by Anthology
"Do you think there are some American spies working here?" the Queen said.
"If they're using psionics," Malone said, "as they obviously are--and I don't know about them, Burris doesn't know about them, O'Connor doesn't know about them and nobody else I can find knows about them-- then they don't exist. That's flat."
"How about outer space?" the Queen said. "I mean, spies from outer space trying to take over the Earth."
"It's a nice idea," Malone said sourly. "I wish they'd hurry up and do it."
"Then you don't think--"
"I don't know what to think," Malone said. "There's some perfectly simple explanation for all this. And somewhere, in all the running around and looking here and there I've been doing, I've got all the facts I need to come up with that answer."
"Oh, my," the Queen said. "That's wonderful."
"Sure it is," Malone said. "There's only one trouble, as a matter of fact. I don't know what the explanation is, and I don't know which facts are important and which ones aren't."
There was a short silence.
"I wish Tom Boyd were here," Malone said wistfully.
"Really?" the Queen said. "Why?"
"Because," Malone said, "I feel like hearing some really professional cursing."
* * * * *
Three-quarters of an hour passed, each and every minute draped in some black and gloomy material. Malone sat in his seat, his head supported by both hands, and stared at the back of the seat ahead of him. No great messages were written on it. The Queen, respecting his need for silent contemplation, sat and watched Lou and said nothing at all.
It was always possible, of course, Malone thought, that he would fall asleep and dream of an answer. That kind of thing kept happening to detectives in books. Or else a strange man in a black trenchcoat would sidle up to him and hand him a slip of paper. The words: "Five o'clock, watch out, the red snake, doom," would be written on the paper and these words would provide him with just the clues he needed to solve the whole case. Or else he would go and beat somebody up, and the exercise would stimulate his brain and he would suddenly arrive at the answer in a blinding flash.
Wondering vaguely if a blinding flash were anything like a dungeon, because people kept being in them and never seemed to come out, Malone sighed. Detectives in books were great, wonderful people who never had any doubts or worries. Particularly if they were with the FBI. Only Kenneth J. Malone was different.
Maybe someday, he thought, he would be a real detective, instead of just having a few special gifts that he hadn't really worked for, anyhow. Maybe someday, in the distant future, he would be the equal of Nick Carter.
Right now, though, he had a case to solve. Nick Carter wasn't around to help.
And Kenneth J. Malone, FBI, was getting absolutely nowhere.
Finally, his reverie was broken by the sounds of argument outside the plane door. There were voices speaking both English and Russian, very loudly. Malone went to the door and opened it. A short, round, grey-haired man who looked just a little like an over-tired bear who had forgotten to sleep all winter almost fell into his arms. The man was wearing a grey overcoat that went nicely with his hair, and carrying a small black bag.
Malone said: "Oog," replaced the man on his own feet and looked past him at the group on the landing ramp outside. The navigator was there, arguing earnestly with two men in the uniform of the MVD.
"Damn it," the navigator said, "you can't come in here. Nobody comes in but the doctor. This is United States territory."
The MVD men said something in Russian.
"No," the navigator said. "Definitely no."
One of the MVD men spat something that sounded like an insult.
The navigator shrugged. "I don't understand Russian," he told them. "All I know is one word. No. Nyet Definitely, absolutely irrevocably nyet."
"Sikin sin Amerikanyets!"
The MVD men turned, as if they'd been a sister act, and went down the steps. The navigator followed them, wiping his forehead and breathing deeply. Malone shut the door.
"Well, well, well," the doctor said, in a burbling sort of voice. "Somehow, we thought it might be you. Anyhow, the ambassador did."
"Really?" Malone said, trying to sound surprised.
"Oh, yes," the doctor assured him. "You have raised something of a stench in and around good old Moscow, you know."
"I'm innocent," Malone said.
The doctor nodded. "Undoubtedly," he said judiciously. "Who isn't? And where, by the way, is the girl?"
"Over there." Malone pointed. News apparently traveled with great speed in Moscow, MVD and censorship notwithstanding. At any rate, he thought, it traveled with great speed to the ears of the Embassy staff.
The doctor lifted Lou's limp wrist to time her pulse, his lips pursed and his eyes focused on a far wall.
"What have you heard?" Malone said.
"The MVD boys are extremely worried," the doctor said. "Extremely." He didn't let go of the wrist, a marvel of which Malone had never grown tired. Doctors always seemed to be able, somehow, to examine a patient and carry on a conversation about totally different things, without even showing the strain. This one was no exception. Malone watched in awe.
"According to the reports we got from them," the doctor said, "you wandered off from Trotkin's without your escort."
"Well," Malone said at random, "I didn't think to leave them a farewell note. I hope they don't think I disliked their company."
"Officially," the doctor said, lifting Lou's left eyelid and gazing thoughtfully into the blue iris thus exposed, "they're afraid you're lost, and they were apologetic as all hell about it to the ambassador." The iris appeared to lose its fascination; the doctor dropped the eyelid and fished in his black bag, which he had put on the seat next to Lou.
"And unofficially?" Malone asked.
"Unofficially," the doctor said, "we've got news of a riot at Trotkin's tonight, in which you seem to have been involved. Mr. Malone, you must be quite a barroom brawler when you're at home."
"Frankly," Malone said, "I'm a little out of practice. And I hope I never have the chance to get back into practice."
The doctor nodded, removing a stethoscope from the bag and applying it to Lou's chest. He waited a second, frowned and then took the plugs out of his ears. "I know just what you mean," he said. "You might be interested to know the first unofficial score of that little match."
"Score?" Malone said.
The doctor nodded again. "Three concussions," he said, "one possible skull fracture, a broken arm, two bitten hands, and a large and varied assortment of dental difficulties and plain hysteria. No dead, however. I really don't understand why not."
"Well," Malone said, "nobody wanted to create an international incident."
"Hmf," the doctor said. "I see. Or I think I do, which is as far as I care to go in the matter. The Russians suspect, by the way, that you've managed to get aboard the plane. They do know, of course, about the girl, and when the pilot called for me they put two and two together. In spite of his story about being sick. What they can't figure out is how you managed to get aboard the plane."
"Neither can I," Malone said at random. The doctor gave him a single bright stare.
"Well," he said at last, "I suppose you know your own business best. By the way, my examination accords pretty well with our unofficial information about the girl--that she was given some sort of drug in a drink. Is that what happened?"
Malone nodded. "As far as we know," he said. "She did get rid of a lot of it within a few minutes, though."
"Good," the doctor said. "Very sensible."
"Sense had nothing to do with it," Malone said.
"In any case," the doctor went on doggedly, "there can't be too much left in her system. Her pulse is good, she's breathing easily and there don't seem to be any complications, so I should doubt strongly that there's been much damage done. Besides all which, of course, the Russians would hardly have wanted to hurt her; what they gave
her would probably have done little more harm even if she'd ingested it all, and kept it down."
"Good," Malone said sincerely.
"I'll give you some pills," the doctor said, fishing in his bag again, "and you can give them to her when she wakes up."
"Is that all?" Malone said, vaguely disappointed.
The doctor eyed him keenly. "Well," he said, "I could give her an injection, but I'd be a little afraid to. If it had a synergistic action with the drug, she might be worse off than before."
"Oh," Malone said. "By all means. Just the pills."
"I'm glad you agree," the doctor said. "Oh, and about leaving--"
"Yes?" Malone said. "We want to get out of here in a hurry, if we can."
"I think you can," the doctor said. "The ambassador mentioned that he'd try to arrange it with the Russians. I don't know what he'll tell them--but then, that's why he's an ambassador, and I'm a doctor." He straightened up and handed Malone an envelope containing three green capsules. "Give her these if she wakes up with a headache," he said. "If she feels all right, just forget all about them."
"Sure," Malone said. "And thanks, Doctor. Tell the ambassador we'd appreciate it if he got us out of here as soon as possible."
"Certainly," the doctor said. "After all, I might as well take on the job of a diplomatic courier."
Malone nodded. "Well," he said, "goodbye, Mr. Courier."
The doctor went to the door, opened it and turned.
"Absolutely," he said, "Mr. Ives."
9
Lou didn't wake up until the plane was dropping toward the Washington airfield, and when she did awaken it was as if she had merely come out of an especially deep sleep. Malone was standing over her, which was far from a coincidence; he had been waiting and watching virtually every minute since takeoff.
During his brief periods of rest, Her Majesty had taken over, and she was now peacefully asleep at the back of the plane, looking a little more careworn, but just as regal as ever. She looked to Malone as if she had weathered a small revolution against her rule, but had managed to persuade the populace (by passing out cookies to the children, probably) that all was, in the last analysis, for the best in this best of all possible worlds. She looked, he thought, absolutely wonderful.
So did Lou. She blinked her eyes open and moved one hand at her side, and then she came fully awake. "Well," she said. "And a bright hello to you, Sleuth. If it's not being too banal, where am I?"
"It is," Malone said, "but you're in an airplane, coming into Washington. We ought to be there in a few minutes."
Lou shook her head slowly from side to side. "I have never heard any news that sounded better in my entire life," she said. "How long ago did we leave Moscow?"
"Our trip to Beautiful Moskva," Malone said, "ended right after they tried to get you to the hospital, by giving you a drugged drink. Do you remember that?"
"I remember it, all right," she said. "I'm never going to forget that moment."
"How do you feel?" Malone said.
"Fine," Lou said. "And how are you?"
"Me?" Malone said. "I'm all right. I've been all right. Don't worry about me."
"Well, one never knows," Lou said. "With your cold and all."
"I think that's better," Malone said hastily. "But you're sure you feel fine?"
Lou nodded. "A little tired, maybe, but that's all." She paused. "I remember Miss Thompson taking me to the ladies' room. I got pretty sick. But from there on, I'm not sure what happened."
"I came in," Malone said, "and got you out."
"How brave!" Lou said.
"Not very," Malone said casually. "After all, what could happen to me in a ladies' room?"
"You'd be surprised," Lou murmured. "And you came and got me, and took me to the plane and all. And I--" She hesitated, and for a second she looked very small and wistful. "Do you--do you think they'll do anything to Dad?" she said.
"I don't see why," Malone said confidently. "After all, the only thing he did wrong was to get caught, and that's an occupational risk if you're in the spy business. Lots of people get caught. Happens all the time. Don't worry about it."
"I--all right," she said. "I won't, then."
"Good," Malone said. He fished in his pocket. "I've got some pills here," he said, "in case you have a headache. The doctor said I could give them to you if you had a headache, but otherwise I should just forget about them."
Lou smiled. "I think you'd better just forget about them," she said.
Malone's hand came out of his pocket empty. "I just want to make sure you're okay," he said. "Probably very silly. Of course you're okay."
"Of course I am," she said. "But I don't think you're silly." She smiled again, a very warm smile. Malone took a deep breath and discovered that he hadn't been breathing at all regularly for several minutes. Lou's smile increased a trifle in intensity and he stopped breathing all over again. "All things considered," she said, "I think you're pretty wonderful, Ken."
Malone's voice sounded to him as if it were coming from a great distance. He wondered if the strange feeling in his stomach were the pangs of love, or the descent of the plane. Then he realized that he didn't care. "Well, well," he said airily. "Well, well, well. Frankly, Lou, I'm inclined to agree with you. Though I'm not sure about the qualification."
"Fine thing," she said. "Tell a man he's wonderful and he just nods his head as if he knew it all along."
Malone swallowed hard. "Maybe I did," he said. "And how did you come to this startling conclusion?"
It was Lou who broke the light mood of their speech first. "Look, Ken," she said seriously, "I'm the daughter of an enemy spy. You know that. You're an FBI agent."
"So what?" he said.
"So," she said, "you don't treat me like the daughter of a spy. You treat me just like anybody else."
"I do not," Malone said instantly.
"All right," she said, and shrugged. "But I'm sure none of this is in the FBI manual for daughters of convicted spies."
"Now, you look," Malone said. "Just what do you think this is? The McCarthy era? Any way I treat you, it has nothing to do with your father. He's a spy, and we caught him and we sent him back to Moscow. That's our job. But all this about the sins of the fathers being visited on the heads of the children, even unto the seventh generation--this is just plain silly. You're you; you're not your father. You haven't done anything--why should I treat you as if you have?"
"How do you know I'm not a spy, too?" she said.
"Because," Malone said flatly, "I know."
"Really?" she said softly. "Do you really?"
Malone opened his mouth, shut it and then started again. "Strictly speaking," he said carefully, "I don't know. But we're in the United States now, where a person is considered innocent until proven guilty."
"And that," Lou said, "is all you're going on, I suppose."
"Not all," Malone said.
"I didn't think so," Lou said, still smiling.
"Don't ask me how," Malone said, "but we're pretty sure you knew nothing about your father's activities. Forget it."
Lou looked suddenly slightly disappointed. Malone wondered why. Of course, there was one more reason, and maybe she'd thought of that. "It does make it easier," he said, "that you happen to be a beautiful girl."
She smiled again, and started to say something, but she never got the chance. The landing gear of the aircraft bumped gently against the runway, and the ship rolled slowly in to a stop.
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 ge
t 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.