“Why, no,” Teal said, surprised. “A spot check shows that most of the executives of the London branch of the Psychical Research Society are spending quiet evenings in their homes. Our Inspector Ottermole actually spoke to Dr. Carnacki, the head of the office here.”
“Oh,” Malone said.
“They haven’t skipped,” Teal went on. “Is this in connection with anything serious, Mr. Malone?”
“Not yet,” Malone said. “But I’ll let you know at once if there are any further developments. Thanks very much, Mr. Teal.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Malone,” Teal said. “A pleasure.” And then, still masticating, he switched off.
And that, Malone told himself, was definitely that. Of course the British PRS hadn’t gone underground; why should they? The British police weren’t on to them, as Scotland Yard showed. And, no matter what opinions Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I might hold in the matter, the FBI had absolutely no jurisdiction in the British Isles.
Malone buried his face in his hands, thought about a cigar and decided that even a cigar might make him feel worse. Where were they? What were they doing now? What did they plan to do?
Where had they gone?
“Out of the everywhere,” he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, “into the here.”
But where was the here?