Malone told himself bitterly to quit calling the girl Lou. After the way she’d deceived him, she didn’t deserve it. Her name was Luba Garbitsch, and from now on he was going to call her Luba Garbitsch. In his own mind, anyway.
Facts came tumbling in on him like the side of a mountain, falling on a hapless traveler during a landslide. And, Malone told himself, he had never had less help in all of his ill-starred life.
Her Majesty had never, never suspected that Luba Garbitsch was anything other than the girl she pretended to be. That was negative evidence, true, and taken alone it meant nothing at all. But when you added the other facts to it, it showed, with perfect plainness, that Luba Garbitsch was the fortunate possessor of a mind shield as tough, as strong and as perfect as any Malone, O’Connor or good old Cartier Taylor had ever even thought of dreaming up.
And then, very suddenly, another fact arrived, and pushed the rest out into the black night of Malone’s bitter mind. He punched hard on the intercom button and got the desk of the agent-in-charge.
“Now what’s wrong?” the A-in-C said. “Ghosts got loose? Or do you want some help with a beautiful blonde heiress?”
“What would I be doing,” Malone snapped, “with a beautiful blonde heiress?”
The agent-in-charge looked thoughtful. It was obvious that he had been saving his one joke up for several hours. “You might be holding her,” he suggested, “for ransom, of course.”
“That’s not funny,” Malone said. “Nothing is funny any more.”
“Oh, all right,” the A-in-C said. “You Washington boys are just too good for the rest of us. What’s on your mind?”
“You’ve got a twenty-four-hour watch on Luba Garbitsch, haven’t you?” Malone said.