Something clicked in MacCauley's memory. Remembrances of long rows of files, photographs.... The TPL agent for Pallas. He said, "You're Kittrell, right?"
The long man nodded. "I might be," he said, "if you're somebody that's got a right to know. So what?" He hadn't moved but his posture seemed subtly altered, caution in every line of his frame. From the position of his hands, Mac more than suspected he was armed.
Easing his hands behind his back, he twisted the stem of his wristwatch. Kittrell jumped. "Hey!" he exclaimed. Sparks were fairly snapping from the blazing dial of his own heavy, old-fashioned timepiece—the recognition signal of TPL operatives. "I guess I am Kittrell," the man acknowledged. "They told me they were sending someone from the Narcotics division to take over on that narcophene business. You him?"
"Yeah. Right now I'm having trouble of my own, though. This Kiddie rolled me last night. Every cent I had; I can't even get back to my hotel."
"Rolled you?" Kittrell's eyes widened. "I know this fella. He cleans up around the office. Wait a minute." His thin, pale hands flashed in intricate motions, meaningless to Mac. They were significant to the Kiddie, though, for he replied as rapidly. Kittrell nodded. "I wouldn't have thought it of him. Always thought he was too stupid to rob anybody over ten."
That was a pretty dubious remark, Mac thought, but he ignored it. "Do you suppose you can make him cough up?"
"Sure!" The other smiled cheerfully. "Like this!"
Mac was unprepared for the next move. Kittrell pulled his punch, of course, because he didn't want to kill the frail Palladian, but his heavy fist bounced the Kiddie off the floor and flung him to the base of the wall. He lay there, his glow-glands jetting crimson beams of fear and rage.
"Hey!" cried MacCauley. "Don't murder the poor son! That's no way to get my dough back!"