But ... look, Lou, maybe we could work something
out. I could tell Sir Lewis I needed you here for something, and then
he'd--"

"My, my," she said. "What it must be like to have all that influence."

"What?" Malone said.

Lou grinned, almost invisibly. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing. But, my
fine feathered Fed, I don't want to be pulled around on somebody
else's string."

"But--"

"I mean it, Ken," Luba said.

Malone shrugged. "Suppose we table it for now, then," he said, "and
get around to it later. At dinner, say ... around nine?"

"And just where," Luba said, "will you be before nine? Making improper
advances to the local contingent of chorines?"

"I will make improper advances," Malone vowed, "only to you, Lou."

Lou's eyes sparkled. "Goody," she said. "I've always wanted to be a
Fallen Woman."

"But I have got some things to do before nine," Malone said. "I've got
to work, too."

"Well, then," Lou said in a suspiciously sweet voice, "suppose I talk
to Sir Lewis Carter, and tell him to keep you in New York? Then--"

"Enough," Malone said. "Nine o'clock."

[Illustration]

XI

Somebody somewhere was wishing all the world "a plague on
both your houses," and making it stick. Confusion is fun in a
comedy--but in the pilot of a plane or an executive of a
nation....

Back in his room, Malone put on a fresh shirt, checked the .44 Magnum
in his shoulder holster, changed jackets, adjusted his hat to the
proper angle, and vanished.

He had, he'd realized, exactly one definite lead. And now he was going
to follow up on it. The Government was apparently falling to pieces;
so was business and so was the Mafia. Nobody Malone had heard of had
gained anything. Except Mike Sand and his truckers. They'd beaten the
Mafia, at least.

Sand was worth a chat. Malone had a way to get in to see him, but he
had to work fast. Otherwise Sand would very possibly know what Malone
was trying to do. And that might easily be dangerous.

He had made his appearance in the darkness beneath one of the bridges
at the southwest side of Central Park, in New York. It was hardly
Malone's idea of perfect comfort, but it did mean safety; there was
very seldom anyone around after dark, and the shadows were thick
enough so that his "appearance" would only mean, to the improbable
passerby, that he had stepped out into the light.

Now he strolled quietly over to Central Park West, and flagged a taxi
heading downtown. H