“It’s enough,” Malone muttered. “He didn’t have to send out the militia to round me up.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “Not the militia. Highway Patrol. We don’t rightly have any connection with the militia at all.”
“Glad to hear it,” Malone said. He picked up the receiver of the car phone and waited for the buzz that would show that he was connected with Communications Central in Washington.
It didn’t come.
“Oh, yes,” the patrolman said suddenly. “I suppose that’s why this Mr. Boyd, he couldn’t call you on the car telephone, Mr. Malone. The message we got, it also says that the fella at the FBI garage in Washington just forgot to plug in that phone there.”
“Oh,” Malone said. “Well, thanks for telling me.”
“You’re right welcome, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said “You can plug it in now.”
“I intend to,” Malone said through his teeth. He closed his eyes for a long second, and then opened them again. He saw the interested face of the patrolman looking down at him. Hurriedly, he turned away, felt underneath the dashboard until he found the dangling plug, and inserted it into its socket.
The buzz now arrived.
Malone heaved a great sigh and punched for Boyd’s office. Then he looked around.