There was only one thing to do and, straight-faced, Malone went ahead
and did it. "Of course not," he snapped, trying to sound impatient and
official. "I released him."

"You _what_?"

"Released him," Malone said. He stepped out into the hall and closed the
door of the interrogation room firmly behind him. "I got all the
information I needed, so I let him go."

"Thanks," Lynch said bitterly. "After all, I was the one who--"

"You called him in for questioning, didn't you, lieutenant?" Malone
said.

"Yes, I did, and I--"

"Well," Malone said, "I questioned him."

There was a little silence. Then Lynch asked, in a strangled voice:
"What did he say?"

"Sorry," Malone said at once. "That's classified information." He pushed
his way into the corridor, trying to look as if he had fifteen other
jobs to accomplish within the next hour. Being an FBI agent was going to
help a little, but he still had to look good in order to really carry it
off.

"But--"

"Thanks for your co-operation, lieutenant," Malone said. "You've all
been very helpful." He smiled at them in what he hoped was a superior
manner. "So long," he said, and started walking.

"Wait!" Lynch said. He flung open the door of the interrogation room.
There was no doubt that it was empty. "Wait! Malone!"

Malone turned slowly, trying to look calm and in control of the
situation. "Yes?" he said.

Lynch looked at him with puzzled, pleading eyes. "Malone, _how_ did you
release him? We were right here. He didn't come through the door. There
isn't any other exit. So how did you get him out?"

There was only one answer to that, and Malone gave it with a quiet,
assured air. "I'm terribly sorry, lieutenant," he said, "but that's
classified information, too." He gave the cops a little wave and walked
slowly down the corridor. When he reached the stairs he began to speed
up, and he was out of the precinct station and into a taxicab before any
of the cops could have realized what had happened.

He took a deep breath, feeling as if it were the first he'd had in
several days. "Breathe air," he told himself. "It's _good_ for you." Not
that New York had any real air in it. It was mostly carbon fumes and the
like. But it was the nearest thing to air that Malone could find at the
moment, and he determined to go right on breathing it until something
better and cleaner showed up.

But that wasn't important now. As the cab tooled along down Broadway
toward Sixty-ninth