He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: "Mr.
Kenneth J. Malone?"
"Who's this?" Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself capable of semirational English speech.
"Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.
"It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"
"San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.
Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want to talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead: "Who in San Francisco?"
There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. Thomas
Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."
Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an operator.
"Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco office of the FBI," the voice offered.
"And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."