Malone hated to admit it, but he had always had just that suspicion. After all, he wasn't a very good detective. He was just lucky. His luck had enabled him to break a lot of tough cases. But some day people would find out, and then—
"Well," the Queen said, "at the very least you ought to act like a detective." She sniffed audibly. "Sir Kenneth, I'm ashamed that a member of My Own FBI can't do any better than you're doing now."
Malone blinked into the screen. He did feel ashamed in a vague sort of way, and he was willing to admit it. But he did feel, wistfully, that it would be nice to know just what he was being ashamed of. "Have I been missing something?" he said.
"Outside of the obvious," the Queen said, "that you've been missing your notebook—or, rather, Mike Fueyo's notebook."
"Yes?" Malone said.
"You certainly have," the Queen said. "Don't you see what happened to that notebook? You've been missing the only possible explanation."
"All I can figure," Malone said, "is that Dorothy Francis picked my pocket."
"Exactly," the Queen said. "Now, if you'd only wear proper clothing, and a proper pouch at your belt—"
"I'd be stared at," Malone said. "In court clothing—"
"No one in New York would stare at you," the Queen said. "They'd think it was what they call an advertising stunt."