Kenneth Malone--sometimes known as Sir Kenneth of The Queen's Own FBI--had had problems with telepathic spies, and more than somewhat nutty telepathic counterspies. But the case of the Vanishing Delinquents was at least as bad....
e looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the rear door of the prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a seat inside, just as Bill said: "So with the cut and all, we figured he ought to go over to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the way, so we didn't bother with ambulances."
The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "you just call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?"
"Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he added in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."
"So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The latest. Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then, apparently deciding that further invective would get him nowhere, he settled back in his seat, said: "Aah, forget it," and started the car with a small but perceptible jerk.
Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it was late. He rested his head on the back seat and tried to relax, but a
Enjoyable, light sci-fi novella - an FBI agent must figure out how to deal with a gang of juvenile crooks possessing paranormal capabilities. The jokes are corny, the requisite platonic 1950's romantic interest is there, and the underlying idea of the story is interesting.
A locked-room -- or car -- mystery is no challenge to the Queen's Own FBI man Ken Malone. Silly, but lots of fun.