"Me too," Boyd said. He started for the door and turned. "I wish I could have stayed in San Francisco," he said. "Why should she insist on taking me along?"
"The beard," Malone said. "My beard?" Boyd recoiled.
"Right," Malone said. "She says it reminds her of someone she knows.
Frankly, it reminds me of someone, too. Only I don't know who."
Boyd gulped. "I'll shave it off," he said, with the air of a man who can do no more to propitiate the Gods.
"You will not," Malone said firmly. "Touch but a hair of yon black chin, and I'll peel off your entire skin."
Boyd winced.
"Now," Malone said, "go back to that costume shop and arrange things. Here." He fished in his pockets and came out with a crumpled slip of paper and handed it to Boyd. "That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get another list from B—Miss Wilson." Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected a strange glint in the other man's eye. "Don't measure her yourself," he said. "Just ask her."
Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly. "All right, Ken," he said. "But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me."
"If you get anywhere," Malone said, "I'll snatch you baldheaded. And
I'll leave the beard."
"I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken," Boyd said. "I meant in general." He left, with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His back looked, to Malone, like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold or guillotine.