“Ten to one, I’ll take,” the A-in-C said rapidly. “Ten to one is like taking candy from a traffic cop. I’m no amateur, even if I am stuck away in dull little old New York—and I know the boys I’ve got on stakeout. I’ll check, and—”
“Let me know when you do,” Malone said. “I’ve got some long-distance calls to make.”
Forty-five minutes later, he had all the news he needed. Spot checks on PRS offices on the West Coast, where it wasn’t closing time yet, showed that all the executive officers had suddenly felt the need of extended vacations to parts unknown.
That, if not exactly cheering news, was still welcome; Malone had more backing for his theory.
An overseas call to New Scotland Yard in London took a little more time, and several arguments with bored overseas operators who, apparently, had nothing better to do than to confuse the customers. But Malone finally managed to get Assistant Commissioner C. E. Teal, who promised to check on Malone’s inquiry at once.
It seemed like years before he called back, and Malone leaped to the phone.
“Yes?” he said.
Teal, red-faced and apparently masticating a stick of gum, said: “I got C. I. D. Commander Gideon to follow up on that matter, Mr. Malone. It is rather late here, as you must realize—”
“Yes?” Malone said. “And they’ve all gone?”