Malone put the papers down with a deep sigh. There was some kind of a
pattern there, he was sure; there had to be. More was happening in the
good old United States inside of twenty-four hours than ordinarily
happened in a couple of months. The big trouble was that some of it
was, doubtless, completely unconnected with the work of Malone's
psychological individual. It was equally certain that some of it
wasn't; no normal workings of chance could account for the spate of
resignations, deaths, arrests of high officials, freak accidents and
everything else he'd just seen.
But there was no way of telling which was which. The only one he was
reasonably sure he could leave out of his calculations was Hollywood's
good old Wonder Dog. And when he looked at the rest all he could see
was that confusion was rampant. Which was exactly what he'd known
before.
He remembered once, when he was a boy, his mother had taken him to an
astronomical observatory, and he had looked at Mars through the big
telescope, hoping to see the canals he'd heard so much about. Sure,
enough, there had been a blurred pattern of some kind. It might have
represented canals--but he'd been completely unable to trace any given
line. It was like looking at a spiderweb through a sheet of frosted
glass.
He needed a clearer view, and there wasn't any way to get it without
finding some more information. Sooner or later, he told himself,
everything would fall into one simple pattern, and he would give a cry
of "Eureka!"
There was, at any rate, no need to go to the scene of the crime. He
was right in the middle of it--and would have been, apparently, no
matter where he'd been. The big question was: where were all the facts
he needed?
He certainly wasn't going to find them all alone in his room, he
decided. Mingling with the Las Vegas crowds might give him some sort
of a lead--and, besides, he had to act like a man on vacation, didn't
he? Satisfied of this, Malone began to change into his dress suit.
People who came to Las Vegas, he told himself while fiddling with what
seemed to be a left-hand-thread cufflink of a peculiarly nasty
disposition, were usually rich. Rich people would be worried about the
way the good old United States was acting up, just like anybody else,
but they'd have access to various sources both of information and
rumor. Rumor was more valuable than might at first appear, Malone
thought sententiously, sneaking up on the cufflink and fastening it
securely. He finished dressing with what was almost an air of hope.
He surveyed himself in the mirror when he was done. Nobody, he told
himself with some assurance, would recognize him as the FBI Agent who
had come into the Golden Palace two years before, clad in Elizabethan
costume and escorting a Queen who had turned out to be a phenomenal
poker player. After all, Las Vegas was a town in which lots of strange
things happened daily, and he was dressed differently, and he'd aged
at least two years in the intervening two years.
He put in a call for a hallway car--carefully refraining from asking
for Murray.
X
"Business, Mr. Malone," the bartender said, "is shot all to hell. The
whole country is shot all to hell."
"I believe it," Malone said.
"Sure," the bartender said. He finished polishing one glass and set to
work on another one. "Look at the place," he went on. "Half full. You
been here two weeks now, and you know how business was when you came.
Now look."
It wasn't necessary, but Malone turned obediently to survey the huge
gambling hall. It was roofed over by a large golden dome that seemed
to make the place look even emptier than it could possibly be. There
were still plenty of people around the various tables, and something
approaching a big crowd clustered around the _chemin de fer_ layout.
But it was possible to breathe in the place, and even move from table
to table without stepping into anybody's pocket. Las Vegas was
definitely sliding downhill at the moment, Malone thought.
The glitter of polished gold and silver ornaments, the low cries of
the various dealers and officials, the buzz of conversation, were all
the same. But under the great dome, Malone told himself sadly, you
could almost see the people leaving, one by one.
"No money around either," the bartender said. "Except maybe for a few
guys like yourself. I mean, people take their chances at the wheel or
the tables, but there's no big betting going on, just nickel-dime
stuff. And no big spending, either. Used to be tips in a place like
this, just tips, would really mount up to something worth while. Now,
nothing." He put the glass and towel down and leaned across the bar.
"You know what I think, Mr. Malone?" he said.
"No," Malone said politely. "What do you think?"
The bartender looked portentous. "I think all the big-money guys have
rushed off home to look after their business and like that," he said,
"everything's going to hell, and what I want to know is: What's wrong
with the country? You're a big businessman, Mr. Malone. You ought to
have some ideas."
Malone paused and looked thoughtful. "I'll tell you what I think," he
said. "I think people have decided that gambling is sinful. Maybe we
all ought to go and get our souls dry-cleaned."
The bartender shook his head. "You always got a little joke, Mr.
Malone," he said. "It's what I like about you. But there must be some
reason for what's happening."
"There must be," Malone agreed. "But I'll be double-roasted for extra
fresh flavor if I know what it is."
His vacation pay, he told himself with a feeling of downright misery,
was already down the drain. He'd been dipping into personal savings to
keep up his front as a big spender, but that couldn't go on
forever--even though he saved money on the front by gambling very
little while he tipped lavishly. And in spite of what he'd spent he
was no closer to an answer than he had been when he'd started.
"Now, you take the stock market," the bartender said, picking up the
glass and towel again and starting to work in a semiautomatic fashion.
"It's going up and down like a regular roller coaster. I know because
I got a few little things going for me there--nothing much, you
understand, but I keep an eye out for developments. It doesn't make
any sense, Mr. Malone. Even the financial columnists can't make sense
out of it."
"Terrible," Malone said.
"And the Government's been cracking down on business everywhere it
can," the bartender went on. "All kinds of violations. I got nothing
against the law, you understand. But that kind of thing don't help
profits any. Look at the Justice Department."
"You look at it," Malone muttered.
"No," the bartender said. "I mean it. They been arresting people all
over the place for swindling on Government contracts, and falsifying
tax records, and graft, and all kinds of things. Listen, every FBI man
in the country must be up to his cute little derby hat in work."
"I'll bet they are," Malone said. He heaved a great sigh. Every one of
them except Kenneth J. Malone was probably hopping full time in an
effort to straighten out the complicated mess everything was getting
into. Of course, he was working, too--but not officially. As far as
the FBI knew, he was on vacation, and they were perfectly willing to
let him stay there.
A nationwide emergency over two weeks old, and getting worse all the
time--and Burris hadn't even so much as called Malone to talk about
the weather. He'd said that Malone was one of his top operatives, but
now that trouble was really piling up there wasn't a peep out of him.
The enemy, whoever they were, were doing a great job, Malone thought
bitterly. Every time Burris decided he might need Malone, apparently,
they pushed a little mental burst at him and turned him around again.
He could just picture Burris looking blankly at an FBI roster and
saying: "Malone? Who's he?"
It wasn't a nice picture. Malone took a deep swallow of his
bourbon-and-water and tried forgetting about it. The bartender, called
by another customer, put the glass and towel down and went to the
other end of the bar. Malone finished his drink very slowly, feeling
more lonely than he could ever remember being before.
* * * * *
At last, though, four-thirty rolled around and he got up from the
plush bar stool and headed for the Universal Joint, the hotel's big
show-room. It was one of the few places in the hotel that was easily
reachable from the front bar on foot, and Malone walked, taking an
unexpected pleasure in this novel form of locomotion. In a few minutes
he was at the great curtained front doors.
He pushed them open. Later, of course, when the Universal Joint was
open to the public, a man in a uniform slightly more impressive than
that of a South American generalissimo would be standing before the
doors to save patrons the unpleasant necessity of opening them for
themselves. But now, in the afternoon, the Universal Joint was closed.
There was no one inside but Primo Palveri, the manager and majority
stockholder of the Great Universal, and the new strip act he was
watching. Malone didn't particularly like the idea of sharing his
conversation with a burlesque stripper, but there was little he could
do about it; he'd waited several days for the appointment already.
As the doors opened he could hear a nasal voice, almost without
over-tones, saying: "Now turn around, baby. Turn around." A pause, and
then another voice, this one female:
"Is this all right, Mr. Palveri? You want me to show you something
else?"
Malone shut the door quietly behind him. The female voice was coming
from the throat of a semi-naked girl about five feet eight, with
bright red hair and a wide, wide smile. She was staring at a chunky
little black-haired man sunk in a chair, whose back was to Malone.
"What else do you do, Sweetheart?" the chunky man said. "Let me see
whatever you do. I want some wide-talent stuff, you know, for the
place. Class."
The girl smiled even wider. Malone was sure her teeth were about to
fall out onto the floor, probably in a neat arrangement that spelled
out _Will You Kiss Me In The Dark Baby_. That would take an awful lot
of teeth, he reflected, but the stripper looked as if she could manage
the job. "I dance and sing," she said. "I could do a dance for you,
but my music is upstairs. You want me to go and get it?"
Palveri shook his head. "How about a song, baby? You mind singing
without a piano?"
"I don't have anything prepared," the girl said, her eyes wide. "I
didn't know this was going to be a special audition. I thought, you
know, just a burlesque audition, so I didn't bring anything."
Palveri sank a little lower in the chair. "O.K., Sweetheart," he said.
"You got a nice shape, you'll fit in the line anyhow. But just sing a
song you know. How about that? If you make it with that, you could get
yourself a featured spot. More dough."
The girl appeared to consider this proposition. "Gee," she said
slowly. "I could do 'God Bless America'. O.K., Mr. Palveri?"
The chunky man sank even deeper toward the floor. "Never mind," he
said. "Go get dressed, tell Tony you got the number five spot in the
line. O.K.?"
"Gee," she said. "Maybe I could work on something and do it for you
some other time, Mr. Palveri?"