20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

Chapter 3-2

After seeing the smile, Malone wasn't sure he could still walk

evenly. Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend

his hand. The notion that a telepath would turn out to be this

mind-searing Epitome had never crossed his mind, but now, somehow,

it seemed perfectly fitting and proper.

"Good morning, Miss Thompson," he said in what he hoped was a

winning voice.

The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out.

The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to

volunteer his help—if necessary, for the next seventy years—when

she spoke.

"I'm not Miss Thompson," she said.

"This is one of our nurses," Dr. Harman put in. "Miss Wilson,

Mr. Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over

there."

Malone turned.

There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small

old lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some

knitting in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they

were her grandsons come for tea and cookies, of a Sunday

afternoon.

She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old

head in the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't

disappear.

"You're Miss Thompson?" he said.

She smiled sweetly. "Oh, my, no," she said.

There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked

at the unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr.

Harman. And, at last, he looked at Boyd.

"All right," he said. "I get it. Yote Miss

Thompson."

"Now, wait a minute, Malone," Boyd began.

"Wait a minute?" Malone said. "There are four people here, not

counting me. I know I'm not Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as

a child. And Dr. Harman isn't, and Miss Wilson isn't, and

Whistler's Great-Grandmother isn't, either. So you must be. Unless

she isn't here. Or unless she's invisible. Or unless I'm

crazy."

"It isn't you, Malone," Boyd said. "What isn't me?"

"That's crazy," Boyd said.

"Okay," Malone said. "I'm not crazy. Then will somebody please

tell me—"

The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it

was complete she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as

anything Malone had ever heard.

"You may call me Miss Thompson," she said. "For the present, at

any rate. They all do here. It's a pseudonym I have to use."

"A pseudonym?" Malone said.

"You see, Mr. Malone," Miss Wilson began.

Malone stopped her. "Don't talk," he said. "I have to

concentrate and if you talk I can barely think." He took off his

hat suddenly, and began twisting the brim in his hands. "You

understand, don't you?"

The trace of a smile appeared on her face. "I think I do," she

said.

"Now," Malone said. "You're Miss Thompson, but not really,

because you have to use a pseudonym." He blinked at the little old

lady. "Why?"

"Well," she said, "otherwise people would find out about my

little secret."

"Your little secret," Malone said.

"That's right," the little old lady said. "I'm immortal, you

see."

Malone said: "Oh." Then he kept quiet for a long time. It didn't

seem to him that anyone in the room was breathing.

He said: "Oh," again, but it didn't sound any better than it had

the first time. He tried another phrase. "You're immortal," he

said.

"That's right," the little old lady agreed sweetly.

There was only one other question to ask, and Malone set his

teeth grimly and asked it. It came out just a trifle indistinct,

but the little old lady nodded.

"My real name?" she said. "Elizabeth. Elizabeth Tudor, of

course. I used to be Queen."

"Of England," Malone said faintly. "Malone, look—" Boyd

began.

"Let me get it all at once," Malone told him. "I'm strong. I can

take it." He twisted his hat again and turned back to the little

old lady.

"You're immortal, and you're not really Miss Thompson, but Queen

Elizabeth I?" he said slowly.

"That's right," she said. "How clever of you. Of course, after

little Jimmy—cousin Mary's boy, I mean—said I was dead and claimed

the Throne, I decided to change my name and all. And that's what I

did. But I am Elizabeth Regina." She smiled, and her eyes twinkled

merrily. Malone stared at her for a long minute.

Burris, he thought, is going to love this.

"Oh, I'm so glad," the little old lady said. "Do your really

think he will? Because I'm sure I'll like your Mr. Burris, too. All

of you FBI men are so charming. Just like poor, poor Essex."

Well, Malone told himself, that was that. He'd found himself a

telepath.

And she wasn't an imbecile.

Oh, no. That would have been simple.

Instead, she was battier than a cathedral spire.

The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson.

"Mr. Malone," she said. "You've been thinking." She stopped. "I

mean, you've been so quiet."

"I like being quiet," Malone said patiently. "Besides—" He

stopped and turned to the little old lady. Can you really read

my mind? he thought deliberately. After a second he

added: … your Majesty?

"How sweet of you, Mr. Malone," she said. "Nobody's called me

that for centuries. But of course I can. Although it's not reading,

really. After all, that would be like asking if I can read your

voice. Of course I can, Mr. Malone."

"That does it," Malone said. "I'm not a hard man to convince.

And when I see the truth, I'm the first one to admit it, even if it

makes me look like a nut." He turned back to the little old lady.

"Begging your pardon," he said.

"Oh, my," the little old lady said. "I really don't mind at all.

Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones. But being called

nuts, Mr. Malone, can never hurt me. After all, it's been so many

years—so many hundreds of years—"

"Sure," Malone said easily.

Boyd broke in. "Listen, Malone," he said. "Do you mind telling

me what the hell is going on?"

"It's very simple," Malone said. "Miss Thompson here—pardon me;

I mean Queen Elizabeth I—really is a telepath. That's all. I think

I want to lie down somewhere until it goes away."

"Until what goes away?" Miss Wilson said.

Malone stared at her almost without seeing her, if not quite.

"Everything," he said. He closed his eyes.

"My goodness," the little old lady said after a second.

"Everything's so confused. Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by

everything." She stood up, still holding her knitting, and went

across the room. Before the astonished eyes of the doctor and

nurse, and Tom Boyd, she patted the FBI agent on the shoulder.

"There, there, Mr. Malone," she said. "It will all be perfectly all

right. You'll see." Then she returned to her seat.

Malone opened his eyes. "My God," he said. He closed them again

but they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr.

Harman. "You called up Boyd here," he said, "and told him

that—er—Miss Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know?"

"It's all right," the little old lady put in from her chair. "I

don't mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now,

anyhow."

"Thanks," Malone said faintly.

Dr. Harman was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment.

"You mean she really is a—" He stopped and brought his

tenor voice to a squeaking halt, regained his professional poise,

and began again. "I'd rather not discuss the patient in her

presence, Mr. Malone," he said. "If you'll just come into my

office—"

"Oh, bosh, Dr. Harman," the little old lady said

primly. "I do wish you'd give your own Queen credit for some

ability. Goodness knows you think you're smart

enough."

"Now, now, Miss Thompson," he said in what was obviously his

best Grade A Choice Government Inspected couchside manner.

"Don't—"

"—upset yourself," she finished for him. "Now, really, Doctor. I

know what you're going to tell them."

"But Miss Thompson, I—"

"You didn't honestly think I was a telepath," the

little old lady said. "Heavens, we know that. And you're going to

tell them how I used to say I could read minds—oh, years and years

ago. And because of that you thought it might be worthwhile to tell

the FBI about me— which wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, before you

know anything about why they wanted somebody like me."

"Now, now, Miss Thompson," Miss Wilson said, walking across the

room to put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Malone

wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe

if he were a patient in the hospital he would get the same

treatment.

He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal.

Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile, being nuts. But of

course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn't he?

Sure, he told himself. They were all nuts.

"Nobody's going to hurt you," Miss Wilson said. She was talking

to the old lady. "You'll be perfectly all right and you don't have

to worry about a thing."

"Oh, yes, dear, I know that," the little old lady said. "You

only want to help me, dear. You're so kind. And these FBI men

really don't mean any harm. But Doctor Harman didn't know that. He

just thinks I'm crazy and that's all."

"Please, Miss Thompson—" Dr. Harman began.

"Just crazy, that's all," the little old lady said. She turned

away for a second and nobody said anything.

Then she turned back. "Do you all know what he's thinking now?"

she said. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him.

"He's wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to

you years ago. And besides that, he's thinking about—"

"Miss Thompson," Dr. Harman said. His bedside manner had cracked

through and his voice was harsh and strained. "Please."

"Oh, all right," she said, a little petulantly. "If you want to

keep all that private."

Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. "Why didn't you prove you

were telepathic before now?" he said.

The little old lady smiled at him. "Why, because you wouldn't

have believed me," she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her

lap and folded her hands over it. '"None of you wanted to

believe me," she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously and

she looked up. "And don't tell me it's going to be all right. I

know it's going to be all right. I'm going to make sure of

that."

Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself,

that the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She

smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as

the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother.

Not that Malone remembered his grandmother; she had died before

he'd been born. But if he'd had a grandmother, and if he'd

remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet

smile.

So she couldn't have meant what she'd said. Would Malone's own

grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was

ridiculous.

Dr. Harman opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind, and

shut it again. The little old lady turned to him.

"Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr.

Malone?" she said. "Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It's

because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me.

I'm a telepath, and that's enough for Mr. Malone. Isn't it?"

"Gur," Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added:

"I guess so."

"You see, Doctor?" the little old lady said.

"But you—" Dr. Harman began.