He said so.
"Now, now, Mr. Malone," Blake told him. "Let's get to your room, shall we, and then we can talk things over."
"I can prove it!" Malone told him. The three men picked him up. "My identification is in my pocket—"
"Really?" Blake said.
They started moving down the long front hall.
"All you have to do is take this thing off so I can get at my pockets—"
Malone began.
But even he could see that this new plan wasn't going to work, either.
"Take it off?" Blake said. "Oh, certainly, Mr. Malone. Certainly. Just as soon as we have you comfortably settled."
It was ridiculous, Malone told himself as the men carried him away. It couldn't happen: an FBI agent mistaken for a nut, wrapped in a strait- jacket and carried to a padded cell.