By the time Malone reached the Statler Hilton Hotel it was six-twenty.
Malone hadn't reckoned with New York's rush-hour traffic, and, after
seeing it, he still didn't believe it. Finding a cab had been
impossible, and he had started for the subway, hoping that he wouldn't
get lost and end up somewhere in Brooklyn.
But one look at the shrieking mob trying to sardine itself into the
Seventh Avenue subway entrance had convinced him it was better to walk.
Bucking the street crowds was bad enough. Bucking the subway crowds was
something Malone didn't even want to think about.
He let himself into his room, and was taking off his shoes with a
grateful sigh when there was a rap on the door of the bathroom that
connected his room with Boyd's. Malone padded over to the door, his
shoes in one hand. "Tom?" he said.
[Illustration]
"You were expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called.
"O.K.," Malone said. "Come on in."
Boyd pushed open the door. He was stripped to the waist, a state of
dress which showed the largest expanse of chest Malone had ever seen,
and he was carrying the small scissors which he used to trim his Henry
VIII beard. He stabbed the scissors toward Malone, who shuffled back
hurriedly.
"Listen," Boyd said, "did you call the office after you left this
afternoon?"
"No," Malone admitted. "Why? What happened?"
"There was a call for you," Boyd said. "Long Distance, just before I
left at five. I came on back to the hotel and waited until I heard you
come in. Thought you might want to know about it."
"I do, I guess," Malone said. "Who from?" Looking at Boyd, a modern-day
Henry VIII, the association was too obvious to be missed. Malone thought
of Good Queen Bess, and wondered why she was calling him again.
And--more surprising--why she'd called him at FBI headquarters, when she
must have known that he wasn't there.
"Dr. O'Connor," Boyd said.
"Oh," Malone said, somewhat relieved. "At Yucca Flats."