr. Boyd, he couldn't call you on the car telephone, Mr. Malone. The message we got, it also says that the fella at the FBI garage in Washington just forgot to plug in that phone there."

  "Oh," Malone said. "Well, thanks for telling me."

  "You're right welcome, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said "You can plug it in now."

  "I intend to," Malone said through his teeth. He closed his eyes for a long second, and then opened them again. He saw the interested face of the patrolman looking down at him. Hurriedly, he turned away, felt underneath the dashboard until he found the dangling plug, and inserted it into its socket.

  The buzz now arrived.

  Malone heaved a great sigh and punched for Boyd's office. Then he looked around.

  The patrolman was still standing at the car window. He was looking down at Malone with an interested, slightly blank expression.

  Malone thought of several things to say, and chose the most harmless. "Thanks a lot," he told the patrolman. "I appreciate your stopping off to let me know."

  "Oh, that's all right, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said. "That was my orders, to do that. And even if they weren't, it was no trouble at all. Any time. I'd always be glad to do anything for the FBI."

  "Boyd here," a tinny voice from the phone said.

  Malone eyed the patrolman sourly. "Malone here," he said. "What's the trouble, Tom? I--No, wait a minute."

  "Ken!" Boyd's voice said. "I've been trying to--"

  "Hold it a second," Malone said. He opened his mouth, and then he saw a car go by. The patrolman hadn't seen it. Malone felt sorry for the driver, but not too sorry. "Say!" he said to the patrolman.

  "Yes, sir?" the patrolman said.

  "That boy was really going, wasn't he?" Malone said. "He must have been doing at least ninety."

  The patrolman jerked his head around to stare at the disappearing car. "Well--" he said, and then: "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thanks. I'll see you later." He raced for his machine, swung aboard and roared down the road, guiding with one hand and manipulating the controls of his radar set with the other.

  Malone waved him a cheery farewell, and got back to the phone.

  "Okay, Tom," he said. "Go ahead."

  "Who was that you were talking to?" Boyd asked.

  "Oh, just a motorcycle patrolman," Malone said. "He wanted to be helpful, so I told him to go chase a Buick."

  "Why a Buick?" Boyd said, interestedly.

  "Why not?" Malone said. "There happened to be one handy at the time. Now, what's on your mind?"

  "I've been searching all over hell for you," Boyd said. "I wish you'd just leave some word where you were going, and then I wouldn't have to--"

  "Damn it," Malone cut in. "Tom, just tell me what you want. In straightforward, simple language. It just took me ten minutes to pry a few idiotic facts out of a highway patrolman. Don't make me go through it all over again with you."

  "Okay, okay," Boyd said. "Keep your pants on. But here's the dope: I just flew in from New York, and I brought all the files on the case-- the stuff you left in your office in New York, remember?"

  "Right," Malone said. "Thanks."

  "And I think we may be able to get the Big Cheese," Boyd went on.

  "Manelli?" Malone said.

  "None other than the famous Cesare Antonio," Boyd said. "It seems two of his most valued lieutenants were found in a garage in Queens, practically weighted down with machine-gun bullets."

  Malone thought of Manelli, complaining sadly about the high overhead of murder. "And where does that get us?" he said.

  "Well," Boyd said, "whoever did the job forgot to search the bodies."

  "Oh-oh," Malone said.

  "Very much oh-oh," Boyd said. "They're loaded down, not only with lead, but with paper. There are documents linking Manelli right up to the International Truckers' Union--a direct tie-in with Mike S
and. And Sand now says he's tied in with the Great Lakes Transport Union in Chicago."

  "This sounds like a big one," Malone said.

  "You have no idea," Boyd said. "And in the middle of all this, Burris called."

  "Burris?" Malone said.

  "That's right," Boyd said. "He wants me to go on down to Florida and take over the investigation of the Flarion assassination. So it looks as if I'm going to miss most of the fun."

  "Too bad," Malone said.

  "But maybe not all," Boyd said. "It may tie in with the case we're working on. At least, that's what Burris thinks."

  "Yes," Malone said. "I can see why he thinks so. Did he have any message for me, by the way?"

  "Not exactly," Boyd said.

  Malone blinked. "Not exactly?" he said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Well," Boyd said, "he says he does have something to tell you, but it'll wait until he sees you. Then, he says, he'll tell you personally."

  "Great," Malone said.

  "Maybe it's a surprise," Boyd said. "Maybe you're fired."

  "I wouldn't have the luck," Malone said. "But if I get any leads on the Flarion job, I'll let you know right away."

  "Sure," Boyd said. "Thanks. And--by the way, what are you doing now?"

  "Me?" Malone said. "I'm driving."

  "Yes, I know," Boyd said patiently. "To where, and why? Or is this another secret? Sometimes I think nobody loves me any more."

  "Oh, don't be silly," Malone said. "The entire city of Miami Beach is awaiting your arrival with bated breath."

  "But what are you doing?" Boyd said.

  Malone chose his words carefully. "I'm just checking a lead," he said at last. "I don't know if it's going to pan out or not, but I thought I'd drive down to Richmond and check on a name I've got. I'll call you about it in the morning, Tom, and let you know what the result is."

  "Oh," Boyd said. "Okay. Sure. So long, Ken."

  "So long," Malone said. He hung up the phone, put the car into gear again and roared off down U. S. Highway Number One. He didn't feel entirely happy about the way things had gone; he'd been forced to lie to Tom Boyd, and that just wasn't right.

  However, there was no help for it. It was actually better this way, he told himself hopefully. After all, the less Tom knew from now on, the better off he was going to be. The better off everyone would be.

  He went on through Fredericksburg without incident, but he didn't continue on to Richmond. Instead, he turned off U. S. 1 when he reached a little town called Thornburg, which was smaller than he had believed a town could be and live. He began following a secondary road out into the countryside.

  The countryside, of course, was filled with country, in the shape of hills, birds, trees, flowers, grass and other distractions to the passing motorist. It took Malone quite a bit longer than he expected to find the place he was looking for, and he finally came to the sad conclusion that country estates are just as difficult to find as houses in Brooklyn. In both cases, he thought, there was the same frantic search down what seemed to be a likely route, the same disappointment when the route turned out to lead nowhere, and the same discovery that no one had ever heard of the place and, in fact, doubted very strongly whether it even existed.

  But he found it at last, rounding a curve in a narrow black-top road and spotting the house beyond a grove of trees. He recognized it instantly.

  He had seen it so often that he felt as if he knew it intimately.

  It was a big, rambling, Colonial-type mansion, painted a blinding and beautiful white, with a broad, pillared porch and a great carved front door. The front windows were curtained in rich purples, and before the house was a great front garden, and tall old trees. Malone half-expected Scarlett O'Hara to come tripping out of the house at any moment.

  Inside it, however, if Malone were right, was not the magnetic Scarlett. Inside the house were some of the most important members of the Psychical Research Society.

  But it was impossible to tell from the outside. Nothing moved on the well-kept grounds, and the windows didn't show so much as the flutter of a purple curtain. There was no sound. No cars were parked around the house, nor, Malone thought as he remembered Gone With the Wind, were there any horses or carriages.

  The place looked deserted.

  Malone thought he knew better, but it took a few minutes for him to get up enough courage to go up the long driveway. He stared at the house. It was an old one, he knew, built long before the Civil War and originally commanding a huge plantation. Now, all that remained of that vast parcel of land was the few acres that surrounded the house.

  But the original family still inhabited it, proud of the house and of their part in its past. Over the years, Malone knew, they had kept it up scrupulously, and the place had been both restored and modernized on the inside without harming the classic outlines of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old structure.

  A fence surrounded the estate, but the front gate was swinging open. Malone saw it and took a deep breath. Now, he told himself, or never. He drove the Lincoln through the opening slowly, alert for almost anything.

  There was no disturbance. Thirty yards from the front door he pulled the car to a cautious stop and got out. He started to walk toward the building. Each step seemed to take whole minutes, and everything he had thought raced through his mind again.

  Nothing seemed to move anywhere, except Malone himself.

  Was he right? Were the PRS people really here? Or had he been led astray by them? Had he been manipulated as easily as they had manipulated so many others?

  That was possible. But it wasn't the only possibility.

  Suppose, he thought, that he was perfectly right, and that the PRS members were waiting inside. And suppose, too, that he'd misunderstood their motives.

  Suppose they were just waiting for him to get a little closer.

  Malone kept walking.

  In just a few steps, he would be close enough so that a bullet aimed at him from the house hadn't a real chance of missing him.

  And it didn't have to be bullets, either. They might have set a trap, he thought, and were waiting for him to walk right into it. Then they would hold him prisoner while they devised ways to...

  To what? He didn't know. And that was even worse; it called up horrible terrors from the darkest depths of Malone's mind. He continued to walk forward, feeling about as exposed as a restaurant lamb chop caught with its panty down.

  He reached the steps that led up to the porch, and took them one at a time.

  He stood on the porch. A long second passed.

  He took a step toward the high, wide and handsome oaken door. Then he took another step, and another.

  What was waiting for him inside?

  He took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell button.

  The door swung open immediately, and Malone involuntarily stepped back.

  The owner of the house smiled at him from the doorway. Malone let out his breath in one long sigh of relief.

  "I was hoping it would be you," he said weakly. "May I come in?"

  "Why, certainly, Malone. Come on in. We've been expecting you, you know," said Andrew J. Burris, director of the FBI.

  15

  Malone sat, quietly relaxed and almost completely at ease, in the depths of a huge, comfortable, old-fashioned Morris chair. Three similar chairs were clustered with his, around a squat, massive coffee table made of a single slab of dark wood set on short, curved legs. Malone looked around at the other three with a relaxed feeling of recognition: Andrew J. Burris, Sir Lewis Carter, and Luba Vasilovna Garbitsch.

  "That mind shield of yours," Burris was saying, "is functioning very well. We weren't entirely sure you had actually located us until you pulled into that driveway."

  "I wasn't entirely sure what I was locating," Malone said.

  "And so it's over," Burris said with a satisfied air. "Everything's over."

  "And just beginning," Sir Lewis put in. He drew a pipe from an inside pocket and began
to fill it.

  "And, of course," Burris said, "just beginning. Things do that; they go round and round in circles. It's what makes everything so confusing."

  "And so much fun," Lou said, leaning back in her chair. She didn't look hostile now, Malone thought; she looked like a cat, wary but content. He decided that he liked this Lou even better than the old one. Lou, at home among her psionic colleagues, was even more than he'd ever thought she could be.

  "More what?" she said suddenly. Burris jerked upright a trifle.

  "What's more what?" he said. "Damn it, let's stick to one thing or the other. As soon as this thing starts mixing talk and thought it confuses me."

  "Never mind," Lou said. She smiled across the table at Malone.

  Malone jerked a finger under his collar.

  "What made you decide to come here?" Sir Lewis said. He had the pipe lit now, and blew a cloud of fragrant smoke over the table.

  Malone wondered where to start. "One of the clues," he said at last, "was the efficiency of the FBI. It hit me the same way the efficiency of the PRS had hit me, while I was looking at the batch of reports that had been run off so rapidly."

  "Ah," Sir Lewis said. "The dossiers."

  "Dossiers?" Burris said.

  Sir Lewis puffed at his pipe. "Sorry," he said. "I thought you had been tuned in for that."

  "I was busy," Burris said. "I can't tune into everything. After all, I've only got one mind."

  "And two hands," Malone said at random.

  "At least," Lou said. Their eyes met in a glance of perfect understanding.

  "What the hell do hands have to do with it?" Burris said.

  Sir Lewis shrugged. "Tune in and see," he said. "It's an old joke; but you'll never really adjust to telepathy unless you practice."

  "Damn it," Burris said, "I practice. I'm always practicing. This and that and the other thing--after all, I am the director of the FBI. There's a lot to be done."

  Sir Lewis puffed at his pipe again. "At any rate," he said smoothly, "Mr. Malone had requested some dossiers on us. On the PRS, myself, and Luba. They arrived very quickly. The efficiency of that arrival, and the efficiency he'd been noting about the FBI ever since he began work on this case, finally struck home to him."