Free The Union Club Mysteries by Isaac Asimov

an agent a mile away by their chief-imposed uniforms. No one else had shirts so white, so glossy, so buttoned-down, or ties so narrow and so neatly centered, or suits so subdued, or waistlines so carefully flat, or hair so short and so neatly parted, or was scented in so masculine a fashion, or seemed so much younger and callower than his years. Well, they might just possibly have been mistaken for Mormon missionaries, but for nothing else.
    And of course, they were all in a state of constant terror. It was not so much that they might make a mistake. That might be forgiven. The real fear was that they might make the agency, and the chief, look foolish. For that it was evisceration the first time. There was no forgiveness and the agents knew it.
    Naturally, I could never make it with the agency in any official capacity. I wouldn't shave my mustache, which was dark in those days but almost as impressive as it is now, and I wouldn't wear the uniform, and worst of all, I once chose to look over the head of the chief, which was easy to do, and to pretend I didn't see him. He might forget anything else, but he never forgot a slur on his height, however indirect.
    It didn't matter. I made out. When things got tough there was many an agency official who came to me for help.
    Jack Winslow came to me once, I remember, with an ingratiating smile on his face and some telltale beads of sweat on his forehead, despite the rule that no agent must perspire. Jack Winslow was his real name, by the way, which helped him a lot at the agency. The only better name would have been Jack Armstrong.
    He said, "Listen, Griswold, the damndest thing happened today and I'd appreciate it if you would let me have your thoughts on it."
    "Tell me what happened," I said, "and I'll tell you if I have any thoughts about it. And I won't tell the chief you asked me."
    He thanked me very sincerely for that, but, of course, there was no way I could tell the chief if I wanted to. We were not on speaking terms—which suited me fine.
    There's no point in telling you Winslow's story in full detail because he's an awfully tedious fellow. Still is, I understand, though he's retired now. I'll give you the essentials in brief.
    The agency had gotten on to the fringes of an operation it was important to stop. They had located a pawn in the game. They could pick him up any time they wanted to, but it would have done them no good. He wouldn't know enough and he could be too easily replaced. If he were left at large, however, he might be used as a wedge that could pry out something far more useful than himself. It was tedious and delicate work, and sometimes this sort of thing was fumbled and no agent was ever allowed to enjoy that fumble—so Wins-low was in a difficult position.
    The goal at this particular time was to spot a relay: the passage of something important from one person to another. Two items of information were desired: the manner of the surreptitious passage, because that could be an important clue to the system of thought being used by these people; and the identity of the pickup, that is, the one who received the item, for the pick-up was likely, but not certain, to be more important than the transmitter.
    The pawn had been maneuvered into accepting something to put through the relay. It was something that was legitimately important; though not as important as the others had been led to believe. Still, they were not fools and had to be fed something in order to make them bite. It was important enough, at any rate, to make the agents prefer not to lose it without having gained something at least equally important.
    The real coup was the shape of the object to be transferred. Somehow the opposition had been persuaded to order their pawn to pick up a package which, while not heavy, was six feet long and about four inches wide. It looked like a packaged fishing rod and there was no way in which it could be disguised or made to look inconspicuous. Winslow was proud