it."
"You're absolutely right, John Justin,” agreed Mürgenstürm contritely. “I have to learn to control my passions. Taking fifteen minutes out of our limited remaining time was insensitive and wrongheaded.” He looked at Mallory out of the corner of his eye. “How about ten minutes?” he suggested very softly.
Mallory turned to him. “How about a kick in the groin to get your mind back on business?"
"Ohhh!” moaned Mürgenstürm as if in pain, pressing his knees together and clasping his hands over the area in question. “Don't even suggest it! What kind of monster are you?"
"A very cold one,” replied Mallory, wishing his robe had been equipped with a hood. “Now, do you think we can get this show back on the road?"
"All right,” said the elf, his expression still pained. “But no kicking."
"No deserting,” responded the detective.
"It wasn't desertion,” protested Mürgenstürm. “It was more in the nature of physical and psychic renewal.” He paused. “Are you absolutely positively sure we can't spare even five minutes?"
Mallory grabbed the elf by his scrawny neck. “Now, you listen to me—” he began fiercely.
"Out of the way!” yelled a voice. “Clear the path!"
Mallory released his grip and jumped aside just in time to see a slender man, clad only in track shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt with the number 897 emblazoned on its chest, collide with Mürgenstürm. The little elf went flying into the snow that was accumulating beside the bridle path, but the man managed to maintain his balance and began running in place.
"Terribly sorry,” said the man as Mürgenstürm slowly picked himself up. “But I did have right-of-way."
"I didn't know there were right-of-way rules on a bridle path,” remarked Mallory.
"Bridle path?” repeated the man, confused. “You mean this isn't Highway A-98?"
Mallory shook his head.
"Then I suppose those aren't the lights of the Via Veneto glimmering in the distance?” said the man unhappily, pointing to Fifth Avenue without losing a step.
"They're the lights of Manhattan,” answered Mallory.
"Manhattan?” repeated the man, surprised. “Are you quite sure?"
"Not as sure as I was yesterday,” replied Mallory. “But pretty sure."
"Hmm,” said the man thoughtfully. “I seem to be farther off course than I thought."
"Where are you heading?” asked Mallory.
"Rome, of course."
"Of course,” repeated Mallory dryly.
"But where are my manners?” said the man. He extended his hand without losing a step. “My name is Ian Wilton-Smythe."
"British?” asked Mallory, shaking his hand.
Wilton-Smythe nodded. “To the core. Kill the Irish! Plunder the colonies! God save the Queen!” He paused. “It is still the Queen, isn't it? Or have we a King now?"
"It's still the Queen,” said Mallory. “I take it you haven't been home in some time?"
"Not since the spring of 1960,” acknowledged Wilton-Smythe. “Went over to Rome for the Olympics that summer."
"As a spectator?"
"As a marathon runner. In fact, I'm still running it. I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the course."
"I don't know how to lay this on you,” said Mallory, “but we've had quite a few Olympics since then. The race is over."
"Not until I cross the finish line, it isn't,” said Wilton-Smythe adamantly.
"Why not just stop?"
"Not cricket,” replied Wilton-Smythe. “Rules of the game, you know."
"There's nothing in the rules that says you have to keep running for decades after everyone else has finished,” said Mallory.
"Slow and steady wins the race,” quoted Wilton-Smythe.
"Not this race,” replied Mallory. “It's already been won."
"That's hardly my fault, is it?” shot back Wilton-Smythe. “My job is to plug away and do the best I can.” He paused. “You don't see any photographers around here, do you?"
"No."
"Pity."
"Why?” asked Mallory. “Were you expecting some?"
"Well, I am the sporting world's greatest news story,” said
"You're absolutely right, John Justin,” agreed Mürgenstürm contritely. “I have to learn to control my passions. Taking fifteen minutes out of our limited remaining time was insensitive and wrongheaded.” He looked at Mallory out of the corner of his eye. “How about ten minutes?” he suggested very softly.
Mallory turned to him. “How about a kick in the groin to get your mind back on business?"
"Ohhh!” moaned Mürgenstürm as if in pain, pressing his knees together and clasping his hands over the area in question. “Don't even suggest it! What kind of monster are you?"
"A very cold one,” replied Mallory, wishing his robe had been equipped with a hood. “Now, do you think we can get this show back on the road?"
"All right,” said the elf, his expression still pained. “But no kicking."
"No deserting,” responded the detective.
"It wasn't desertion,” protested Mürgenstürm. “It was more in the nature of physical and psychic renewal.” He paused. “Are you absolutely positively sure we can't spare even five minutes?"
Mallory grabbed the elf by his scrawny neck. “Now, you listen to me—” he began fiercely.
"Out of the way!” yelled a voice. “Clear the path!"
Mallory released his grip and jumped aside just in time to see a slender man, clad only in track shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt with the number 897 emblazoned on its chest, collide with Mürgenstürm. The little elf went flying into the snow that was accumulating beside the bridle path, but the man managed to maintain his balance and began running in place.
"Terribly sorry,” said the man as Mürgenstürm slowly picked himself up. “But I did have right-of-way."
"I didn't know there were right-of-way rules on a bridle path,” remarked Mallory.
"Bridle path?” repeated the man, confused. “You mean this isn't Highway A-98?"
Mallory shook his head.
"Then I suppose those aren't the lights of the Via Veneto glimmering in the distance?” said the man unhappily, pointing to Fifth Avenue without losing a step.
"They're the lights of Manhattan,” answered Mallory.
"Manhattan?” repeated the man, surprised. “Are you quite sure?"
"Not as sure as I was yesterday,” replied Mallory. “But pretty sure."
"Hmm,” said the man thoughtfully. “I seem to be farther off course than I thought."
"Where are you heading?” asked Mallory.
"Rome, of course."
"Of course,” repeated Mallory dryly.
"But where are my manners?” said the man. He extended his hand without losing a step. “My name is Ian Wilton-Smythe."
"British?” asked Mallory, shaking his hand.
Wilton-Smythe nodded. “To the core. Kill the Irish! Plunder the colonies! God save the Queen!” He paused. “It is still the Queen, isn't it? Or have we a King now?"
"It's still the Queen,” said Mallory. “I take it you haven't been home in some time?"
"Not since the spring of 1960,” acknowledged Wilton-Smythe. “Went over to Rome for the Olympics that summer."
"As a spectator?"
"As a marathon runner. In fact, I'm still running it. I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the course."
"I don't know how to lay this on you,” said Mallory, “but we've had quite a few Olympics since then. The race is over."
"Not until I cross the finish line, it isn't,” said Wilton-Smythe adamantly.
"Why not just stop?"
"Not cricket,” replied Wilton-Smythe. “Rules of the game, you know."
"There's nothing in the rules that says you have to keep running for decades after everyone else has finished,” said Mallory.
"Slow and steady wins the race,” quoted Wilton-Smythe.
"Not this race,” replied Mallory. “It's already been won."
"That's hardly my fault, is it?” shot back Wilton-Smythe. “My job is to plug away and do the best I can.” He paused. “You don't see any photographers around here, do you?"
"No."
"Pity."
"Why?” asked Mallory. “Were you expecting some?"
"Well, I am the sporting world's greatest news story,” said
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