les local and the
San Francisco local."

"Only two?" Malone said. "That seems as if you've been lying down on
the job."

"They're the top two in membership," Boyd said. "But listen to this:
the president and three of his underlings resigned day before
yesterday, and not quite in time. The law--by which I mean us, and a
good many other people--is hot on their tails. It seems somebody
accidentally mixed up a couple of envelopes."

"Sounds like a case for the Post Office," Malone said brightly.

"Not these envelopes," Boyd said. "There was a letter that was
supposed to go to the head of the San Francisco local, dealing with a
second set of books--not the ones used for tax purposes, but the real
McCoy. The letter didn't get to the San Francisco man. Instead, it
went to the attorney general of the state of California."

"Lovely," Malone said. "Meanwhile, what was San Francisco doing?"

Boyd smiled. "San Francisco was getting confused," he said. "Like
everybody else. The San Francisco man got a copy of an affidavit
dealing with merchant-ship tonnage. That was supposed to go to the
attorney general."

"Good work," Malone said. "So when the Frisco boys woke up to what was
happening--"

"They called the head man, and he put two and two together, resigned
and went into hiding. Right now, he's probably living an undercover
life as a shoe salesman in Paris, Kentucky."

"And, after all," Malone added, "why not? It's a peaceful life."

"The attorney general, of course, impounded the second set of books,"
Boyd went on. "A grand jury is hearing charges now."

"You know," Malone said reflectively, "I almost feel sorry for the
man. Almost, but not quite."

"I see what you mean," Boyd said. "It is a hell of a thing to happen."

"On the other hand--" Malone leafed through the papers in a hurry,
then put them back on Boyd's desk with a sigh of relief. "I've got the
main details now," he said. "I can go through the thing more
thoroughly later. Anything else?"

"Oh, lots," Boyd said. "And all in the same pattern. The FPM, for
instance, literally dropped one in our laps."

"Literally?" Malone said. "What was the Federation of Professional
Musicians doing in your lap?"

"Not mine," Boyd said hastily. "Not mine. But it seems that some
secretary put a bunch of file folders on the windowsill of their
second-floor offices, and they fell off. At the same time, an agent
was passing underneath, slipped on a banana peel and sat dow