ce we
had some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors.
They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country."

"I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming."

"Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honor
our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us
down to the police station."

"Why?" Boyd said.

"He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the
_Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable."

"Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?"

"He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after a
little while he let us go. I do not understand this."

"It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for a
second, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge these
three clowns with everything in the book. We had a hell of a time
springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the
stir-up, though I never did know their names until now."

Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at
them with surly eyes.

"It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is not
right."

"What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said.

"It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way."

He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the
spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch's
long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents
and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening
officers. "I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered
in a tone of absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side."

Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "All
right, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers things
for the moment. If we want any more information, though--"

"Call on me," Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going anyplace. And I
will give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit any
murders."

"Goodbye, small child," Malone said, as two agents led the fat man
away. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd were
alone.

"Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said.

Malone nodded. "Nobody," he said, "could make up a story like that."

"I suppose so," Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up.

"Well?" he asked.

"He was telling the truth, all right