“The stuff—the phenomenon Cartier Taylor mentioned,” Malone said, “in Minds and Morons. I think it was page eighty-four.”
“Oh,” Carter said. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, Mr. Malone, we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Malone sighed. “Thanks,” he said mournfully. “I guess—I guess that’s all, then.” He smiled at Lou, and turned the smile into a terrifying scowl when his eye caught Carter’s. “Oh,” Malone said. “So long. So long, everybody.”
“Ken—”
This was not, he told himself sadly, either the time or the place. “Goodbye, Sir Lewis,” he said. “Goodbye, Lou.”
The elevator opened its doors and received him.
Exactly fifty-nine minutes after Cesare Manelli had hung up on him, Malone showed up in the stately and sumptuous suite that belonged, for a stiff fee every month, to the firm of Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud. The girl at the desk was his old Spearmint friend.
“Mr. Manelli,” Malone said. “I’ve got an appointment. My name is Malone and his is Manelli. He works here.” That, he told himself, was an understatement; but at least he had a chance of getting his point across.
“Oh,” the girl said. Her gum popped. “Certainly. Right away, Mr. Maloney.”