20 Must-Read Thriller Novels

Chapter 8-2

And if Burris really were the spy, Malone thought, then why had

he started the investigation in the first place? You came back to

the same question with Burris, he realized, that you had with Dr.

O'Connor: it didn't make sense for a man to play one hand against

the other. Maybe the right hand sometimes didn't know what the left

hand was doing, but this was ridiculous.

So Burris wasn't the spy. And Her Majesty had made a mistake

when she'd said… .

"Wait a minute," Malone told himself suddenly.

Had she?

Maybe, after all, you could have it both ways. The

thought occurred to him with a startling suddenness and he stood

silent upon a peak in Yucca Flats, contemplating it. A second went

by.

And then something Burris himself had said came back to him,

something that—

"I'll be damned," he muttered.

He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one

sudden flash of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been

looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent

picture. The pattern was complete.

Malone blinked.

In that second, he knew exactly who the spy was.

A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver

leaned out to curse and Malone waved at him, dimly recognizing a

private eye he had once known, a middle-aged man named Archer.

Wondering vaguely what Archer was doing this far East, and in a

jeep at that, Malone watched the vehicle disappear down the street.

There were more cars coming, but what difference did that make?

Malone didn't care about cars. After all, he had the answer, the

whole answer… .

"I'll be damned," he said again, abruptly, and wheeled around to

head back to the offices.

On the way, he stopped in at another small office, this one

inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of

quick orders, and got the satisfaction, as he left, of seeing one

of the FBI men grabbing for a phone in a hurry.

It was good to be doing things again, important

things.

Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone

entered.

"That," Burris said, "was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her

Majesty doing now—running a diner?"

Malone ignored the bait, and drew himself to his full height.

"Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "Her Majesty has asked that all of

us attend her in audience. She has information of the utmost

gravity to impart, and wishes this audience at once."

Dr. Gamble made a puzzled, circular gesture with one hand.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Is something—"

The hand dropped—"wrong?"

Burris barely glanced at him. A startled expression came over

his features. "Has she—" he began, and stopped, leaving his mouth

open and the rest of the sentence unfinished.

Malone nodded gravely and drew in a breath. Elizabethan periods

were hard on the lungs, he had begun to realize: you needed a lot

of air before you embarked on a sentence. "I believe, gentlemen,"

he said, "that Her Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the

spy who has been battening on Project Isle."

The silence lasted no more than three seconds. Dr. Gamble didn't

even make a gesture during that time. Then Burris spoke.

"Let's go," he snapped. He wheeled and headed for the door. The

others promptly followed.

"Gentlemen!" Malone said, sounding, as far as he could tell,

properly shocked and offended. "Your dress!"

"What?" Dr. Gamble said, throwing up both hands.

"Oh, no," Boyd chimed in. "Not now."

Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd—I

mean, of course, Sir Thomas."

While they were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor's

office. The scientist was as frosty as ever.

"Yes, Mr. Malone?" The sound of that voice, Malone reflected,

was enough to give anybody double revolving pneumonia with knobs

on.

"Dr. O'Connor," he said, "Her Majesty wants you in her court in

ten minutes—and in full court dress."

O'Connor merely sighed, like Boreas. "What is this," he asked,

"more tomfoolery?"

"I really couldn't say," Malone told him coyly. "But I'd advise

you to be there. It might interest you."

"Interest me?" O'Connor stormed. "I've got work to do

here—important work. You simply do not realize, Mr. Malone—"

"Whatever I realize," Malone cut in, feeling brave, "I'm passing

on orders from Her Majesty."

"That insane woman," O'Connor stated flatly, "is not going to

order me about. Good Lord, do you know what you're saying?"

Malone nodded. "I certainly do," he said cheerfully. "If you'd

rather, I can have the orders backed up by the United States

Government. But that won't be necessary, will it?"

"The United States Government," O'Connor said, thawing

perceptibly about the edges, "ought to allow a man to do his proper

work, and not force him to go chasing off after the latest whims of

some insane old lady."

"You will be there, now, won't you?" Malone asked. His own voice

reminded him of something, and in a second he had it: the cooing,

gentle persuasion of Dr. Andrew Blake of Rice Pavilion, who had

locked Malone in a padded cell. It was the voice of a man talking

to a mental case.

It sounded remarkably apt. Dr. O'Connor went slightly purple,

but controlled himself magnificently. "I'll be there," he said.

"Good," Malone told him, and snapped the phone off.

Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St.

Elizabeths and told them the same thing. More used to the strange

demands of neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readier to

comply.

Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was now assembling.

Burris and the others were ready to go, sparklingly dressed and

looking impatient. Malone put down the phone and took one great

breath of relief.

Then, beaming, he led the others out.

Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume

standing outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's

Court. Dr. Gamble's costume did not quite fit him; his sleeve-ruffs

were half way up to his elbows and his doublet had an unfortunate

tendency to creep. The St. Elizabeths men, all four of them, looked

just a little like moth-eaten versions of old silent pictures.

Malone looked them over with a somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did

he have the answer to the whole problem that had been plaguing

them, but his costume was a stunning, perfect fit.

"Now, I want you men to let me handle this," Malone said. "I

know just what I want to say, and I think I can get the information

without too much trouble."

One of the psychiatrists spoke up. "I trust you won't disturb

the patient, Mr. Malone," he said.

"Sir Kenneth," Malone snapped.

The psychiatrist looked both abashed and worried. "I'm sorry,"

he said doubtfully.

Malone nodded. "That's all right," he said. "I'll try not to

disturb Her Majesty unduly."

The psychiatrists conferred. When they came out of the huddle

one of them—Malone was never able to tell them apart—said: "Very

well, we'll let you handle it. But we will be forced to interfere

if we feel you're—ah—going too far."

Malone said: "That's fair enough, gentlemen. Let's go."

He opened the door.

It was a magnificent room. The whole place had been done over in

plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the

Sixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywood

movie set—which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had

been hired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far

end of the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming

chandeliers, was a great throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated.

Lady Barbara reclined on the steps at her feet.

Malone saw the expression on Her Majesty's face. He wanted to

talk to Barbara—but there wasn't time. Later, there might be. Now,

he collected his mind and drove one thought at the Queen, one

single powerful thought:

Read me! You know by this time that I have the

truth—but read deeper!

The expression on her face changed suddenly. She was smiling a

sad, gentle little smile. Lady Barbara, who had looked up at the

approach of Sir Kenneth and his entourage, relaxed again, but her

eyes remained on Malone. "You may approach, my lords," said the

Queen.

Sir Kenneth led the procession, with Sir Thomas and Sir Andrew

close behind him. O'Connor and Gamble came next, and bringing up

the rear were the four psychiatrists. They strode slowly along the

red carpet that stretched from the door to the foot of the throne.

They came to a halt a few feet from the steps leading up to the

throne, and bowed in unison.

"You may explain, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said.

"Your Majesty understands the conditions?" Malone asked.

"Perfectly," said the Queen. "Proceed."

Now the expression on Barbara's face changed, to wonder and a

kind of fright. Malone didn't look at her. Instead, he turned to

Dr. O'Connor.

"Dr. O'Connor, what are your plans for the telepaths who have

been brought here?" He shot the question out quickly, and O'Connor

was caught off-balance.

"Well—ah—we would like their cooperation in further research

which we—ah—plan to do into the actual mechanisms of telepathy.

Provided, of course—" He coughed gently—"provided that they

become—ah— accessible. Miss—I mean, of course, Her Majesty has

already been a great deal of help." He gave Malone an odd look. It

seemed to say: What's coming next?

Malone simply gave him a nod, and a "Thank you, Doctor," and

turned to Burris. He could feel Barbara's eyes on him, but he went

on with his prepared questions. "Chief," he said, "what about you?

After we nail our spy, what happens—to Her Majesty, I mean? You

don't intend to stop giving her the homage due her, do you?"

Burris stared, openmouthed. After a second he managed to say:

"Why, no, of course not, Sir Kenneth. That is—" and he glanced over

at the psychiatrists—"if the doctors think… ."

There was another hurried consultation. The four psychiatrists

came out of it with a somewhat shaky statement to the effect that

treatments which had been proven to have some therapeutic value

ought not to be discontinued, although of course there was always

the chance that… .

"Thank you, gentlemen," Malone said smoothly. He could see that

they were nervous, and no wonder; he could imagine how difficult it

was for a psychiatrist to talk about a patient in her presence. But

they'd already realized that it didn't make any difference; their

thoughts were an open book, anyway.

Lady Barbara said: "Sir—I mean Ken—are you going to—"

"What's this all about?" Burris snapped.

"Just a minute, Sir Andrew," Malone said. "I'd like to ask one

of the doctors here—or all of them, for that matter—one more

question." He whirled and faced them. "I'm assuming that not one of

these persons is legally responsible for his or her actions. Is

that correct?"

Another hurried huddle. The psych boys were beginning to remind

Malone of a semi-pro football team in rather unusual uniforms.

Finally one of them said: "You are correct. According to the

latest statutes, all of these persons are legally insane—including

Her Majesty." He paused and gulped. "I except the FBI, of

course—and ourselves." Another pause. "And Dr. O'Connor and Dr.

Gamble."

"And," said Lady Barbara, "me." She smiled sweetly at them

all.

"Ah," the psychiatrist said. "Certainly. Of course." He retired

into his group with some confusion.

Malone was looking straight at the throne. Her Majesty's

countenance was serene and unruffled.

Barbara said suddenly: "You don't mean—but she—" and closed her

mouth. Malone shot her one quick look, and then turned to the

Queen.

"Well, Your Majesty?" he said. "You have seen the thoughts of

every man here. How do they appear to you?"