Boyd shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "Ken: this is on the expense account, isn't it?" "Expense account," Malone said. "Sure it is." Boyd looked relieved. "Good," he said. "Because I had the proprietor phone her size in, to New York." "Better get two of 'em," Malone said. "The Chief said anything she wanted, she was supposed to have." "I'll go back right away. I told him we wanted the stuff on the afternoon plane, so--" "And give him Bar--Miss Wilson's size, and yours, and mine. Tell him to dig up something appropriate." "For us?" Boyd blanched visibly. "For us," Malone said grimly. Boyd set his jaw. "No," he said. "Listen, Tom," Malone said, "I don't like this any better than you do. But if I can't resign, you can't either. Costumes for everybody." "But," Boyd said, and stopped. After a second he went on: "Malone-- Ken--FBI agents are supposed to be inconspicuous, aren't they?" Malone nodded. "Well, how inconspicuous are we going to be in this stuff?" "It's an idea," Malone said. "But it isn't a very good one. Our first job is to keep Miss Thompson happy. And that means costumes." Boyd said: "My God." "And what's more," Malone added, "from now on she's 'Your Majesty.' Got that?" "Ken," Boyd said, "you'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 and 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?