Boyd smiled. “San Francisco was getting confused,” he said. “Like everybody else. The San Francisco man got a copy of an affidavit dealing with merchant-ship tonnage. That was supposed to go to the attorney general.”
“Good work,” Malone said. “So when the Frisco boys woke up to what was happening—”
“They called the head man, and he put two and two together, resigned and went into hiding. Right now, he’s probably living an undercover life as a shoe salesman in Paris, Kentucky.”
“And, after all,” Malone added, “why not? It’s a peaceful life.”
“The attorney general, of course, impounded the second set of books,” Boyd went on. “A grand jury is hearing charges now.”
“You know,” Malone said reflectively, “I almost feel sorry for the man. Almost, but not quite.”
“I see what you mean,” Boyd said. “It is a hell of a thing to happen.”
“On the other hand—” Malone leafed through the papers in a hurry, then put them back on Boyd’s desk with a sigh of relief. “I’ve got the main details now,” he said. “I can go through the thing more thoroughly later. Anything else?”
“Oh, lots,” Boyd said. “And all in the same pattern. The FPM, for instance, literally dropped one in our laps.”
“Literally?” Malone said. “What was the Federation of Professional Musicians doing in your lap?”