Though it was common knowledge among the spoil-sport law enforcement officers who cared to look into the matter that Manelli was the real owner of the agency, there was no way to prove this. He didn’t even have a phone under his own name. The only way to reach him was by going through his front man in the agency, a blank-faced, truculent Arab named Atif Abdullah Aoud. According to the agent-in-charge of the New York office, Malone had his choice of two separate methods of getting to Manelli. One, more direct, was to walk in, announce that he was an agent of the FBI, and insist on seeing Manelli. If he had a search warrant, the A-in-C told him, he might even get in. But, even if he did, he would probably not get anything out of Manelli. The second and more diplomatic way was to call up Atif Abdullah Aoud and arrange for an appointment. Malone made his decision in a flash. He flipped on the phone and punched for a PLaza exchange. The face that appeared on the screen was that of a fairly pretty, if somewhat vapid, brunette. “Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud, good afternoon,” she said. Malone blinked. “Who is calling, please?” the girl said. She snapped gum at the screen and Malone winced and drew away. “This is Kenneth J. Malone,” he said from what he considered a safe distance. “I want to talk to Mr. Aoud.” “Mr. Aoud?” she said in a high, unhelpful whine. “That’s right,” Malone said patiently. “You can tell him that there may be some government business coming his way.” “Oh,” she said. “But Mr. Aoud isn’t in.” Mr. Aoud wasn’t in. Mr. Aoud was out. Malone turned that over in his mind a few times, and decided to try and forget it just as quickly as possible. “Then,” he said, “let me talk to one of the other partners.” “Partners?” the girl said. She popped her gum again. Malone moved back another inch. “You know,” he said. “The other people he works with. Rodger, or Willcoe, or O’Vurr.” “Oh,” the girl said. “Them.” “That’s right,” Malone said patiently. “How about Mr. Willcoe?” the girl said after a second of deep and earnest thought. “Would he do?” “Why not let’s try him and see?” Malone said. “Okay,” the girl said brightly. “Let’s.” She flashed Malone a dazzling smile, only slightly impeded by the gum, and flipped off. Malone stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, and then the girl’s voice said, invisibly: “Mr. Willcoe will speak to you now, Mr. Melon. Thank you for waiting.” “I’m not—” Malone started to say, and then the face of Frederick Willcoe appeared on the screen. Willcoe was a thin, wrinkle-faced man with very pale skin. He seemed to be in his sixties, and he looked as if he had just lost an all-night bout with Count Dracula. Malone looked interestedly for puncture marks, but failed to find any. “Ah,” Willcoe said, in a voice that sounded like crinkled paper. “Mr. Melon. Good afternoon.” “I’m not Mr. Melon,” Malone said testily.