at," Lynch said, "we'll see."

"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.

"We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."

"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."

[Illustration]

* * * * *

Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there,
however, he stopped. He hadn't had a _tequila_ in a long time, and he
thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his
exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.

Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one
_tequila_ and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.

He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over
and eyed him speculatively.

"_Tequila con limon_" he said negligently.

"Ah," the bartender said. "_Si, senor_."

Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived.

Malone took the small glass of _tequila_ in his right hand, with the
slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the
same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the
thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt.
Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the _tequila_, licked off
the salt and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.

It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good
time in years.

He had three more before he left the Xochitl.

Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar
before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It
was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.

He hoped he could find it.

He headed downtown toward Forty-second Street, turned left and--sure
enough--there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his
approval at it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful.

He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.

The _maitre d'hotel_ was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a receding
hairline and some distance back on his head, dark, curly hair. He beamed
at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Table for one,
sir?" he said.

"No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than he
had expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink at
the bar."

The _maitre d'_ smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down and
looked the place over again. His first glance had shown h