"Logically," Malone said, "there has to be some way to catch them." He looked around the hotel room as though he expected to find an answer painted in big black letters on the wall. "Logically," he said again, and tried to think of what came next. He liked the sound of the word, but that was as far as it went.
"That's fine," Boyd said. He sat on a chair, staring gloomily at the floor and rubbing the bald spot on his chin with a single, sad, inquisitive forefinger. "There has to be an answer. You're probably right. But what the hell is it?"
Malone started to answer, and then wondered what he had been going to say. He sunk himself in thought. There was a knock at the door. "Who's there?" he called, glad of any relief at all.
"It's me," a small voice said. "Dorothea."
"Come in," Malone said.
The door opened. Dorothea came in, shut the door behind her, and looked around the room a little awkwardly.
"Did you get a good night's sleep?" Malone said.
She nodded. "I guess so," she said. "Sure. It was nice of you to get me a room for the night. I mean, I guess I was—well…"
"Forget it," Malone said grandly. "You were upset and tired, that's all. Hell, in the car on the way back here last night, you fainted."
"I did not faint," she said.