That Sweet Little Old Lady

by Randall Garrett

  IV

  "You're _where_?" Andrew J. Burris said.

  Malone looked at the surprised face on the screen and wished he hadn'tcalled. He had to report in, of course--but, if he'd had any sense, he'dhave ordered Boyd to do the job for him.

  Oh, well, it was too late for that now. "I'm in Las Vegas," he said. "Itried to get you last night, but I couldn't, so I--"

  "Las Vegas," Burris said. "Well, well. Las Vegas." His face darkened andhis voice became very loud. "Why aren't you in Yucca Flats?" hescreamed.

  "Because she insisted on it," Malone said. "The old lady. Miss Thompson.She says there's another telepath here."

  Burris closed his eyes. "Well, that's a relief," he said at last."Somebody in one of the gambling houses, I suppose. Fine, Malone." Hewent right on without a pause: "The boys have uncovered two more invarious parts of the nation. Not one of them is even close to sane." Heopened his eyes. "Where's this one?" he said.

  Malone sighed. "In the looney bin," he said.

  Burris' eyes closed again. Malone waited in silence. At last Burrissaid: "All right. Get him out."

  "Right," Malone said.

  "Tell me," Burris said. "Why did Miss Thompson insist that you go to LasVegas? Somebody else could have done the job. You could have sent Boyd,couldn't you?"

  "Chief," Malone said slowly, "what sort of mental condition are thoseother telepaths in?"

  "Pretty bad," Burris said. "As a matter of fact, very bad. Miss Thompsonmay be off her trolley, but the others haven't even got any tracks." Hepaused. "What's that got to do with it?" he said.

  "Well," Malone said, "I figured we'd better handle Miss Thompson withkid gloves--at least until we find a better telepath to work with." Hedidn't mention Barbara Wilson. The chief, he told himself, didn't wantto be bothered with details.

  "Doggone right you'd better," Burris said. "You treat that old lady asif she were the Queen herself, understand?"

  "Don't worry," Malone said unhappily. "We are." He hesitated. "She saysshe'll help us find our spy, all right, but we've got to do it herway--or else she won't co-operate."

  "Do it her way, then," Burris said. "That spy--"

  "Chief, are you sure?"

  Burris blinked. "Well, then," he said, "what _is_ her way?"

  Malone took a deep breath. "First," he said, "we had to come here andpick this guy up. This William Logan, who's in a private sanitarium justoutside of Las Vegas. That's number one. Miss Thompson wants to get allthe telepaths together, so they can hold mental conversations orsomething."

  "And all of them batty," Burris said.

  "Sure," Malone said. "A convention of nuts--and me in the middle.Listen, chief--"

  "Later," Burris said. "When this is over we can all resign, or gofishing, or just plain shoot ourselves. But right now the nationalsecurity is primary, Malone. Remember that."

  "O.K.," Malone sighed. "O.K. But she wants all the nuts here."

  "Go along with her," Burris snapped. "Keep her happy. So far, Malone,she's the only lead we have on the guy who's swiping information fromYucca Flats. If she wants something, Malone, you do it."

  "But, chief--"

  "Don't interrupt me," Burris said. "If she wants to be treated like aqueen, you treat her like one. Malone, that's an order!"

  "Yes, sir," Malone said sadly. "But, chief, she wants us to buy her somenew clothes."

  Burris exploded: "Is that all? New clothes? Get 'em. Put 'em on theexpense account. New clothes are a drop in the bucket."

  "Well ... she thinks we need new clothes, too."

  "Maybe you do," Burris said. "Put the whole thing on the expenseaccount. You don't think I'm going to quibble about a few dollars, doyou?"

  "Well--"

  "Get the clothes. Just don't bother me with details like this. Handlethe job yourself, Malone--you're in charge out there. And get to YuccaFlats as soon as possible."

  Malone gave up. "Yes, sir," he said.

  "All right, then," Burris said. "Call me tomorrow. Meanwhile--good luck,Malone. Chin up."

  Malone said: "Yes, sir," and reached for the switch. But Burris' voicestopped him.

  "Just one thing," he said.

  "Yes, chief?" Malone said.

  Burris frowned. "Don't spend any more for the clothes than you have to,"he said.

  Malone nodded, and cut off.

  * * * * *

  When the director's image had vanished, he got up and went to the windowof the hotel room. Outside, a huge sign told the world, and Malone, thatthis was the Thunderbird-Hilton-Zeckendorf Hotel, but Malone ignored it.He didn't need a sign; he knew where he was.

  In hot water, he thought. _That's_ where he was.

  Behind him, the door opened. Malone turned as Boyd came in.

  "I found a costume shop, Ken," he said.

  "Great," Malone said. "The chief authorized it."

  "He did?" Boyd's round face fell at the news.

  "He said to buy her whatever she wants. He says to treat her like aqueen."

  "That," Boyd said, "we're doing now."

  "I know it," Malone said. "I know it altogether too well."

  "Anyhow," Boyd said, brightening, "the costume shop doesn't do us anygood. They've only got cowboy stuff and bullfighters' costumes andMexican stuff--you know, for their Helldorado Week here."

  "You didn't give up, did you?" Malone said.

  Boyd shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "Ken, this is on theexpense account, isn't it?"

  "Expense account," Malone said. "Sure it is."

  Boyd looked relieved. "Good," he said. "Because I had the proprietorphone her size in, to New York."

  "Better get two of 'em," Malone said. "The chief said anything shewanted, she was supposed to have."

  "I'll go back right away. I told him we wanted the stuff on theafternoon plane, so--"

  "And give him Bar ... Miss Wilson's size, and yours, and mine. Tell himto dig up something appropriate."

  "For us?" Boyd blanched visibly.

  "For us," Malone said grimly.

  Boyd set his jaw. "No," he said.

  "Listen, Tom," Malone said, "I don't like this any better than you do.But if I can't resign, you can't either. Costumes for everybody."

  "But," Boyd said, and stopped. After a second he went on: "Malone ...Ken ... FBI agents are supposed to be inconspicuous, aren't they?"

  Malone nodded.

  "Well, how inconspicuous are we going to be in this stuff?"

  "It's an idea," Malone said. "But it isn't a very good one. Our firstjob is to keep Miss Thompson happy. And that means costumes. And what'smore," Malone added, "from now on she's 'Your Majesty'. Got that?"

  "Ken," Boyd said, "you've gone nuts."

  Malone shook his head. "No, I haven't," he said. "I just wish I had. Itwould be a relief."

  "Me, too," Boyd said. He started for the door and turned. "I wish Icould have stayed in San Francisco," he said. "Why should she insist ontaking _me_ along?"

  "The beard," Malone said.

  "_My_ beard?" Boyd recoiled.

  "Right," Malone said. "She says it reminds her of someone she knows.Frankly, it reminds me of someone, too. Only I don't know who."

  Boyd gulped. "I'll shave it off," he said, with the air of a man who cando no more to propitiate the Gods.

  "You will not," Malone said firmly. "Touch but a hair of yon black chin,and I'll peel off your entire skin."

  Boyd winced.

  "Now," Malone said, "go back to that costume shop and arrange things.Here." He fished in his pockets, came out with a crumpled slip of paperand handed it to Boyd. "That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get anotherlist from B ... Miss Wilson." Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected astrange glint in the other man's eye. "Don't measure her yourself," hesaid. "Just ask her."

  Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly. "All right, Ken," hesaid. "But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me."

  "If you get anywhere," Malone said, "I'll snatch you
baldheaded. AndI'll leave the beard."

  "I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken," Boyd said. "I meant in general."He left, with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His backlooked, to Malone, like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold orguillotine.

  The door closed.

  Now, Malone thought, who does that beard remind me of? Who do I know whoknows Miss Thompson?

  And what difference does it make?

  Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard was really an admirable factof nature. Ever since beards had become popular again in themid-sixties, and FBI agents had been permitted to wear them, Malone hadthought about growing one. But, somehow, it didn't seem right.

  Now, looking at Boyd, he began to think about the prospect again.

  He shrugged the notion away. There were things to do.

  He picked up the phone and called Information.

  "Can you give me," he said, "the number of the Desert Edge Sanitarium?"

  * * * * *

  The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desert skywith its customary purples and oranges by the time the little caravanarrived at the Desert Edge Sanitarium, a square white building severalmiles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in the first car, wondered briefly aboutthe kind of patients they catered to? People driven mad by vingt-et-unor poker-dice? Neurotic chorus ponies? Gambling czars with delusions ofnon-persecution?

  Sitting in the front seat next to Boyd, he watched the unhappy SanFrancisco agent manipulating the wheel. In the back seat, QueenElizabeth Thompson and Lady Barbara, the nurse, were located, and HerMajesty was chattering away like a magpie.

  Malone eyed the rear-view mirror to get a look at the car following themand the two local FBI agents in it. They were, he thought, unbelievablylucky. He had to sit and listen to the Royal Personage in the back seat.

  "Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me," she wassaying, "I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now, the best Ican do is to knight you all, and of course that's hardly enough. But Ithink I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia."

  Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd likebeing Duke of Columbia--and wouldn't the President be surprised!

  "And Sir Thomas," the queen continued, "will be the Duke of ... what?Sir Thomas?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properlyrespectful.

  "What would you like to be Duke of?" she said.

  "Oh," Boyd said after a second's thought, "anything that pleases YourMajesty." But, apparently, his thoughts gave him away.

  "You're from upstate New York?" the Queen said. "How very nice. Then youmust be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie."

  "Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a noteof pride in the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agentwas driving with a serene face and an economy of motion.

  _Duke of Poughkeepsie!_ Malone thought. _Hah!_

  He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fellfrom his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it withoutsuccess.

  All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late SixteenthCentury costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. HerMajesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and smallskullcaps of the era--and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, thelow-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing--and Sir Thomas andMalone--Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly--were clad in doublet, hose andlong coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them wereloaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems.

  Naturally, the gems were fake. But then, Malone thought, the Queen wasmad. It all balanced out in the end.

  As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayerthat he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all bedressed. If he hadn't--

  He didn't want to think about that.

  He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night.

  The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on thesteps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man withalmost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that agushing female would probably describe, Malone thought, as "craggy," butit didn't look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead, it lookedtough and forbidding.

  He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from thefront seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one lowsweep made a great bow. "We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.

  Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worriedmanner, to keep from catching them on the door jamb. "You know, SirThomas," she said when she was standing free of the car, "I think wemust be related."

  "Ah?" Boyd said worriedly.

  "I'm certain of it, in fact," Her Majesty went on. "You look justexactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come from oneof the sinister branches of the family. Perhaps you are a half-brotherof mine--removed, of course."

  Malone grinned, and tried to hide the expression. Boyd was lookingpuzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him illegitimatein just that way before.

  But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent hadalways reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who.The hair hadn't been black, either, but red.

  Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for HenryVIII.

  * * * * *

  Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.

  "I'm Malone," he said, checking a tendency to bow. "I called earliertoday. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him backwith us in the second car."

  Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. "Come in, Mr.Malone," he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agentsbegan emptying itself over the hospital grounds.

  The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two localagents bringing up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty'spersonal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. Ina way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut anice figure in the outfit, he thought--rather like Errol Flynn in theold black-and-white print of "The Prince and the Pauper."

  But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerksand receptionists stopped their work to gape at the four bedizenedwalkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed notelepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.

  "A whole roundup of nuts," they were thinking. "And those two fellows inthe back must be bringing them in--along with Dr. Dowson."

  Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethancostumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn'tshe--either Elizabeth II, on the throne, or Elizabeth I, right behindhim. Either way you looked at it--

  When they were all inside the waiting room, Dr. Dowson said: "Now, Mr.Malone, just what is all this about?" He rubbed his long hands together."I fail to see the humor of the situation."

  "Humor?" Malone said.

  "Doctor," Barbara Wilson began, "let me explain. You see--"

  "These ridiculous costumes," Dr. Dowson said, waving a hand at them."You may feel that poking fun at insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone, butlet me tell you--"

  "It wasn't like that at all," Boyd said.

  "And," Dr. Dowson continued in a somewhat louder voice, "wanting to takeMr. Logan away from us. Mr. Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone. Heshould be properly cared for."

  "I promise we'll take good care of him." Malone said earnestly. TheElizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had atendency to sweat.

  "I take leave to doubt that," Dr. Dowson said, eying their costumespointedly.

  "Miss Wilson here," Malone volunteered, "is a trained psychiatricnurse."

  Barbara, in her gown, stepped forward. "Dr. Dowson," she said, "let meassure you that these costumes have their
purpose. We--"

  "Not only that," Malone said. "There are a group of trained men from St.Elizabeths Hospital in Washington who are going to take the best of careof him." He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats, or about telepathy.

  Why spread around information unnecessarily?

  "But I don't understand," Dr. Dowson said. "What interest could the FBIhave in an insane man?"

  "That's none of your business," Malone said. He reached inside hisfur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply,withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. "This," he said, "is acourt order, instructing you to hand over to us the person of oneWilliam Logan, herein identified and described." He waved it at thedoctor. "That's your William Logan," he said, "only now he's ours."

  * * * * *

  Dr. Dowson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Thenhe looked up again at Malone. "I assume that I have some discretion inthis matter," he said. "And I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr.Logan is? We have his case histories here, and we have worked with himfor some time."

  Barbara Wilson said: "But--"

  "I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness," Dr.Dowson said. "I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer thiswork to another group of therapists. It might set his illnessback--cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily benullified."

  "Please, doctor," Barbara Wilson began.

  "I'm afraid the court order's got to stand," Malone said. Privately, hefelt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was, obviously enough, a conscientiousman trying to do the best he could for his patient. But--

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson," he said. "We'll expect you to send all of yourdata to the government psychiatrists--and, naturally, any concern forthe patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxiousfor its workers to get the reputation of careless men." He paused,wondering what other bone he could throw the man. "I have no doubt thatthe St. Elizabeths men will be happy to accept your co-operation," hesaid at last. "But, I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logangoes with us."

  Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly. "Does he have to get dressed up like amasquerade, too?" Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added:"Anyhow, I don't even know you're FBI men. After all, why should Icomply with orders from a group of men, dressed insanely, whom I don'teven know?"

  Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on asmall table, near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondereduncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dowson had a small arsenalthere, to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating them.

  He looked back at the set and dialed Burris' private number inWashington. When the director's face appeared on the screen, Malonesaid: "Mr. Burris, will you please identify me to Dr. Dowson?" He lookedover at Dowson. "You recognize Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose?" hesaid.

  Dowson nodded. His grim face showed a faint shock. He walked to thephone, and Malone stepped back to let him talk with Burris.

  "My name is Dowson," he said. "I'm psychiatric director here at DesertEdge Sanitarium. And your men--"

  "My men have orders to take a William Logan from your care," Burrissaid.

  "That's right," Dowson said. "But--"

  While they were talking, Queen Elizabeth I sidled quietly up to Maloneand tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Sir Kenneth," she whispered in the faintest of voices, "I know whereyour telepathic spy is. And I know _who_ he is."

  "Who?" Malone said. "What? Why? Where?" He blinked and whirled. Itcouldn't be true. They couldn't solve the case so easily.

  But the Queen's face was full of a majestic assurance. "He's rightthere," she said, and she pointed.

  Malone followed her finger.

  It was aimed directly at the glowing image of Andrew J. Burris, Directorof the FBI.

  "Not legally responsible, of course...."]