"I feel," he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head."
"And I don't blame you," Burris said in an understanding tone. "Here you are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What real evidence is there, Malone, that these three spies ... these three comic-opera spies—are innocent?"
"What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now, listen, Chief—"
"Don't call me Chief," Burris murmured.
"Another five minutes," Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won't even call you."
"Malone!" Burris said.
Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said at last. "But isn't it just barely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals? Suppose you were a spy."
"All right," Burris said. "I'm a spy." Something in his tone made Malone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, was humoring him.
Is it possible, Malone asked himself, that I am the one who is as a little child?
Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russian spies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed.