Willcoe was a thin, wrinkle-faced man with very pale skin. He seemed to be in his sixties, and he looked as if he had just lost an all-night bout with Count Dracula. Malone looked interestedly for puncture marks, but failed to find any.
“Ah,” Willcoe said, in a voice that sounded like crinkled paper. “Mr. Melon. Good afternoon.”
“I’m not Mr. Melon,” Malone said testily.
Willcoe looked gently surprised, like a man who has discovered that his evening sherry contains cholesterol. “Really?” he said. “Then I must be on the wrong line. I beg your pardon.”
“You’re not on the wrong line,” Malone said. “I am Mr. Melon in a way.” That didn’t sound very clear when he got it out, so he added: “Your secretary got my name wrong. She thinks I’m Mr. Melon—Kenneth J. Melon.”
“But you’re not,” Willcoe said.
Malone resisted an impulse to announce that he was really Lamont Cranston. “I’m Kenneth J. Malone,” he said.
“Ah,” Willcoe said. “Quite amusing. Imagine my mistaking you for a Mr. Melon, when you’re really Mr. Malone.” He paused, and his face got even more wrinkled. “But I don’t know you under either name,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to Mr. Manelli,” Malone said.
“But Mr. Aoud—”