Virginia highway. He shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the brakes.
By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to the window on the driver's side. "Can't you hurry?" Malone muttered under his breath. "All this Virginian ease is okay in its place, but--" In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.
"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
