," he said. He tapped a sheaf of
papers on the single table in the room. Malone went over and picked
them up.

They were the abbreviated condensations of three dossiers. All three
of the men covered in the dossiers were naturalized citizens, but all
had come in us "political refugees"--from Hungary, from
Czechoslovakia, and from East Germany. Further checking had turned up
the fact that all three were actually Russians. They had been using
false names during their stay in the United States, but their real
ones were appended to the dossiers.

The fat one in the Interrogation Room was named Alexis Brubitsch. The
other two, who were presumably waiting separately in other rooms, were
Ivan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. The collection sounded, to
Malone, like a seedy musical-comedy firm of lawyers: Brubitsch,
Borbitsch and Garbitsch. He could picture them dancing gaily across a
stage while the strains of music followed them, waving legal forms and
telephones and singing away.

Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to him
now, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him.

* * * * *

"This is the one who won't talk, eh?" Malone said, wondering if he
sounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was a
standard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows had
already confessed.

"That's him," Boyd said.

"Hm-m-m," Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding between
the rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but he
didn't say anything.

"We didn't know whether we had to get this one to talk, too," Boyd
said. "What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought to
have a look at him." He sounded very bored. It was obvious from his
tone that the FBI didn't care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch never
opened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very short
lifetime.

"Well," Malone said, equally bored, "we might be able to get a few
corroborative details."

Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him.

"Now, just look at him," Boyd said. "He certainly doesn't _look_ like
the head of a spy ring, does he?"

"Of course he doesn't," Malone said. "That's probably why the Russians
used him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob like
this. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man."

"I guess you're right," Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought was
overacting a