"He passed it on," Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send a short-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did not send the message." "Why not?" Malone said. "The radio did not work," Brubitsch said simply. "We received orders by short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radio was of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send any messages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages." "Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said. "A man named X," Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula." "But what was his real name?" Malone said. "Who knows?" Brubitsch said. "What else did you do?" Boyd said. "We met twice a week," Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home, sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At other times, we were friends, having a social gathering." "Friends?" Malone said. Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitsch is the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once we had some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors. They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country." "I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming." "Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honor our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us down to the police station." "Why?" Boyd said. "He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the _Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable." "Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?" "He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after a little while he let us go. I do not understand this." "It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for a second, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge these three clowns with everything in the book. We had a time springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though I never did know their names until now." Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at them with surly eyes. "It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is not right." "What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said. "It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way." He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch's long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening officers. "I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered in a tone of absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side." Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "All right, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers things for the moment. If we want any more information, though--"