“It’s okay, Chester,” Malone said. The big man skipped back to the sidewalk and watched the car go by. Malone knew him slightly, a private eye who did some work on the fringes of Washington crime; basically a nice guy, but a little too active for Malone’s taste.
For a second he thought of asking the man to accompany him, but the last thing Malone needed was muscle. What he wanted was brains, and he even thought he might be developing some of those.
He was nearly sure of it by the time he finally did leave the city and get out onto the highway that went south into the depths of Virginia. And, while he drove, he began to use that brain, letting his reflexes take over most of the driving problems now that the Washington traffic tangle was behind him.
He took all his thoughts from behind the shield that had sheltered them and arrayed them neatly before him. Everything was perfectly clear; all he had to do now was explain it.
Malone had wondered, over the years, about the detectives in books. They always managed to wrap everything up in the last chapter—and that was all right. But they always had a whole crowd of suspects listening to them, too. And Malone knew perfectly well that he could never manage a set-up like that. People would be interrupting him. Things would happen. Dogs would rush in and start a fight on the floor. There would be earthquakes, or else somebody would suddenly faint and interrupt him.
But now, at long last, he realized, he had his chance.
Nobody, he thought happily, could interrupt him. And he could explain to his heart’s content.
Because the members of the PRS were telepathic. And Malone, he thought cheerfully, was not.
Somebody, he was sure, would be tuned in on him as he drove toward their Virginia hiding place. And he hoped that that somebody would alert everybody else, so they could all tune in and hear his grand final explanation of everything.
And a hearty good afternoon to everybody, he thought. A very hearty and happy and sunny good afternoon to all—and most especially to Miss Luba Garbitsch. I hope she’s the one who’s tuned in—or that somebody has alerted her by now, because I’d rather talk to her than to anyone else I can think of out there.