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?”