She stopped then, very suddenly. Her eyes widened, and her right hand reached out to grasp Malone’s arm more strongly than he had thought she ever could. “Sir Kenneth!” Her voice, all restraint gone, was a hissing whisper. Malone started to say something, but Her Majesty went on, her eyes wide. “Do something quickly!” she said.
“What?” Malone said.
“They’ve put something in Lou’s drink!” Her Majesty hissed.
Malone was on his feet before she’d finished, and he took a step across the room.
“She’s already swallowed it!” the Queen said. “Do something! Quickly!”
The dancers on the floor were no concern of his, Malone told himself grimly. He didn’t decide to move; he was on his way before any thought filtered through into his mind. Officers and their ladies looked after him with shocked stupor as he plowed his way across the dance floor, using legs, elbows, shoulders and anything else that allowed him free passage. Sometimes the dancers managed to get out of his way. Sometimes they didn’t. It was all the same to Kenneth J. Malone.
Her Majesty followed in his wake, silent and stricken, scurrying after him like a small destroyer following a battleship, or like a ball-carrying grandmother following up her interference.
Malone caught sight of Lou, standing at the bar. In that second, she seemed to realize for the first time that something was wrong. She pushed herself violently away from the bar, and looked frantically around, her mouth opening to call. Petkoff was a blur next to her; Malone didn’t look at him clearly. Lou took a step....
And two men with broken, lumpy faces came through a door somewhere in the rear of the restaurant, closer to her than Malone. Petkoff suddenly swam into sight; he was standing very still and looking entirely baffled.
Malone pushed through a pair of dancers, ignored their glares and the man’s hissed insult, which he didn’t understand anyhow, and found his view suddenly blocked by a large expanse of dark grey.