The cabbie nodded violently. "Sure, Mister," he said. "Now, it's funny you should ask. I hit the block once today and I was saying to myself, I'll bet somebody's going to ask me about this. So when I was in town I talked around with Si Deeds ... you know Si? Oh, no, you just arrived today ... anyhow, I figured Si would know."
"And did he?" Malone said.
"Not a thing," the cabbie said. Malone sighed disgustedly and the cabbie went on: "So I went over and talked to Bob Grindell. I figured, there was action, Bob would know. And guess what?"
"He didn't know either," Malone said tiredly.
"Bob?" the cabbie said. "Say, Mister, you must be new here for sure, if you say Bob wouldn't know what was going on. Why, Bob knows more about this town than guys lived in it twice as long, I'll tell you. Believe me, he knows."
"And what did he say?" Malone asked.
The cabbie paused. "About what?" he said.
"About the roadblock," Malone said distinctly.
"Oh," the cabbie said. "That. Well, that was a funny thing and no mistake. There was this fight, see? And Shellenberger got in the middle of it, see? So when he was dead they had to set up this roadblock."
Malone restrained himself with some difficulty. "What fight?" he said. "And who's Shellenberger? And how did he get in the way?"
"Mister," the cabbie said, "you must be new here."
"A remarkable guess," Malone said.
The cabbie nodded. "Sure must be," he said. "Gus Shellenberger's lived here over ten years now. I drove him around many's the time. Remember when he used to go out to this motel out on the outskirts there; there was this doll he was interested in but it never came to much. He said she wasn't right for his career, you know how guys like that are, they got to be careful all the time. Never hit the papers or anything--I mean with the doll and all--but people get to know things. You know. So with this doll--"
"How long ago did all this happen?" Malone asked.
"The doll?" the cabbie said. "Oh, five-six years. Maybe seven. I remember it was the year I got a new cab, business was pretty good, you know. Seven, I guess. Garage made me a price, you know, I had to be an idiot to turn it down? A nice price. Well, George Lamel who owns the place, he's an old friend, you know? I did him some favors so he gives me a nice price. Well, this new cab--"
"Can we get back to the present for a little while?" Malone said. "There was this fight, and your friend Gus Shellenberger got involved in it somehow--"
"Oh, that," the cabbie said. "Oh, sure. Well, there was a kind of chase. Some sheriff's officers were looking for an escaped convict, and they were chasing him and doing some shooting. And Shellenberger, he got in the way and got shot accidentally. The criminal, he got away. But it's kind of a mess, because--"
A loud chorus of sirens effectively stopped all conversation. Two cars stamped with the insignia of the sheriff's office came into sight and streaked past, headed for Las Vegas.
"Because Shellenberger was State's attorney, after all," the cabbie said. "It's not like just anybody got killed."
"And the roadblock?" Malone said.
"For the criminal, I guess," the cabbie said.
Malone nodded heavily. The whole thing smelled rather loudly, he thought. The "accident" wasn't very plausible to start with. And a search for an escaped criminal that didn't even involve checking identification of strangers like Malone wasn't much of a search. The cops knew who they were looking for.
And Shellenberger hadn't been killed by accident.
The roadblock was down, he noticed. The sheriff's office cars had apparently carried the cheerful cops back to Las Vegas. Maybe they'd found their man, Malone thought, and maybe they just didn't care any more.
"Wouldn't a State's attorney live in Carson City?" he asked after a while.
"Not old Gus Shellenberger," the cabbie said. "Many's the time I talked with him and he said he loved this old town. Loved it. Like an old friend. Why, he used to say to me--"
At that point the Great Universal hove into view. Malone felt extraordinarily grateful to see it.
* * * * *
He went to his room with the bundle of papers in his hand and locked himself in. He lit a fresh cigar and started through the papers. Las Vegas was the one on top, and he gave it a quick going-over. Sure enough, the suicide of the Golden Palace owner was on page one, along with a lot of other local news.
_Mayor Resigns Under Council Pressure_, one headline read. On page 3 another story was headlined: _County Attorney Indicted by Grand Jury in Bribery Case_. And at the bottom of page 1, complete with pictures of baffled phone operators and linemen, was a double column spread: _Damage to Phone Relay Station Isolates City Five Hours_.
Carson City, the State Capitol, came in for lots of interesting news, too. Three headlines caught Malone's attention:
LT.-GOVERNOR MORRIS SWORN IN AS GOVERNOR TWELVE MEMBERS OF LEGISLATURE RESIGN
Ill Health Given As Reason
STATE'S ATTORNEY'S OFFICE: "NO COMMENT" ON RACKETS CONNECTION CHARGE.
The next paper was the New York Post. Malone studied the front page with interest:
MAYOR ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMM.
The story on page 3 had a little more detail:
MAYOR AMALFI ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMMISSIONER ON EVIDENCE SHOWING "COLLUSION WITH GAMBLING INTERESTS"
But Malone didn't have time to read the story. Other headlines on pages 2 and 3 attracted his startled attention:
TWELVE DIE IN BROOKLYN GANG MASSACRE
Ricardo, Numbers Head, Among Slain
"DANGEROUS DAN" SUGRUE LINKED WITH TRUCKER'S UNION
Admits Connection "Gladly"
[Illustration]
HOUSING AUTHORITY DENIES, THEN CONFESSES GRAFT CHARGE
Malone wiped a streaming brow. Apparently all hell was busting loose. Under the _Post_ was the San Francisco _Examiner_, its crowded front page filled with all sorts of strange and startling news items. Malone looked over a few at random. A wildcat waterfront strike had been called off after the resignation of the union local's president. The "Nob Hill Mob," which had grown notorious in the past few years, had been rounded up and captured _in toto_ after what the paper described only as a "police tipoff." Two headlines caught his special attention:
BERSERK POLICE CAPTAIN KILLS TWO AIDES, SELF: CORRUPTION HINTED
The second hit closer to home:
FBI ARRESTS THREE STATE SENATORS ON INCOME TAX CHARGE
Malone felt a pang of nostalgia. Conquering it after a brief struggle, he went on to the next paper. From Los Angeles, its front page showed that Hollywood, at least, was continuing to hold its own:
LAVISH FUNERAL PLANNED FOR WONDER DOG TOMORROW
But the Washington _Times-Herald_ brought things back to the mess Malone had expected. All sorts of things were going on:
PRESIDENT ACCEPTS RESIGNATION OF THREE CABINET MEMBERS
New Appointees Not Yet Named
PENTAGON TO INVESTIGATE QUARTER-MASTER CORPS GRAFT
Revelations Hinted In Closed Hearing Thursday
RIOT ON SENATE FLOOR QUELLED BY GUARDS
Sen. Briggs Hospitalized
GENERAL BREGER, MISSILE BASE HEAD, DIES IN TESTING ACCIDENT
Faulty Equipment Blamed
Malone put the papers down with a deep sigh. There was some kind of a pattern there, he was sure; there had to be. More was happening in the good old United States inside of twenty-four hours than ordinarily happened in a couple of months. The big trouble was that some of it was, doubtless, completely unconnected with the work of Malone's psychological individual. It was equally certain that some of it wasn't; no normal workings of chance could account for the spate of resignations, deaths, arrests of high officials, freak accidents and everything else he'd just seen.
But there was no way of telling which was which. The only one he was reasonably sure he could leave out of his calculations was Hollywood's good old Wonder Dog. And when he looked at the rest all he could see was that confusion was rampant. Which was exactly what he'd known before.
He remembered once, when he was a boy, his mother had taken him to an astronomical observatory, and he had looked at Mars through the big telescope, hoping to see the canals he'd heard so much about. Sure, enough, there had been a blurred pattern of some kind. It might have represented canals--but he'd been completely unable to trace any given line. It was like looking at a spiderweb through a sheet of frosted glass.
He needed a clearer view, and there wasn't any way to get it without finding some more information. Sooner or later, he told himself, everything would fall into one simple pattern, and he would give a cry of "Eureka!"
There was, at any rate, no need to go to the scene of the crime. He was right in the middle of it--and would have been, apparently, no matter where he'd been. The big question was: where were all the facts he needed?
He certainly wasn't going to find them all alone in his room, he decided. Mingling with the Las Vegas crowds might give him some sort of a lead--and, besides, he had to act like a man on vacation, didn't he? Satisfied of this, Malone began to change into his dress suit. People who came to Las Vegas, he told himself while fiddling with what seemed to be a left-hand-thread cufflink of a peculiarly nasty disposition, were usually rich. Rich people would be worried about the way the good old United States was acting up, just like anybody else, but they'd have access to various sources both of information and rumor. Rumor was more valuable than might at first appear, Malone thought sententiously, sneaking up on the cufflink and fastening it securely. He finished dressing with what was almost an air of hope.