"Try the pocket," Malone said.
A second went by. The first attendant bent down slowly, picked up the jacket and slipped his hand into the other inside pocket. He came out with a wallet and flipped it open.
The others looked over his shoulder.
There was a long minute of silence.
"Jesus," the second attendant said, as if it were the only word left in the language.
Malone sighed. "There, now," he said. "You see? Suppose you give me back my clothes and let's get down to brass tacks."
* * * * *
It wasn't that simple, of course.
First the attendants had to go and get Dr. Blake, and everybody had to explain everything three or four times, until Malone was just as sick of being an FBI agent as he had ever been of being a padded-cell case. But, at last, he stood before Dr. Blake in the corridor outside, once again fully dressed. Slightly rumpled, of course, but fully dressed. It did, Malone thought, make a difference, and if clothes didn't exactly make the man they were a long way from a hindrance.
"Mr. Malone," Blake was saying, "I want to offer my apologies—"