“Unofficially,” the doctor said, “we’ve got news of a riot at Trotkin’s tonight, in which you seem to have been involved. Mr. Malone, you must be quite a barroom brawler when you’re at home.”
“Frankly,” Malone said, “I’m a little out of practice. And I hope I never have the chance to get back into practice.”
The doctor nodded, removing a stethoscope from the bag and applying it to Lou’s chest. He waited a second, frowned and then took the plugs out of his ears. “I know just what you mean,” he said. “You might be interested to know the first unofficial score of that little match.”
“Score?” Malone said.
The doctor nodded again. “Three concussions,” he said, “one possible skull fracture, a broken arm, two bitten hands, and a large and varied assortment of dental difficulties and plain hysteria. No dead, however. I really don’t understand why not.”
“Well,” Malone said, “nobody wanted to create an international incident.”
“Hmf,” the doctor said. “I see. Or I think I do, which is as far as I care to go in the matter. The Russians suspect, by the way, that you’ve managed to get aboard the plane. They do know, of course, about the girl, and when the pilot called for me they put two and two together. In spite of his story about being sick. What they can’t figure out is how you managed to get aboard the plane.”
“Neither can I,” Malone said at random. The doctor gave him a single bright stare.
“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose you know your own business best. By the way, my examination accords pretty well with our unofficial information about the girl—that she was given some sort of drug in a drink. Is that what happened?”
Malone nodded. “As far as we know,” he said. “She did get rid of a lot of it within a few minutes, though.”