The patrolman was still standing at the car window. He was looking down at Malone with an interested, slightly blank expression.
Malone thought of several things to say, and chose the most harmless. “Thanks a lot,” he told the patrolman. “I appreciate your stopping off to let me know.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “That was my orders, to do that. And even if they weren’t, it was no trouble at all. Any time. I’d always be glad to do anything for the FBI.”
“Boyd here,” a tinny voice from the phone said.
Malone eyed the patrolman sourly. “Malone here,” he said. “What’s the trouble, Tom? I—No, wait a minute.”
“Ken!” Boyd’s voice said. “I’ve been trying to—”
“Hold it a second,” Malone said. He opened his mouth, and then he saw a car go by. The patrolman hadn’t seen it. Malone felt sorry for the driver, but not too sorry. “Say!” he said to the patrolman.
“Yes, sir?” the patrolman said.
“That boy was really going, wasn’t he?” Malone said. “He must have been doing at least ninety.”
The patrolman jerked his head around to stare at the disappearing car. “Well—” he said, and then: “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He raced for his machine, swung aboard and roared down the road, guiding with one hand and manipulating the controls of his radar set with the other.