Part 7 (1/2)

”Just about an hour's drive,” Boyd said. ”That's all.”

Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes.

”Fine,” he said. ”Suppose you wake me up when we get there.”

But, groggy as he was, he couldn't sleep. He wished he'd had some coffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better.

Then again, coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired his father's taste for gin, but there was always bourbon.

He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. It warmed him and made him feel a lot better. After a while, he even felt awake enough to do some talking.

He pushed his hat back and struggled to a reasonable sitting position.

”I don't suppose you have a drink hidden away in the car somewhere?” he said tentatively. ”Or would the technicians have found that, too?”

”Better not have,” Boyd said in the same tone as before, ”or I'll fire a couple of technicians.” He grinned without turning. ”It's in the door compartment, next to the forty-five cartridges and the Tommy gun.”

Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car and extracted a bottle. It was brandy instead of the bourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn't mind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk.

Boyd glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on.

”No,” Malone said in answer to the unspoken question. ”You're driving.”

Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward.

He didn't sleep a wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn't over two seconds later that Boyd said: ”We're here, Ken. Wake up.”

”Whadyamean, wakeup,” Malone said. ”I wasn't asleep.” He thumbed his hat back and sat up rapidly. ”Where's 'here'?”

”Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital,” Boyd said. ”This is where Dr.

Harman works, you know.”

”No,” Malone said. ”As a matter of fact, I don't know. You didn't tell me--remember? And who is Dr. Harman, anyhow?”

The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, lawn-surrounded building. Boyd spoke without looking away from the road.

”Well,” he said, ”this Dr. Willard Harman is the man who phoned us yesterday. One of my field agents was out here asking around about imbeciles and so on. Found nothing, by the way. And then this Dr. Harman called, later. Said he had someone here I might be interested in. So I came on out myself for a look, yesterday afternoon ... after all, we had instructions to follow up every possible lead.”

”I know,” Malone said. ”I wrote them.”

”Oh,” Boyd said. ”Sure. Well, anyhow, I talked to this dame. Lady.”

”And?”

”And I talked to her,” Boyd said. ”I'm not entirely sure of anything myself. But ... well, h.e.l.l. You take a look at her.”

He pulled the car up to a parking s.p.a.ce, slid nonchalantly into a slot marked _Reserved--Executive Director Sutton_, and slid out from under the wheel while Malone got out the other side.

They marched up the broad steps, through the doorway and into the gla.s.s-fronted office of the receptionist.

Boyd showed her his little golden badge, and got an appropriate gasp.