"Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.
"It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"
"San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.
Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice off, and said instead: "Who in San Francisco?"
There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. Thomas Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."
Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an operator.
"Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco office of the FBI," the voice offered.
"And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."
"One moment." There was a pause, a click, another pause and then another click. At last the operator said: "Your party is ready, sir."
Then there was still another pause. Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."