enator involved was Deeks, of Massachusetts, who was also in the
news because of a peculiar battle he had had with Senator Furbisher of
Vermont. Congress, Malone noted, was still acting up. Furbisher
claimed that the moneys appropriated for a new Vermont dam were really
being used for the dam. But Deeks had somehow come into possession of
several letters written by a cousin of Furbisher's, detailing some of
the graft that was going on in the senator's home state. Furbisher was
busily denying everything, but his cousin was just as busy confessing
all to anybody who would listen. It was building up into an extremely
interesting fracas, and, Malone thought, it would have been even
funnier than Pogo except that it was happening in the Congress of the
United States.

He heaved a sigh, folded up the paper and entered the building that
housed the New York contingent of the FBI.

Boyd was waiting in his office when he arrived.

"Well, there, Kenneth," he said. "And how are all our little Slavic
brothers?"

"Unreasonable," Malone said, "and highly unpleasant."

"You refer, no doubt," Boyd said, "to the _Meeneestyerstvoh
Vnootrenikh Dyehl_?"

_"Gesundheit,"_ Malone said kindly.

"The MVD," Boyd said. "I've been studying for days to pull it on you
when you got back."

Malone nodded. "Very well, then," he said in a stately, orotund tone.
"Say it again."

"Damn it," Boyd said, "I _can't_ say it again."

"Cheer up," Malone said. "Maybe some day you'll learn. Meantime,
Thomas, did you get the stuff we talked about?"

Boyd nodded. "I think I got enough of it," he said. "Anyhow, there is
a definite trend developing. Come on into the private office, and I'll
show you."

There, on Boyd's massive desk, were several neat piles of paper.

"It looks like enough," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, it looks
like too much. Haven't we been through all this before?"

"Not like this, we haven't," Boyd said. "Information from all over,
out of the everywhere, into the here." He picked up a stack of papers
and handed them to Malone.

"What's this?" Malone said.

"That," Boyd said, "is a report on the Pacific Merchant Sailors'
Brotherhood."

"Goody," Malone said doubtfully.

Boyd came over, pulling at his beard thoughtfully, and took the top
few sheets out of Malone's hands. "The report," he said, looking down
at the sheets, "includes the checks we made on the office of the
president of the Brotherhood, as well as the Los Ange