sinessman, 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 s