Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.
Then what had he forgotten?
He had met Dorothy—he told himself, starting all over again in an effort to locate the gaps—at six o'clock, right after phoning ...
He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernack and Lynch.
Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work to be done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving.
He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home.Probably at work already, Malone thought,while I lie here useless and helpless. He thought of a sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to Boyd.
But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showered and shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, he estimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was still lousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move around and talk and even think a little, if he were careful about it. Before he left, he took a look at himself in the mirror.
Well, he told himself, that was nice.
It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that was almost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bug out at all although Malone would have sworn that they were bleeding all over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as he remembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish at every move.
He looked even better than he felt.
He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no need to go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel room and not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars or the pedestrians for a while.
He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it with great firmness, and sat down to phone.
He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appeared almost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonably sure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, John Henry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy, carefree voice. "And how are you this lovely morning?"
"Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Malone, how did you—"
"Any news for me?" Malone said.
Fernack waited a long time before he answered, and when he did his voice was dangerously soft and calm. "Malone," he said, "when you asked for this survey, just what kind of news did you expect to get anyway?"
"An awful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I do, John Henry?"
"You did very well," Fernack said. "Too well. Listen, Malone, how could you know about anything like this?"
Malone blinked. "Well," he said, "we have our sources. Confidential. Top secret. I'm sure you understand, commissioner." Hurriedly, he added: "What does the breakdown look like?"
"It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, according to the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds of crime. And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of the swing. Hasn't moved down hardly at all."
"Great," Malone said.
Fernack stared. "What?" he said.
"I mean—" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it: "I mean, that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."
Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you're FBI," he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Pretty strange."
"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.
"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had anything to do with this—"
"Me?"
"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in looking anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderertrying to steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."
"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And what kind of crimes were they, anyway?"
"What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unanswered question. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe. But when I come up with enough facts to answer it—"
"Don't be silly, commissioner," Malone said. "How about these crimes? What kind were they?"
"Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that well enough. Most of them were just burglaries—locked barrooms, for instance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tampering with the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of any alarms being tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from the cash register, and all of the liquor is gone, too."
Malone stared. "Allthe liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.
"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of the time the extra stock's gone, too, from the basement or wherever they happen to keep it."
"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.
"Quite a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not being insured against the losses."
The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor—millions of bottles—went through Malone's mind like an icepick. He could almost see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a dog."
"What did you say, Malone?"
"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars were robbed? Nothing else?"
"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you asking me to tell you this?"
"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.
"I still think—" Fernack began, and then said: "Never mind. But it hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring shops. Jewelers. Malone, you name it, and it's been hit."
Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime wave: Banks, for one."
"Malone!"
"Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homes with wall safes—though that's not quite accurate. The homes may have been robbed, but the safes won't have been touched."
"Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said.
"I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits thefollowing description is safe: It's got a secure lock on it, and it's too small for a human being to get into."
Fernack opened his mouth, shut it and stared downward, obviously scanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waited patiently for the explosion—but it never came.
Instead, Fernack said: "You know, Malone, you remind me of an old friend of mine."
"Really?" Malone said pleasantly.
"You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference. You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference."
"It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent the allegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that's neither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, what are the similarities?"
Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voice was as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up with the damnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or even cared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things that don't have any explanations. And—" He stopped, his face dark in the screen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decided on purple as a good choice.
"Well?" Malone said at last.
"And you're always so right it makes me sick," Fernack finished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into the screen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said.
Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker on the screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly: "I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports to me personally, at Sixty-ninth Street. By messenger. So long."
He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone—"
With a satisfied, somewhat sheepish smile, Malone dialed another number. This time a desk sergeant told him politely that Lynch wasn't at the precinct, and wouldn't arrive until noon.
Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it.
It was a long wait before the lieutenant answered, and he didn't look much like a police officer when his face finally showed up on the screen. His hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. His eyes were slightly bleary, but he was definitely awake.
"Oh," Malone said. "Hello."
"Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy. Old pal. Old friend."
"What's wrong?" Malone said.
"Wrong?" Lynch said. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to thank you for not waking me up last night. I only waited for your call until midnight. Then I decided I just wasn't very important to you. You obviously had much bigger things on your mind."
"As a matter of fact," Malone said,eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "you're right."
"That's what I thought," Lynch said. "And I decided that, since you were so terribly busy, it could wait until I woke up. Or even until I got down to the station. How about it—buddy-boy?"
"Listen, Lynch," Malone said, "we made a bet. Ten to one. I just want to know if I can come down to collect or not."
There was a second of silence.
"All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you a buck. Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us."
"Good," Malone said. He wondered briefly just what was good about it, and decided he'd rather have lost the money to Lynch. But facts, he reflected, were facts. Thoroughly nasty facts.
"I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere at all. Tell me, Malone, how did you know—"
"Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they're all gone? Vanished?"
Lynch's face reddened. "Sure I'm sure," he said. "Every last one of them is gone. And what more do you want me to do about it?" He paused, then added: "What do you expect, Malone? Miracles?"
Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I—"
"Oh, never mind," Lynch said.
"But I—"
"Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you."
"One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully.
Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's just that this guy might have some information—but he won't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or something like that."
"Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?"
"I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman."
Malone nodded. "O.K.," he said. "I'll be right over."
"Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this is—my house or a reception center?"
"Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?"
"How about three o'clock at the precinct station?" Lynch said, "I can have him there by then, and you can get together and talk." He paused. "Nobody likes the cops," he said. "People hear the FBI's mixed up in this, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something."
"Sorry to hear it," Malone said.
"I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly.
Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?"
"Right," Lynch said, and Malone flipped off.
He sat there for a few seconds grinning quietly. His brain throbbed like an overheated motor, but he didn't really mind any more. His theory had been justified, and that was the most important thing.
The Silent Spooks were all teleports.
Eight of them—eight kids on the loose, stealing everything they could lay their hands on, and completely safe. How could you catch a boy who just disappeared when you started for him? No wonder their names hadn't appeared on the police blotter, Malone thought.
The Spooks didn't get into trouble.
They didn't have to.
They could get into any place big enough to hold them, take what they wanted and just disappear. They'd been doing it for about eight months, according to the figures Malone had received from Fernack; maybe teleportative ability didn't develop until you were around fourteen or fifteen.
But it had developed in these kids—and they were using it in the most obvious way. They had a sure method of getting away from the cops, and a sure method of taking anything they wanted. No wonder they had so much money.
Malone got up, feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel.
By three o'clock, he was again among the living. Maybe his occupations had had something to do with it; he'd spent about four hours supervising Operation Dismemberment, and then listening to the reports on the dismantled Cadillacs. It was nice, peaceful, unimportant work, but there just wasn't anything else to do. FBI work was ninety-five per cent marking time, anyway; Malone felt grateful that there was any action at all in what he was doing.
Dr. Leibowitz had found all sorts of things in the commandeered Caddies—everything from guns and narcotics to pornographic pictures in lots of three hundred, for shipment into New York City from the suburbs where the processing plants probably were. Of course, there had been personal effects, too—maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a single crutch.
Malone wondered about that for quite a while. Who'd just walk off and leave one crutch in a car? But people did things like that all the time, he finally told himself heavily. There wasn't any explanation for it, and there probably never would be.
But in spite of the majestic assortment of valuables found in the cars, there was no sign of anything remotely resembling an electro-psionic brain. Dr. Leibowitz had found just about everything—except what he was looking for.
At a quarter of three, Malone gave up. The search wasn't quite finished, but he'd heard enough to last him for a long time. He grabbed a cab downstairs and went over to Lynch's office to meet Kettleman.
The "social worker or something" was a large, balding man about six feet tall. Malone estimated his weight as close to two hundred and fifty pounds, and he looked every pound of it; his face was round without being chubby, and his body was stocky and hard. He wore black-rimmed glasses, and he was going bald infront. His face was like a mask: it was held in a gentle, almost eager expression that Malone would have sworn had nothing to do with the way Kettleman felt underneath.
Lynch performed the introductions, escorted the two of them to one of the interrogation rooms at the rear of the station, and left them there, with: "If either of you guys comes up with anything, let me know," for a parting shot.
Kettleman blinked slowly behind his glasses. "Mr. Malone," he said, "I understand that the FBI is interested in one of the ... ah ... adolescent social groups with which I work."
"Well, the Silent Spooks," Malone said. "That's right."
"The Spooks," Kettleman said. His voice was rather higher than Malone would have expected, oddly breathy without much depth to it. "My, yes. I did want to talk to somebody about it, and I thought you might be the man."
"I'll be interested in anything you have to say," Malone said diplomatically. He was beginning to doubt whether he'd get any real information out of Kettleman. But it was impossible to tell. He sat back in a hard wooden chair and tried to look fascinated.
"Well," Kettleman said tentatively, "the boys themselves have sort of a word for it. They'd say that there was something ... ah ... 'oddball' about the Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never drink liquor, you understand, but—"
"Something strange," Malone said. "Is that what you mean."
"Ah," Kettleman said. "Strange.Of course." He acted, Malone thought, as if he had never heard the word before, and was both pleased and startled by its sound. "Perhaps I had better explain my position a little more clearly," he said. "That will give you an idea of just where I ... ah ... 'fit in' to this picture."
"Whatever you think best," Malone said, resigning himself to a very dull hour. He tried to picture Kettleman in the midst of a gang of juvenile delinquents. It was very hard to do.
"I'm a social worker," Kettleman said, "working on an individual basis with these—social groups that the adolescents have formed. It's my job to make friends with them, become accepted by them, and try to turn their hostile impulses toward society into more useful, more acceptable channels."
"I see," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him. "That's fine."
"Oh, we don't expect praise, we social workers," Kettleman said instantly. "The worth of a good job well done, that's enough for us." He smiled. The effect was a little unsettling, as if a hippopotamus had begun to laugh like a hyena. "But to continue, Mr. Malone," he said.
"Of course," Malone said. "Certainly."
"I've worked with many of the organizations in this neighborhood," Kettleman said. "And I've been quitesuccessful in getting to know them, and in being accepted by them. Of course, the major part of my job is more difficult, but ... well, I'm sure that's enough about my own background. That isn't what you're interested in, now, is it?"
He looked penitent. Malone said: "It's all right. I don't mind." He shifted positions on the hard chair.
"Well, then," Kettleman said, with the air of a man suddenly getting down to business. He leaned forward eagerly, his eyes big and bright behind the lenses. "There's something very peculiar about those boys," he said in a whisper.
"Really?" Malone said.
"Very peculiar indeed," Kettleman said. "My, yes. All of the other ... ah ... social groups are afraid of them."
"Big, huh?" Malone said. "Big, strong boys who—"
"Oh, my no," Kettleman said. "My goodness, no. All of the Spooks are rather slight, as a matter of fact. They've gotsomething,but it isn't strength."
"My goodness," Malone said tiredly.
"I doubt if—in the language of my own groups—any one of the Spooks could punch his way out of a paper bag," Kettleman said. "It's more than that."
"Frankly," Malone said, "I'm inclined to agree with you. But what is this something that frightens everyone else?"
Kettleman leaned even closer. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "I can't say for certain, Mr. Malone. I've only heard rumors."
"Well," Malone said, "rumors might—"
"Rumors are a very powerful force among my groups, Mr. Malone," Kettleman said. "I've learned, over the years, to keep my ear to the ground, as it were, and pay very close attention to rumors."
"I'm sure," Malone said patiently. "But what did this particular rumor say?"
"Well," Kettleman said, and stopped. "Well," he said again. And at last he gulped and got it out: "Magicians, Mr. Malone. They say the Spooks are magicians—that they can come and go at will. Make themselves invisible. All sorts of things. Of course, I don't believe that, but—"
"Oh, it's quite true," Malone said, solemn-faced.
"It's ... what?"
"Perfectly true," Malone said. "We've known all that."
"Oh, my," Kettleman said. His face took on a whitish cast. "Oh, my goodness," he said. "Isn't that ... isn't that amazing?" He swallowed hard. "True all the time," he said. "Magicians. I—"
"You see, this information isn't new to us," Malone said.
"Oh," Kettleman said. "No. Of course not. My. It's ... rather disconcerting to think about, isn't it?"
"There," Malone said, "I agree with you."
Kettleman fell silent. Malone offered him a cigarette, but the socialworker refused with a pale smile, and Malone lit one for himself. He took a couple of puffs in the silence, and then Kettleman said: "Well, Mr. Malone, Lieutenant Lynch did say that I was to tell you everything I could about these boys."
"I'm sure we all appreciate that," Malone said at random, wondering exactly what he meant.
"There is ... well, there is one more thing," Kettleman said. "Ordinarily, of course, I wouldn't say anything about this to anyone. In my line of work, Mr. Malone, you learn the need for confidence. For being able to keep one's word."
"Certainly," Malone said, wondering what startling new fact was on its way now.
"And we certainly try to keep the confidence of the boys," Kettleman said maddeningly. "We wouldn't betray them to the police in any way unless it were absolutely necessary."
"Betray them—? Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "just what are you trying to tell me?"
"It's about their meeting place," Kettleman said. "Oh, my. I'm not at all sure I ought to tell you this." He wrung his pale fat hands together and looked at Malone appealingly.
"Now, now," Malone said, feeling foolish. "It's perfectly all right. We don't want to hurt the Spooks. Not any more than we have to. You can tell me, Mr. Kettleman."
"Oh," Kettleman said. "Well. I—The Spooks do have a sort of secret meeting place, you know. And they meet there."
He stopped. Malone said: "Where is it?"
"Oh, it's a big empty warehouse," Kettleman said. "I really feel terrible about this. They're meeting there tonight some time, or that's what the rumors say. I shouldn't be telling you—"
"Of course you should," Malone said, trying to sound reassuring. "Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Kettleman. Tonight?"
"That's right," Kettleman said eagerly. He grinned and then looked morosely down at his hands.
"Do you know where this warehouse is?" Malone said. "If any of the other little social groups use it—"
"Oh, no, they don't," Kettleman said. "That's what makes it so funny. You see, the warehouse is deserted, but it's kept in good repair; there are bars on the windows, and it's protected by all sorts of alarm systems and things like that. So none of the others can use it. Only the Spooks. You can't get in without a key, not at all."
"But do the Spooks—" Malone began.
"Oh, no," Kettleman moaned. "They don't have a key. At least, that's what the other ... social groups say. The Spooks just ... just melt through the walls, or something like that."
"Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "where is this warehouse?"
"I shouldn't be telling you this," Kettleman said.
Malone sighed. "Please. Mr. Kettleman. You know we're working for the good of those boys, don't you?"
"Well, I—"
"Sure we are," Malone said. "So you can tell me."
Kettleman blinked behind his glasses, and moaned a little. Malone waited with his hands tense in his lap. At last Kettleman said: "It's on West Street, near Chambers. That's downtown." He gave Malone an address. "That's where it is," he said. "But you won't ... do anything to the boys, will you? They're basically good boys. No matter what. And they—"
"Don't worry about it, Mr. Kettleman," Malone said. "We'll take care of the Spooks."
"Oh," Kettleman said. "Yes. Sure."
He got up. Malone said: "There's just one more thing, Mr. Kettleman."
"Yes?" The big man's voice had reached the high, breathy pitch of a fife.
"Do you have any idea what time the Spooks usually meet?"
"Well, now," Kettleman said, "I don't really know. You see, the reason I wanted to tell you all this was because Lieutenant Lynch was checking up on all those boys yesterday, and I thought—" He stopped and cleared his throat, and when he began again his voice had dropped almost to a whisper: "Well, Mr. Malone, I thought, after all, that since he was asking me questions ... you know, questions about where they were, the Spooks I mean, and all of that ... since he was asking me questions—"
"Yes?" Malone said.
"I thought perhaps I ought to tell you about them," Kettleman said. "Where they were, and all of that."
Malone stood up. "Mr. Kettleman," he said in his most official voice, "I want you to know that the FBI appreciates what you've done. Your information will probably be very helpful to us, and the FBI certainly commends you for being public-spirited enough to come to us and tell us what you know." He thought for a second, and then added: "In the name of the FBI, Mr. Kettleman—well done!"
Kettleman stared, smiled and gulped. "My goodness," he said "Well." He smiled again, a little more broadly. "One has one's duty, you know. My, yes. Duty." He nodded to Malone.
"Of course," Malone said, going to the door and opening it. "Thanks again, Mr. Kettleman."
Kettleman saw the open door and headed for it blindly. As he left he flashed one last smile after Malone, who sighed, shut the door and leaned against it for a second.
The things an FBI agent had to go through!
When he had recovered, he opened the door again and peered carefully down the hallway to make sure Kettleman had gone. Then he left the interrogation room and went down the hall, past the desk sergeant, and up the stairs to Lieutenant Lynch's office. He was still breathing a little hard when he opened Lynch's door, and Lynch didn't seem to be expecting him at all. He was very busy with a veritable snow flurry of papers, and he looked as if he had been involved with them steadily ever since he had left Malone and Kettleman alone downstairs.
"Well," Malone said. "Hello there, lieutenant."
Lynch looked up, his face a mask of surprise. "Oh," he said. "It's you. Through with Kettleman?"
"I'm through," Malone said. "As if you didn't know." He looked at Lynch for a long minute, and then said: "Lieutenant—"
Lynch had gone right back to his papers. He looked up again with a bland expression. "Yes?"
"Lieutenant, how reliable is Kettleman?" Malone said.
Lynch shrugged. "He's always been pretty good with the kids, if that's what you mean. You know these social workers—I've never got much information out of him. He feels it's his duty to the kids ... I don't know. Some such thing. Why do you ask?"
"Well," Malone said, "what he told me. Was he kidding me? Or does he know what he's talking about? Was what he said reasonably accurate?"
"How would I know?" Lynch said. "After all, you were down therealone, weren't you? I was up here, working. If you'll tell me what he said, maybe I'll be able to tell you whether or not I think he was kidding. But—"
Malone placed both his palms on the lieutenant's desk, mashing a couple of piles of papers. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes on Lynch's bland, innocent face. "Now look, Lynch," he said. "I like you. I really do. You're a good cop. You get things done."
"Well, thanks," Lynch said. "But I don't see what this has to do with—"
"I just don't want you trying to kid your buddy-boy," Malone said.
"Kid you?" Lynch said. "I don't get it."
"Come on, now," Malone said. "I know that room was bugged, just as well as you do. It was the sensible thing for you to pull, and you pulled it. You've got the whole thing recorded, haven't you?"
"Me?" Lynch said. "Why would I—"
"Oh, cut it out," Malone said impatiently. "Let's not play games, O.K.?"
There was a second of silence.
"All right," Lynch said. "So I recorded the conversation. Kill me. Crucify me. I'm stealing FBI secrets. I'm a spy secretly working for a foreign power. Take me out and electrocute me."
"I don't want to fight you," Malone said wearily. "So you've got the stuff recorded. That's your business."
"My business?"
"Sure," Malone said cheerfully, "as long as you don't try to use it."
"Now, Malone—" Lynch began.
"This is touchy stuff," Malone said. "We're going to have to take a lot of care in handling it. And I don't want you throwing raids all over the place and mixing everything up."
"Malone, I—"
"Eventually," Malone said, "I'm going to need your help with these kids. But for right now, I want to handle this my way, without any interference."
"I wouldn't think of—"
"You wanted information," Malone said. "Fine. That's all right with me. You got the information, and that's O.K., too. But if you try to use it before I say the word, I'll ... I'll talk to good old Uncle John Henry Fernack. And he'll help me out: he'll give you a refresher course onHow To Be A Beat Cop. In Kew Gardens. It's nice and lonely out there now, Lynch. You'd love it."
"Malone," Lynch said tiredly.
"Don't give me any arguments," Malone said. "I don't want any arguments."
"I won't argue with you, Malone," Lynch said. "I've been trying to tell you something."
Malone stepped away from the desk. "All right," he said. "Go ahead."
Lynch took a deep breath. "Malone, I'm not trying to queer your pitch," he said. "If I were going to pull a raid, here's what I'd have to do: get my own cops together, thencall the precinct that covers that old warehouse. We don't cover the warehouse from here, Malone, and we'd need the responsible precinct's aid in anything we did down there."
Malone said: "Well, all I—"
"Not only that," Lynch said. "I'd have to call Safe and Loft, and get them in on it. A warehouse raid would probably be their baby first of all. That means this precinct, the warehouse precinct, and the Safe and Loft Squad, all together to raid that warehouse. Malone, would I pull a raid at this stage, if I had to go through all that, without knowing what I was going to find down there?"
"Oh," Malone said.
"If those kids can just appear and disappear at will," Lynch said, "I'm not going to pull a raid on them, and end up looking like a fool, until I've got some way of making sure they're there when the raid goes through."
Malone coughed gently. "O.K.," he said at last. "Sorry."
"There's only one thing I want," Lynch said. "I want to be able to move as soon as possible."
"Well, sure," Malone said apologetically.
"And that means I'm going to have to be informed," Lynch said. "I want to know what's going on, as fast as possible."
Malone nodded gently. "Sure," he said. "I'll tell you everything that happens—as soon as I know myself. But right now, I haven't got a thing for you. All I have is a kind of theory, and it's pretty screwy."
He stopped. Lynch looked up at him. "Just how screwy can it get?" he said. "The facts are nutty enough."
"You have absolutely no idea," Malone assured him. "I'm not even saying a word about this, not until I prove it out one way or another. I'm not even thinking about it. I don't even want me to know about it, until it stops sounding so nutty to me."
"O.K., Malone," Lynch said. "I can see a piece of it, if no more. The Fueyo kid vanishes mysteriously—never mind all that about you getting him out of the interrogation room by some kind of confidential method. There isn't any confidential method. I know that better than you do."
"I had to say something, didn't I?" Malone asked apologetically.
"So the kid disappears," Lynch said, brushing Malone's question away with a wave of his hand. "So now I hear all this stuff from Kettleman. And it begins to add up. The kids can disappear somehow, and re-appear some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know? But they can sure do something like it."
"Something," Malone said. "Like I said, it sounds screwy."
"I don't like it," Lynch said.
Malone nodded. "Nobody likes it," he said. "But keep it under your hat. I'll give you everything I have—whenever I have anything. And ... by the way—"
"Yes?" Lynch said.
"Thanks for giving me and Kettleman a chance to talk," Malone said."Even if you had reasons of your own."
"Oh," Lynch said. "You mean the recording."
"I was a little suspicious," Malone said. "I didn't think you'd give Kettleman to me without gettingsomethingfor yourself."
"Would you?" Lynch said.
Malone shrugged. "I'm not crazy either," he said.
Lynch picked up a handful of papers. "I've got all this work to do," he said. "So I'll see you later."
"O.K.," Malone said.
"And if you need my help, buddy-boy," Lynch said, "just yell—right?"
"I'll yell," Malone said. "Don't worry about that. I'll yell loud enough to get myself heard in Space Station One."
The afternoon was bright and sunny, but it didn't match Malone's mood. He got a cab outside the precinct station and headed for Sixty-ninth Street, dining off his nails en route. When he hit the FBI Headquarters, he called Washington and got Burris on the line.
He made a full report to the FBI chief, including his wild theory and everything else that had happened. "And there was this notebook," he said, and reached into his jacket pocket for it.
The pocket was empty.
"What notebook?" Burris said.
Malone tried to remember if he'd left the book in his room. He couldn't quite recall. "This book I picked up," he said, and described it. "I'll send it on, or bring it in when the case is over."
"All right," Burris said.
Malone went on with his description of what had happened. When he'd finished, Burris heaved a great sigh.
"My goodness," he said. "Last year it was telepathic spies, and this year it's teleporting thieves. Malone, I hate to think about next year."
"I wish you hadn't said that," Malone said sadly.
Burris blinked. "Why?" he said.
"Oh, just because," Malone said. "I haven't even had time to think about next year, yet. But I'll think about it now."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad," Burris said.
Malone shook his head. "No, chief," he said. "You're wrong. It'll be worse."
"This is bad enough," Burris said.
"It's a great vacation," Malone said.
"Please," Burris said. "Did I have any idea—"
"Yes," Malone said.
Burris' eyes closed. "All right, Malone," he said after a little pause. "Let's get back to the report. At least it explains the red Cadillac business. Sergeant Jukovsky was hit by a boy who vanished."
"I was hit by a boy who vanished, too," Malone said bitterly. "But, of course, I'm just an FBI agent. Expendable. Nobody cares about—"
"Don't say that, Malone," Burris said. "You're one of my most valuable agents."
Malone tried to stop himself from beaming, but he couldn't. "Well, chief," he began, "I—"
"Vanishing boys," Burris muttered. "What are you going to do with them, Malone?"
"I was hoping you might have some kind of suggestion," Malone said.
"Me?"
"Well," Malone said, "I suppose I'll figure it out—when I catch them. But I did want something from you, chief."
"Anything, Malone," Burris said. "Anything at all."
"I want you to get hold of Dr. O'Connor, out at Yucca Flats, if you can. He's the best psionics man Westinghouse has right now, and I might need him."
"If you say so," Burris said doubtfully.
"Well," Malone said, "these kids are teleports. And maybe there's some way to stop a teleport. Give him a good, hard kick in the psi, for instance."
"In the what?"
"Never mind," Malone said savagely. "But if I'm going to get any information on what makes teleports tick, I'm going to have to get it from Dr. O'Connor—right?"
"Right," Burris said.
"So get in touch with Dr. O'Connor," Malone said.
"I'll have him call you," Burris said. "Meanwhile ... well, meanwhile just carry on, Malone. I've got every confidence in you."
"Thanks," Malone growled.
"If anybody can crack a case like this," Burris said, "it's you."
"I suppose it had better be," Malone said, and rang off.
Then he started to think. The notebook wasn't in his pockets. He checked every one, even the jacket pocket where he usually kept a handkerchief and nothing else. It wasn't anywhere on his person.
Had he left it in his room?
He thought about that for several minutes, and finally decided that he hadn't. He hadn't taken it out of his pocket, for one thing, and if it had fallen to the ground he couldn't have helped seeing it. Of course, he'd put his wallet, keys, change and other such items on the dresser, and then replaced them in his pockets when morning had come—but he could remember how they'd looked on the dresser.
The notebook hadn't been there among them.
Now that he came to think of it, when had he seen the notebook last? He'd shown it to Lieutenant Lynch during the afternoon, and then he'd put it back in his pocket, and he hadn't looked for it again.
So it had to be somewhere in one of the bars he'd visited, or at the theater where he and Dorothy had seen "The Hot Seat."
Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he strolled out and, giving Boyd andthe Agent-in-Charge one small smile each, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight trying to decide which place to check first. He settled on the theater because it was most probable: after all, people were always losing things in theaters. Besides, if he started at the theater, and found the notebook there, he could then go on to a bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in a bar, he didn't much relish the idea of going on to an empty theater in the middle of the afternoon to celebrate getting the book back.
Shaking his head over this flimsy structure of logic, he headed down to "The Hot Seat." He banged on the lobby doors for a while without any good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors, which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance and found himself facing an old, bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom and a surprised expression.
"I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.
"Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'd heard 'em all, but—"
"No," Malone said. "You don't understand."
"I don't have to understand," the old man said. "That's what's so restful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't have to understand nothing. Good-by."
"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone said desperately.
"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come with me."
The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it were a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said: "Name?"
Malone said: "I just want to find a notebook."
"Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly. "It's the rules here. After all."
Malone sighed: "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is—"
The old man, fiercely scribbling, looked up. "Wait a minute, can't you?" he said. "I ain't through 'Kenneth' yet." He wrote on, and finally said: "Address?"
"Statler Hilton Hotel," Malone said.
"In Manhattan?" the old man said.
"That's right," Malone said wearily.
"Ah," the old man said. "Tourist, ain't you? Tourists is always losing things. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into this here theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up to claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part water spaniel."
Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said: "That's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater long enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water spaniel. Should have seen that dogbefore you start talking about impossibilities. What a strange-looking beast. And then there was the time—"
"About the notebook," Malone said.
"Notebook?" the old man said.
"I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that—"
"Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again.
Malone heaved a great sigh. "Black plastic," he said. "About so big." He made motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter Lynch."
"Who's he?" the old man said.
"He's a cop," Malone said.
"My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it and all. You a cop, youngster?"
Malone shook his head.
"Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "You said black plastic? Black?"
"That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?"
"Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Empty billfold, three hats, a couple of coats and some pencils. And an umbrella. No dogs tonight, youngster,andno notebooks."
"Oh," Malone said. "Well ... wait a minute."
"What is it, youngster?" the old man said. "I'm busy this time of day. Got to sweep and clean. Got work to do. Not like you tourists."
With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to describe the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at all."
"That's right," the old man said cheerfully.
"But you made me describe—"
"That's the rules," the old man said. "And I ain't about to go against the rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wish you were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose things like people do."
Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if the notebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find the bars he had stopped in before the theater.
Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar for something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas," he said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so many umbrellas?"
"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.
"I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist—you know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against the fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by—"
Malone said good-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was theXochitl, the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.