"We don't know what might be useful," Malone said. "Anything you can
find. And if you want any questions asked--if there's anything you
think I ought to ask the men, or say to them--there's a nonvision
phone in the observation room. Just lift the receiver. That
automatically rings the one in the Interrogation Room and I'll pick it
up. Understand?"

"Perfectly, Sir Kenneth," she said.

"O.K., then," Malone said. "Let's go." They headed for the door.
Malone stopped as he opened it. "And by the way," he said.

"Yes?"

"If you get any more of those--disturbances, let me know."

"At once," Her Majesty promised.

They went on down the hall and took the elevator down to Interrogation
Room 7, on the lowest level. There was no particular reason for
putting the Interrogation section down there, except that it tended to
make prisoners more nervous. And a nervous prisoner, Malone knew, was
very possibly a confessing prisoner.

Malone ushered Her Majesty through the unmarked door of the
observation chamber, made sure that the panel and phone were in
working order, and went out. He stepped into Interrogation Room 7
trying hard to look bored, businesslike and unbeatable. Boyd and four
other agents were already there, all standing around and talking
desultorily in low tones. None of them looked as if they had ever had
a moment's worry in their lives. It was all part of the same
technique, of course, Malone thought. Make the prisoner feel
resistance is useless, and you've practically got him working for you.

The prisoner was a hulking, flabby fat man in work coveralls. He had
black hair that spilled all over his forehead, and tiny button eyes.
He was the only man in the room who was sitting down, and that was
meant to make him feel even more inferior and insecure. His hands were
clasped fatly in his lap, and he was staring down at them in a
regretful manner. None of the FBI agents paid the slightest attention
to him. The general impression was that something really tough was
coming up, but that they were in no hurry for it. They were willing to
wait for the Third Degree, it seemed, until the blacksmith had done a
really good job with the new spikes for the Iron Maiden.

The prisoner looked up apprehensively as Malone shut the door. Malone
paid no attention to him, and the prisoner unclasped his hands, rubbed
them on his coveralls and then reclasped them in his lap. His eyes
fell again.

Boyd looked up, too. "Hello, Ken