“Right,” Wolf said. “Out where Governor Flarion was taking his stroll, there’s an awful lot of it to search. The boys are trying to find somebody who might have seen a man acting suspicious in any of the nearby buildings, or heard a shot, or seen anybody at all lurking or loitering anywhere remotely close to the scene.” “Lovely,” Malone said. “Sounds like a nice complicated job.” “You don’t know the half of it,” Wolf said. “There’s also the Miami Beach Chamber of Commerce. According to them, Flarion died of a heart attack, and not even in Miami Beach. The bullet and the body are supposed to be written off as just coincidences, to keep the fair name of Miami Beach unsullied.” “All I can say,” Malone offered, “is good luck. This is the saddest day in American history since the assassination of Huey P. Long.” “Agreed,” Wolf said. “Want me to tell Burris you called?” “Right,” Malone said. He flicked off. Now, he asked himself, how did the assassination of Governor Nemours P. Flarion fit in with anything? Granted, good old Nemours P. had been a horrible mistake, a paranoid, self-centered, would-be dictator whose talents as a rabble-rouser and a fearmonger had somehow managed to get him elected to a governorship. Certainly nobody felt particularly unhappy about his death. But he wouldn’t fit into the pattern. Malone reminded himself that that was one more thing he had to find out when he got the chance. The trouble lay in finding an opportunity, he thought—and then he corrected himself. Not _finding_ it—_making_ it. Nobody was going to hand him anything on a silver serving salver. He punched the intercom again and got the Records office. “Yes, sir?” a familiar voice said. “Potter?” Malone said. “This is Malone. I want facsimiles of everything we have on the Psychical Research Society, on Sir Lewis Carter, and on Luba Vasilovna Garbitsch. Both of those last are connected with the Society.” “Right,” Potter said. “They’ll be up at once.” Then he punched again, and asked for the latest copy of the Washington _Post_. He gave the article on Governor Flarion one quick glance, but it didn’t contain anything in the way of facts that he hadn’t already had from Wolf. After that, he left it and concentrated on the more prosaic, human-interest news, the smaller stories. FIFTH SPLINTER GROUP FORMS IN DCA BATTLE That was an interesting one, he thought. The Daughters of Colonial Americans had about reached the point of diminishing returns in their battle over the claims of Rose Carswell Elder, a descendant of a Negro freedman named William Elder who had lived in Boston in 1776 and fought on the side of the Colonies during the Revolution. One more splinter group, Malone thought, and there’d be as many splinters as members. Rose Carswell Elder was pressing her claim for membership, and the ladies were replying by throwing crockery and hard words at each other. Then there was the Legion of American War Veterans. The headline on this one read: