“But—”
“They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you’d probably be driving it.”
“Good,” Malone said. “And I am. And I’d like to continue doing so.” He paused and then added, “But what happened?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish Succession, “well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond, and Highway Patrol Headquarters—”
“Down in Richmond,” Malone muttered resignedly.
“That’s right,” the patrolman said in a pleased voice. “Well, they called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our radios.” He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.
Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was capable of speech. “What?” he said in a calm, patient voice, “was the message about?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, “it seems some fella down in Washington, fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you pretty bad.”
“He could have called me on the car phone,” Malone said in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice. “He didn’t have to—”
“There’s no call for yelling at me, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said reproachfully. “I only obeyed my orders, which were to locate your black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a message. That’s all.”