“Don’t worry about it?” Malone said. This particular kid brother was obviously a little nuts, and should have been put away years ago. He ground his teeth silently, but he didn’t make any complaints. It was never wise, he knew, to irritate a traffic cop of any sort.
“Sure not,” the patrolman said. “Why, we don’t pay any attention out here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That’s okay.”
“Fine,” Malone said cheerily. “Then I can drive on?”
“Now, just hold it a second there,” the patrolman said. “Let’s see your identification if you don’t mind.”
Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long, careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten and managed to say nothing.
Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. “Kenneth J. Malone,” he said in a tone of some surprise. “Special Agent of the FBI.” He looked up. “That right?” he said. “What it says here?”
“That’s right,” Malone said. “And you can have my autograph later.” He regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the patrolman didn’t seem to notice.
“Then you’re the man, all right,” he said happily. “I caught your plate number as you went on by me, back there.”
“Plate number?” Malone said. “What am I supposed to have done?” He’d overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his personal code that he could think of. And it didn’t seem likely that the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people who overslept.
“Why, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said with honest surprise written all over his Norman Rockwell face, “as far as I know you didn’t do a thing wrong.”