ve gone nuts."

Malone shook his head. "No, I haven't," he said. "I just wish I had. It
would be a relief."

"Me, too," Boyd said. He started for the door and turned. "I wish I
could have stayed in San Francisco," he said. "Why should she insist on
taking _me_ along?"

"The beard," Malone said.

"_My_ beard?" Boyd recoiled.

"Right," Malone said. "She says it reminds her of someone she knows.
Frankly, it reminds me of someone, too. Only I don't know who."

Boyd gulped. "I'll shave it off," he said, with the air of a man who can
do no more to propitiate the Gods.

"You will not," Malone said firmly. "Touch but a hair of yon black chin,
and I'll peel off your entire skin."

Boyd winced.

"Now," Malone said, "go back to that costume shop and arrange things.
Here." He fished in his pockets, came out with a crumpled slip of paper
and handed it to Boyd. "That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get another
list from B ... Miss Wilson." Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected a
strange glint in the other man's eye. "Don't measure her yourself," he
said. "Just ask her."

Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly. "All right, Ken," he
said. "But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me."

"If you get anywhere," Malone said, "I'll snatch you baldheaded. And
I'll leave the beard."

"I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken," Boyd said. "I meant in general."
He left, with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His back
looked, to Malone, like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold or
guillotine.

The door closed.

Now, Malone thought, who does that beard remind me of? Who do I know who
knows Miss Thompson?

And what difference does it make?

Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard was really an admirable fact
of nature. Ever since beards had become popular again in the
mid-sixties, and FBI agents had been permitted to wear them, Malone had
thought about growing one. But, somehow, it didn't seem right.

Now, looking at Boyd, he began to think about the prospect again.

He shrugged the notion away. There were things to do.

He picked up the phone and called Information.

"Can you give me," he said, "the number of the Desert Edge Sanitarium?"

* * * * *

The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desert sky
with its customary purples and oranges by the time the little caravan
arrived at the Desert Edge Sanitarium, a square white building