Occasion ... for Disaster
agent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. He
was going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of a
hermit. He would drink goat's milk and eat old shoes or something, and
whenever another human being came near he would run away and hide.
They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles for
magazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.
And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the whole
circle would start all over again.
"Now, now, Sir Kenneth," Queen Elizabeth said. "Things aren't quite
that bad."
"Oh, yes, they are," Malone said. "They're even worse."
"I'm sure we can find an answer to all your questions," Her Majesty
said.
"Sure," Malone said. "Even I can find an answer. But it isn't the
right one."
"You can?" Her Majesty said.
"That's right," Malone said. "My answer is: To Hell with everything."
* * * * *
Malone's Washington offices didn't look any different. He sighed and
put the two big packages from the Psychical Research Society down on
his desk, and then turned to Her Majesty.
"I wanted you to teleport along with me," he said, "because I need
your help."
"Yes," she said. "I know."
He blinked. "Oh. Sure you do. But let me go over the details."
Her Majesty waved a gracious hand. "If you like, Sir Kenneth," she
said.
Malone nodded. "We're going on down to Interrogation Room 7 now," he
said. "Next door to it, there's an observation room, with a one-way
panel in the wall. You'll be able to see us, but we won't be able to
see you."
"I really don't require an observation panel," Her Majesty said. "If I
enter your mind, I can see through your eyes--"
"Oh, sure," Malone said. "But the observation room was built for more
normal people--saving your presence, Your Majesty."
"Of course," she said.
"Now," Malone went on, "I want you to watch all three of the men we're
going to bring in, and dig everything you can out of their minds."
"Everything?" she said.
"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," 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 trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up to
jerk at his collar.
"Who'd ever think," Malone said, "that he plotted those killings in
Redstone--all three of them?"
"It is surprising," Boyd said.
"But, then," Malone said, "we know he did. There isn't any doubt of
that."
Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinating
color, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it with
interest.
"Oh, sure," Boyd said. "We've got enough evidence from the other two
to send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to."
"More than enough," Malone agreed.
Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. His
lips moved silently.
"Tell me," Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man,
"Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermind
it all by yourself?"
Brubitsch's eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they'd been pulled
by a string. "Me?" he said in a hoarse bass voice. "I know nothing
about this murder. What murder?"
There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to let
Brubitsch know anything about that. "Oh, the ones you shot in
Redstone," he said in an offhand way.
"The what?" Brubitsch said. "I shot people? Never."
"Oh, sure you did," Boyd said. "The others say you did."
Brubitsch's head seemed to sink into his neck. "Borbitsch and
Garbitsch, they tell you about a murder? It is not true. Is a lie."
"Really?" Malone said. "We think it's true."
"Is a lie," Brubitsch said, his little eyes peering anxiously from
side to side. "Is not true," he went on hopefully. "I have alibi."
"You do?" Boyd said. "For what time?"
"For time when murder happened," Brubitsch said. "I was some place
else."
"Well, then," Malone said, "how do you know when the murders were
done? They were kept out of the newspapers." That, he reflected, was
quite true, since the murders had never happened. But he watched
Brubitsch with a wary eye.
"I know nothing about time," Brubitsch said, jerking at his collar. "I
don't know when they happened."
"Then how can you have an alibi?" Boyd snapped.
"Because I didn't do them!" Brubitsch said tearfully. "If I didn't,
then I _must_ have alibi!"
"You'd be surprised," Malone said. "Now, about these murders--"
"Was no murder, not by me," Brubitsch said firmly. "Was never any
killing of anybody, not even by accident."
"But your two friends say--" Boyd began.
"My two friends are not my friends," Brubitsch said firmly. "If they
tell you about murder and say it was me, they are no friends. I did
not murder anybody. I have alibi. I did not even murder anybody a
little bit. They are no friends. This is terrible."
"There," Malone said reflectively, "I agree with you. It's positively
awful. And I think we might as well give it up. After all, we don't
need your testimony. The other two are enough; they'll get maybe ten
years apiece, but you're going to get the chair."
"I will not sit down," Brubitsch said firmly. "I am innocent. I am
innocent like a small child. Does a small child commit a murder? It is
ridiculous."
* * * * *
Boyd picked up his cue with ease. "You might as well give us your side
of the story, then," he said easily. "If you didn't commit any
murders--"
"I am a small child," Brubitsch announced.
"O.K.," Boyd said. "But if you didn't commit any murders, just what
_have_ you been doing since you've been in this country as a Soviet
agent?"
"I will say nothing," Brubitsch announced. "I am a small child. It is
enough." He paused, blinked, and went on: "I will only tell you this:
no murders were done by our group in any of our activities."
"And what were your activities?"
"Oh, many things," Brubitsch said. "Many, many things. We--"
The telephone rang loudly, and Malone scooped it up with a practiced
hand. "Malone here," he said.
Her Majesty's voice was excited. "Sir Kenneth!" she said. "I just got
a tremendous burst of--static!"
Malone blinked. _Is my mind acting up again?_ he thought, knowing she
would pick it up. _Am I being interfered with?_
He didn't feel any different. But then, how was he supposed to feel?
"It's not _your_ mind, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "Not this time.
It's _his_ mind. That sneaky-thinking Brubitsch fellow."
_Brubitsch?_ Malone thought. _Now what is that supposed to mean?_
"I don't know, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "But get on back to
your questioning. He's ready to talk now."
"O.K.," Malone said aloud. "Fine." He hung up and looked back to the
Russian sitting on his chair. Brubitsch was ready to talk, and that
was one good thing, anyhow. But what was all the static about?
What was going on?
"Now, then," Malone said. "You were telling us about your group
activities."