to
actually catching him and putting him in jail until his psychology
changed for the better. Or, of course, until it disappeared entirely
and was buried, along with the rest of him, in a small wood box.

That wasn't Malone's affair. All he had to do was take the first few
steps and actually find the man. And perhaps psychology and pattern
was the place to start. Anyhow, he reflected, he didn't have any other
method that looked even remotely likely to lead to anything except
brain-fag, disappointment, and catalepsy.

But he didn't have enough cases to find a pattern. There must, he
thought, be a way to get some more. After a few seconds he thought of
it.

* * * * *

At first he thought of asking Room Service for all the local and
out-of-state papers, but that, he quickly saw, was a little unwise.
People didn't come to Las Vegas to catch up on the news; they came to
get away from it. A man might read Las Vegas papers, and possibly even
his home town's paper if he couldn't break himself of the pernicious
habit. But nobody on vacation would start reading papers from
everywhere.

There was no sense in causing suspicion, Malone told himself. Instead,
he reached for the phone and called the desk.

"Great Universal, good afternoon," a pleasant voice said in his ear.

Malone blinked. "What time _is_ it?" he said.

"A few minutes before six," the voice said. "In the evening, sir."

"Oh," Malone said. It was later than he'd thought; the list had taken
some time. "This is Kenneth J. Malone," he went on, "in Room--" He
tried to remember the number of his room and failed. It seemed like
four or five days since he'd entered it. "Well, wherever I am," he
said at last, "send up some kind of a car for me and have a taxi
waiting outside."

The voice sounded unperturbed. "Right away, sir," it said. "Will there
be anything else?"

"I guess not," Malone said. "Not now, anyhow." He hung up and stubbed
out the latest in his series of cigars.

The hallway car arrived in a few minutes. It was manned by a muscular
little man with beady eyes and thinning black hair. "You Malone?" he
said when the FBI Agent opened the door.

"Kenneth J.," Malone said. "I called for a car."

"Right outside, Chief," the little man said in a gravelly voice. "Just
hop in and off we go into the wild blue yonder. Right?"

"I guess so," Malone said helplessly. He followed the man outside,
locked his door and climbed int