“Not like this, we haven’t,” Boyd said. “Information from all over, out of the everywhere, into the here.” He picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Malone.
“What’s this?” Malone said.
“That,” Boyd said, “is a report on the Pacific Merchant Sailors’ Brotherhood.”
“Goody,” Malone said doubtfully.
Boyd came over, pulling at his beard thoughtfully, and took the top few sheets out of Malone’s hands. “The report,” he said, looking down at the sheets, “includes the checks we made on the office of the president of the Brotherhood, as well as the Los Angeles local and the San Francisco local.”
“Only two?” Malone said. “That seems as if you’ve been lying down on the job.”
“They’re the top two in membership,” Boyd said. “But listen to this: the president and three of his underlings resigned day before yesterday, and not quite in time. The law—by which I mean us, and a good many other people—is hot on their tails. It seems somebody accidentally mixed up a couple of envelopes.”
“Sounds like a case for the Post Office,” Malone said brightly.
“Not these envelopes,” Boyd said. “There was a letter that was supposed to go to the head of the San Francisco local, dealing with a second set of books—not the ones used for tax purposes, but the real McCoy. The letter didn’t get to the San Francisco man. Instead, it went to the attorney general of the state of California.”
“Lovely,” Malone said. “Meanwhile, what was San Francisco doing?”