Malone waved him a cheery farewell, and got back to the phone.
“Okay, Tom,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Who was that you were talking to?” Boyd asked.
“Oh, just a motorcycle patrolman,” Malone said. “He wanted to be helpful, so I told him to go chase a Buick.”
“Why a Buick?” Boyd said, interestedly.
“Why not?” Malone said. “There happened to be one handy at the time. Now, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been searching all over hell for you,” Boyd said. “I wish you’d just leave some word where you were going, and then I wouldn’t have to—”
“Damn it,” Malone cut in. “Tom, just tell me what you want. In straightforward, simple language. It just took me ten minutes to pry a few idiotic facts out of a highway patrolman. Don’t make me go through it all over again with you.”
“Okay, okay,” Boyd said. “Keep your pants on. But here’s the dope: I just flew in from New York, and I brought all the files on the case— the stuff you left in your office in New York, remember?”
“Right,” Malone said. “Thanks.”