"Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."
Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he _was_ a famous
gangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent was
just a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things.
"I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld
sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him
gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a
ticking bomb ready to go off any second.
There was a little silence. Then Sam said, "Give him his gun back,
Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.
"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"
Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible
mistake. Know who this guy is?"
"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the
radio away and gave all his attention to Malone.
"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And
not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."
Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a
gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and
loved. Maybe now the cops would do-something about his head and take
him away for burial.
"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red
Cadillacs?"
"Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone.
"Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."
"That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and
looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red
Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there
never had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.
"We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl
car gets here, we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you
tell us what happened? Or is it classified?"
Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, and
decided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'll
answer one question for me."
"Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."
"Anything at all," Sam said.
Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile.
"All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"
"In New York," Sam said.
"I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just
sort of all over New York?"
"Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where
you were when they slugged you?"
"I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately
remembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain
had softened to agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting
pretty tired of sitting around waiting for something to break on this
case," he said, "and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I
ended up in Greenwich Village--which is a hell of a place for a
self-respecting man to end up."
"I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians,
they call themselves. Crazy people."
"Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost."
Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the
world to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused in
Washington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He
could find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.
It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon.
The Village had tracks, all right--thousands of tracks. Only none of
them led anywhere in particular.
"Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."
The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill
started to say, "But there isn't any--"
"I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."
"You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.
"For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." He
paused. "When I saw it, though--when I saw it, I decided to go over
and have a look. Just in case."
"Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as if
defying him to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care.
"There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked over
and tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car or
anything. And I'll swear there was nobody behind me."
"Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."
"But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we got
here," Bill said.
"Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybe
somebody dropped something by mistake--a safe or something. Because
there wasn't anybody behind me."
"There had to be," Bill said.
"Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."
There was a little silence.
"What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, I
mean."
"Then?" Malone said. "Then I went out like a light."
A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up.
"That's the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.
The driver was a solidly built little man with the face of a
Pekingese. His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have been
much more comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the
regulation blue cap, leaned out at Bill, Sam, and Malone.
"What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.
"No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking to
the two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his arm
around Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.
Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was
stronger than he 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 all
he could do was think about red Cadillacs.
He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs.
2
And it had all started so simply, too. Malone remembered very clearly
the first time he had had any indication that red Cadillacs were
anything unusual, or special. Before that, he'd viewed them all with
slightly wistful eyes: red, blue, green, gray, white, or even black
Cadillacs were all the same to him. They spelled luxury and wealth and
display, and a lot of other nice things.
Now, he wasn't at all sure what they spelled. Except that it was
definitely uncomfortable, and highly baffling.
He'd walked into the offices of Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI,
just one week ago. It was a beautiful office, pine-paneled and
spacious, and it boasted an enormous polished desk. And behind the
desk sat Burris himself, looking both tired and somehow a little
kindly.
"You sent for me, Chief?" Malone said.
"That's right." Burris nodded. "Malone, you've been working too hard
lately."
Now, Malone thought, it was coming. The dismissal he'd always feared.
At last Burris had found out that he wasn't the bright, intelligent,
fearless, and alert FBI agent he was supposed to be. Burris had
discovered that he was nothing more or less than lucky, and that all
the "fine jobs" he was supposed to have done were only the result of
luck.
Oh, well, Malone thought. Not being an FBI agent wouldn't be so bad.
He could always find another job.
Only at the moment he couldn't think of one he liked.
He decided to make one last plea. "I haven't been working so hard,
Chief," he said. "Not too hard, anyhow. I'm in great shape. I--"
"I've taken advantage of you, Malone, that's what I've done," Burris
said, just as if Malone hadn't spoken at all. "Just because you're the
best agent I've got, that's no reason for me to hand you all the tough
ones."
"Just because I'm what?" Malone said, feeling slightly faint.
"I've given you the tough ones because you could handle them," Burris
said. "But that's no reason to keep loading jobs on you. After that
job you did on the Gorelik kidnaping, and the way you wrapped up the
Transom counterfeit ring--well, Malone, I think you need a little
relaxation."
"Relaxation?" Malone said, feeling just a little bit pleased. Of
course, he didn't deserve any of the praise he was getting, he knew.
He'd just happened to walk in on the Gorelik kidnapers because his
telephone had been out of order. And the Transom ring hadn't been just
his job. After all, if other agents hadn't managed to trace the
counterfeit bills back to a common area in Cincinnati, he'd never have
been able to complete his part of the assignment. But it was nice to
be praised, anyhow. Malone felt a twinge of guilt, and told himself
sternly to relax and enjoy himself.
"That's what I said," Burris told him. "Relaxation."
"Well," Malone said, "I certainly would like a vacation, that's for
sure. I'd like to snooze for a couple of weeks, or maybe go up to Cape
Cod for a while. There's a lot of nice scenery up around there. It's
restful, sort of, and I could just--"
He stopped. Burris was frowning, and when Andrew J. Burris frowned it
was a good idea to look attentive, interested, and alert. "Now,
Malone," Burris said sadly, "I wasn't exactly thinking about a
vacation. You're not scheduled for one until August, you know."
"Oh, I know, Chief," Malone said. "But I thought--"
"Much as I'd like to," Burris said, "I just can't make an exception;
you know that, Malone. I've got to go pretty much by the schedule."
"Yes, sir," Malone said, feeling just a shade disappointed.
"But I do think you deserve a rest," Burris said.
"Well, if I--"
"Here's what I'm going to do," Burris said, and paused. Malone felt a
little unsure as to exactly what his chief was talking about, but by
now he knew better than to ask a lot of questions. Sooner or later,
Burris would probably explain himself. And if he didn't, then there
was no use worrying about it. That was just the way Burris acted.
"Suppose I gave you a chance to take it easy for a while," Burris
said. "You could catch up on your sleep, see some shows, have a couple
of drinks during the evening, take girls out for dinner--you know.
Something like that. How would you like it?"
"Well..." Malone said cautiously.
"Good," Burris said. "I knew you would."
Malone opened his mouth, thought briefly and closed it again. After
all, it did sound sort of promising, and if there was a catch in it
he'd find out about it soon enough.
"It's really just a routine case," Burris said in an offhand tone.
"Nothing to it."
"Oh," Malone said.
"There's this red Cadillac," Burris said. "It was stolen from a party
in Connecticut, out near Danbury, and it showed up in New York City.
Now, the car's crossed a state line."
"That puts it in our jurisdiction," Malone said, feeling obvious.
"Right," Burris said. "Right on the nose."
"But the New York office--"
"Naturally, they're in charge of everything," Burris said. "But I'm
sending you out as sort of a special observer. Just keep your eyes
open, and nose around and let me know what's happening."
"Keep my eyes and nose what?" Malone said.
"Open," Burris said. "And let me know about it."
Malone tried to picture himself with his eyes and nose open, and
decided he didn't look very attractive that way. Well, it was only a
figure of speech or something. He didn't have to think about it.
It really made a very ugly picture.
"But why a special observer?" he said after a second. Burris could
read the reports from the New York office, and probably get more facts
than any single agent could find out just wandering around a strange
city. It sounded as if there were something, Malone told himself, just
a tiny shade rotten in Denmark. It sounded as if there were going to
be something in the nice easy assignment he was getting that would
make him wish he'd gone lion hunting in Darkest Africa instead.
And then again, maybe he was wrong. He stood at ease and waited to
find out.
"Well," Burris said, "it is just a routine case. Just like I said. But
there seems to be something a little bit odd about it."
"I see," Malone said with a sinking feeling.
"Here's what happened," Burris said hurriedly, as if he were afraid
Malone was going to change his mind and refuse the assignment. "This
red Cadillac I told you about was reported stolen from Danbury. Three
days later, it turned up in New York City--parked smack across the
street from a precinct police station. Of course it took them a while
to wake up, but one of the officers happened to notice the routine
report on stolen cars in the area, and he decided to go across the
street and check the license number on the car. Then something funny
happened."
"Something funny?" Malone asked. He doubted that, whatever it was, it
was going to make him laugh. But he kept his face a careful, receptive
blank.
"That's right," Burris said. "Now, if you're going to understand what
happened, you've got to get the whole picture."
"Sure," Malone said.
"Only that isn't what I mean," Burris added suddenly.
Malone blinked. "_What_ isn't what you mean?" he said.
"Understanding what happened," Burris said. "That's the trouble. You
won't understand what happened. I don't understand it, and neither
does anybody else. So what do you think about it?"
"Think about what?" Malone said.
"About what I've been telling you," Burris snapped. "This car."
Malone took a deep breath. "Well," he said, "this officer went over to
check the license plate. It seems like the right thing to do. It's
just what I'd have done myself."
"Sure you would," Burris said. "Anybody would. But listen to me."
"All right, Chief," Malone said.
"It was just after dawn--early in the morning." Malone wondered
briefly if there were parts of the world where dawn came, say, late in
the afternoon, or during the evening sometime, but he said nothing.
"The street was deserted," Burris went on. "But it was pretty light
out, and the witnesses are willing to swear that there was nobody on
that street for a block in either direction. Except them, of course."
"Except who?" Malone said.
"Except the witnesses," Burris said patiently. "Four cops, police
officers who were standing on the front steps of the precinct station,
talking. They were waiting to go on duty, or anyhow that's what the
report said. It's lucky they were there, for whatever reason; they're
the only witnesses we've got."
Burris stopped. Malone waited a few seconds and then said, as calmly
as he could, "Witnesses to what?"
"To this whole business with Sergeant Jukovsky," Burris said.
The sudden introduction of a completely new name confused Malone for
an instant, but he recovered gamely. "Sergeant Jukovsky was the man
who investigated the car," he said.
"That's right," Burris said. "Except that he didn't."
Malone sighed.
"Those four officers--the witnesses--they weren't paying much
attention to what looked like the routine investigation of a parked
car," Burris said. "But here's their testimony. They were standing
around talking when this Sergeant Jukovsky came out of the station,
spoke to them in passing, and went on across the street. He didn't
seem very worried or alarmed about anything."
"Good," Malone said involuntarily. "I mean, go on, Chief," he added.
"Ah," Burris said. "All right. Well. According to Jukovsky, he took a
look at the plate and found the numbers checked the listing he had for
a stolen Connecticut car. Then he walked around to take a look inside
the car. It was empty. Get that, Malone. The car was empty."
"Well," Malone said, "it was parked. I suppose parked cars are usually
empty. What's special about this one?"
"Wait and see," Burris said ominously. "Jukovsky swears the car was
empty. He tried the doors, and they were all locked but one, the front
door on the curb side, the driver's door. So he opened it, and leaned
over to have a look at the odometer to check the mileage. And
something clobbered him on the back of the head."
"One of the other cops," Malone said.
"One of the--who?" Burris said. "No. Not the cops. Not at all."
"Then something fell on him," Malone said. "Okay. Then whatever fell
on him ought to be--"
"Malone," Burris said.
"Yes, Chief?"
"Jukovsky woke up on the sidewalk with the other cops all around him.
There was nothing on that sidewalk but Jukovsky. Nothing could have
fallen on him; it hadn't landed anywhere, if you see what I mean."
"Sure," Malone said. "But--"
"Whatever it was," Burris said, "they didn't find it. But that isn't
the peculiar thing."
"No?"
"No," Burris said slowly. "Now--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "They looked on the sidewalk and around
there. But did they think to search the car?"
"They didn't get a chance," Burris said. "Anyhow, not then. Not until
they got around to picking up the pieces of the car uptown at 125th
Street."
Malone closed his eyes. "Where was this precinct?" he said.
"Midtown," Burris said. "In the forties."
"And the pieces of the car were eighty blocks away when they searched
it?" Malone said.
Burris nodded.
"All right," Malone said pleasantly. "I give up."
"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Burris said. "According to
the witnesses, after Jukovsky fell out of the car, the motor started
and the car drove off uptown."
"Oh," Malone said. He thought about that for a minute and decided at
last to hazard one little question. It sounded silly--but then, what
didn't? "The car just drove off all by itself?" he said.
Burris seemed abashed. "Well, Malone," he said carefully, "that's
where the conflicting stories of the eyewitnesses don't agree. You
see, two of the cops say there was nobody in the car. Nobody at all.
Of any kind. Small or large."
"And the other two?" Malone said.
"The other two swear they saw somebody at the wheel," Burris said,
"but they won't say whether it was a man, a woman, a small child, or
an anthropoid ape. And they haven't the faintest idea where he, she,
or it came from."
"Great," Malone said. He felt a little tired. This trip was beginning
to sound less and less like a vacation.
"Those two cops swear there was something--or somebody--driving the
car," Burris said. "And that isn't all."
"It isn't?" Malone said.
Burris shook his head. "A couple of the cops jumped into a squad car
and started following the red Cadillac. One of these cops saw somebody
in the car when it left the curb. The other one didn't. Got that?"
"I've got it," Malone said, "but I don't exactly know what to do with
it."
"Just hold on to it," Burris said, "and listen to this. The cops were
about two blocks behind at the start, and they couldn't close the gap
right away. The Cadillac headed west and climbed up the ramp of the
West Side Highway, heading north, out toward Westchester. I'd give a
lot to know where they were going, too."
"But they crashed," Malone said, remembering that the pieces were at
125th Street. "So--"
"They didn't crash right away," Burris said. "The prowl car started
gaining on the Cadillac slowly. And--now, get this, Malone--both the
cops swear there _was_ somebody in the driver's seat now."
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "One of these cops didn't see anybody at
all in the driver's seat when the car started off."
"Right," Burris said.
"But on the West Side Highway, he did see a driver," Malone said. He
thought for a minute. "Hell, it could happen. They took off so fast he
could have been confused, or something."
"There's another explanation," Burris said.
"Sure," Malone said cheerfully. "We're all crazy. The whole world is
crazy."
"Not that one," Burris said. "I'll tell you when I finish with this
thing about the car itself. There isn't much description of whoever or
whatever was driving that car on the West Side Highway, by the way. In
case you were thinking of asking."
Malone, who hadn't been thinking of asking anything, tried to look
clever. Burris regarded him owlishly for a second, and then went on:
"The car was hitting it up at about a hundred and ten by this time,
and accelerating all the time. But the souped-up squad car was coming
on fast, too, and it was quite a chase. Luckily, there weren't many
cars on the road. Somebody could have been killed, Malone."
"Like the driver of the Cadillac," Malone ventured.
Burris looked pained. "Not exactly," he said. "Because the car hit the
125th Street exit like a bomb. It swerved right, just as though it
were going to take the exit and head off somewhere, but it was going
much too fast by that time. There just wasn't any way to maneuver. The
Cadillac hit the embankment, flipped over the edge, and smashed. It
caught fire almost at once. Of course the prowl car braked fast and
went down the exit after it. But there wasn't anything to do."
"That's what I said," Malone said. "The driver of the Cadillac was
killed. In a fire like that--"
"Don't jump to conclusions, Malone," Burris said. "Wait. When the
prowl car boys got to the scene, there was no sign of anybody in the
car. Nobody at all."
"In the heat of those flames--" Malone began.
"Not enough heat, and not enough time," Burris said. "A human body
couldn't have been destroyed in just a few minutes, not that
completely. Some of the car's metal was melted, sure; but there would
have been traces of anybody who'd been in the car. Nice, big, easily
seen traces. And there weren't any. No corpse, no remains, no
nothing."
Malone let that stew in his mind for a few seconds. "But the cops
said--"
"Whatever the cops said," Burris snapped, "there was nobody at all in
that Cadillac when it went off the embankment."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "Here's a car with a driver who
appears and disappears practically at will. Sometimes he's there and
sometimes he's not there."
"Ah," Burris said. "That's why I have another explanation."
Malone shifted his feet. Maybe there _was_ another explanation. But,
he told himself, it would have to be a good one.
"Nobody expects a car to drive itself down a highway," Burris said.
"That's right," Malone said. "That's why it's all impossible."
"So," Burris said, "it would be a natural hallucination--or illusion,
anyhow--for somebody to imagine he did see a driver when there wasn't
any."
"Okay," Malone said. "There wasn't any driver. So the car couldn't
have gone anywhere. So the New York police force is lying to us. It's
a good explanation, but it--"
"They aren't lying," Burris said. "Why should they? I'm thinking of
something else." He stopped, his eyes bright as he leaned across the
desk toward Malone.
"Do I get three guesses?" Malone said.
Burris ignored him. "Frankly," he said, "I've got a hunch that the
whole thing was done with remote control. Somewhere in that car was a
very cleverly concealed device that was capable of running the
Cadillac from a distance."
It did sound plausible, Malone thought. "Did the prowl car boys find
any traces of it when they examined the wreckage?" he said.
"Not a thing," Burris said. "But, after all, it could have been
melted. The fire did destroy a lot of the Cadillac, and there's just
no telling. But I'd give long odds that there must have been some kind
of robot device in that car. It's the only answer, isn't it?"
"I suppose so," Malone said.
"Malone," Burns said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's Country
In The Face of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find that
device!"
"In the wreck?" Malone said.
Burris sighed and leaned back. "No," he said. "Of course not. Not in
the wreck. But the other red Cadillacs--some of them, anyhow--ought to
have--"
"What red Cadillacs?" Malone said.
"The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. One
from New Jersey, out near Passaic."
"Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malone
said.
"Well," Burris said, "there's been no report of it. But who can tell?"
He gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone."
"Sure," Malone said.
"Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs.
There's got to be some reason for that. I think they're covering up
another car like the one that got smashed: a remote-controlled
Cadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled
Cadillac."
"They?" Malone said. "Who?"
"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently.
"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--"
"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose
around. Got it?"
"I have now," Malone said.
"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at
it. Okay?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
* * * * *
Of course there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone a
sheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burris
himself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had taken
a train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes still
made him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had to. If
jet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he thought,
they were certainly good enough for him.
But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip did
him. The reports contained thousands of words, none of which was
either new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, he
considered, had given him everything necessary for the job.
Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. He
considered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They might
make it easier for the average driver, of course--but that was no
reason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head and
smashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the West
Side Highway.
All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherished
it deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the train
pulled into Penn Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched
the buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolled
slowly along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense.
And nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashed
up, had they?
So what was all this nonsense about robot-controlled red Cadillacs?
Driving these unwelcome reflections from his mind, he paused to light
a cigarette. He had barely taken the first puff when a familiar voice
said, "Hey, buddy, hold the light, will you?"
Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said. "What
are you doing here? I haven't seen you since--"
"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out West on a couple of cases.
Must be a year since we worked together."
"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York?
Vacationing?"
"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation,
but--"
"Oh," Malone said. "You re working with me."
Boyd nodded. "The chief sent me up. When I got back from the West, he
suddenly decided you might need a good assistant, so I took the plane
down, and got here ahead of you."
"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation--"
"Never mind," Boyd said; just a shade sadly. "I know. It isn't." He
seemed deep in thought, as if he were deciding whether or not to get
rid of Anne Boleyn. It was, Malone thought, an unusually apt simile.
Boyd, six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and twenty-five
pounds, had a large square face and a broad-beamed figure that might
have made him a dead ringer for Henry VIII of England even without his
Henry-like fringe of beard and his mustache. With them--thanks to the
recent FBI rule that agents could wear "facial hair, at the discretion
of the director or such board as he may appoint"--the resemblance to
the Tudor monarch was uncanny.
But, like his famous double, Boyd didn't stay sad for long. "I thought
I'd meet you at the station," he said, cheering up, "and maybe talk
over old times for a while, on the way to the hotel, anyhow. So long
as there wasn't anything else to do."
"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you get
pulled out of the Frisco office?"
Boyd grimaced. "You know," he said, "I had a good thing going for me
out there. Agent-in-Charge of the entire office. But right after that
job we did together--the Queen Elizabeth affair--Burris decided I was
too good a man to waste my fragrance on the desert air. Or whatever it
is. So he recalled me, assigned me from the home office, and I've been
on one case after another ever since."
"You're a home-office agent now?" Malone said.
"I'm a Roving Reporter," Boyd said, and struck a pose. "I'm a General
Trouble-shooter and a Mr. Fix-It. Just like you, Hero."
"Thanks," Malone said. "How about the local office here? Seen the boys
yet?"
Boyd shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you to
show up. But I did manage hotel rooms--a couple of rooms with a
connecting bath over at the Hotel New Yorker. Nice place. You'll like
it, Ken."
"I'll love it," Malone said. "Especially that connecting bath. It
would have been terrible to have an unconnecting bath. Sort of
distracting."
"Okay," Boyd said. "Okay. You know what I mean." He stared down at
Malone's hand. "You know you've still got your lighter on?" he added.
Malone looked down at it and shut it off. "You asked me to hold it,"
he said.
"I didn't mean indefinitely," Boyd said. "Anyhow, how about grabbing a
cab and heading on down to the hotel to get your stuff away, before we
check in at 69th Street?"
"Good idea," Malone said. "And besides, I could do with a clean shirt.
Not to mention a bath."
"Trains get worse and worse," Boyd said absently.
Malone punched the redcap's buttons again, and he and Boyd followed it
through the crowded station to the taxi stand. The robot piled the
suitcases into the cab, and somehow Malone and Boyd found room for
themselves.
"Hotel New Yorker," Boyd said grandly.
The driver swung around to stare at them, blinked, and finally said,
"Okay, Mac. You said it." He started with a terrific grinding of
gears, drove out of the Penn Station arch and went two blocks.
"Here you are, Mac," he said, stopping the cab.
Malone stared at Boyd with a reproachful expression.
"So how was I to know?" Boyd said.
"I didn't look. If I'd known it was so close we could've walked."
"And saved half a buck," Malone said. "But don't let it bother
you--this is expense-account money."
"That's right," Boyd said. He beamed and tipped the driver heavily.
The cab drove off and Malone hailed the New Yorker doorman, who
equipped them with a robot bellhop and sent them upstairs to their
rooms.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Boyd and Malone were in the offices
of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on East 69th Street. There
they picked up a lot of nice, new, shiny facts. It was unfortunate, if
not particularly surprising, that the facts did not seem to make any
sense.
In the first place, only red 1972 Cadillacs seemed to be involved.
Anybody who owned such a car was likely to find it missing at any
time; there had been a lot of thefts reported, including some that
hadn't had time to get into Burris' reports. New Jersey now claimed
two victims, and New York had three of its own.
And all the cars weren't turning up in New York, by any means. Some of
the New York cars had turned up in New Jersey. Some had turned up in
Connecticut--including one of the New Jersey cars. So far, there had
been neither thefts nor discoveries in Pennsylvania, but Malone
couldn't see why.
There was absolutely no pattern that he, Boyd, or anyone else could
find. The list of thefts and recoveries had been fed into an
electronic calculator, which had neatly regurgitated them without
being in the least helpful. It had remarked that the square of seven
was forty-nine, but this was traced to a defect in the mechanism.
Whoever was borrowing the red Caddies exhibited a peculiar combination
of burglarious genius and what looked to Malone like outright idiocy.
This was plainly impossible.
Unfortunately, it had happened.
Locking the car doors didn't do a bit of good. The thief, or thieves,
got in without so much as scratching the lock. This obviously proved
that the criminal was either an extremely good lock-pick or else knew
where to get duplicate keys.
However, the ignition was invariably shorted across.
This proved neatly that the criminal was not a very good lock-pick,
and did not know where to get duplicate keys.
Query: Why work so hard on the doors, and not work at all on the
ignition?
That was the first place. The second place was just what had been
bothering Malone all along. There didn't seem to be any purpose to the
car thefts. They hadn't been sold, or used as getaway cars. True,
teenage delinquents sometimes stole cars just to use them joy-riding,
or as some sort of prank.
But a car or two every night? How many joy-rides can one gang take?
Malone thought. And how long does it take to get tired of the same
prank?
And why, Malone asked himself wearily for what was beginning to feel
like the ten thousandth time, why only red Cadillacs?
Burris, he told himself, must have been right all along. The red
Cadillacs were only a smoke screen for something else. Perhaps it was
the robot car, perhaps not; but whatever it was, Burris' general
answer was the only one that made any sense at all.
That should have been a comforting thought, Malone reflected. Somehow,
though, it wasn't.
After they'd finished with the files and personnel at 69th Street,
Malone and Boyd started downtown on what turned out to be a sort of
unguided tour of the New York Police Department. They spoke to some of
the eyewitnesses, and ended up in Centre Street asking a lot of
reasonably useless questions in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. In
general, they spent nearly six hours on the Affair of the
Self-Propelled Cadillac, picking up a whole bundle of facts. Some of
the facts they had already known. Some were new, but unhelpful.
Somehow, nobody felt much like going out for a night on the town.
Instead both agents climbed wearily into bed, thinking morose and
disillusioned thoughts.
And, after that, a week passed. It was filled with ennui.
Only one new thing became clear. In spite of the almost identical
modus operandi used in all the car thefts, they were obviously the
work of a gang rather than a single person. This required the
assumption that there was not one insane man at work, but a crew of
them, all identically unbalanced.
"But the jobs are just too scattered to be the work of one man,"
Malone said. "To steal a car in Connecticut and drive it to the Bronx,
and then steal another car in Westfield, New Jersey, fifteen minutes
later takes more than talent. It takes an outright for-sure magician."
This conclusion, while interesting, was not really helpful. The fact
was that Malone needed more clues--or, anyhow, more facts--before he
could do anything at all. And there just weren't any new facts around.
He spent the week wandering morosely from one place to another
sometimes accompanied by Thomas Boyd and sometimes all alone. Time, he
knew, was ticking by at its usual rate. But there wasn't a thing he
could do about it.
He did try to relax and have some fun, as Burris had suggested. But he
didn't seem to be able to get his mind off the case.
Boyd, after the first little while, had no such trouble. He entered
the social life of the city with a whoop of joy and disappeared from
sight. That was fine for Boyd, Malone reflected, but it did leave
Malone himself just a little bit at loose ends.
Not that he begrudged Boyd his fun. It was nice that one of them was
enjoying himself, anyway.
It was just that Malone was beginning to get fidgety. He needed to be
doing something--even if it was only taking a walk.
So he took a walk and ended up, to his own surprise, downtown near
Greenwich Village.
And then he'd been bopped on the head.
3
The patrol car pulled up in front of St. Vincent's Hospital, and one
of the cops helped Malone into the emergency receiving room. He didn't
feel as bad as he had a few minutes before. The motion of the car
hadn't helped any, but his head seemed to be knitting a little, and
his legs were a little steadier. True, he didn't feel one hundred per
cent healthy, but he was beginning to think he might live, after all.
And while the doctor was bandaging his head, a spirit of new life
began to fill the FBI agent.
He was no longer morose and undirected. He had a purpose in life, and
the purpose filled him with cold determination. He was going to find
the robot-operated car--or whatever it turned out to be.
The doctor, Malone noticed, was whistling _Greensleeves_ under his
breath as he worked. That, he supposed, was the influence of the
Bohemian folk-singers of Greenwich Village. But he put the noise
resolutely out of his mind and concentrated on the red Cadillac.
It was one thing to think about a robot car miles away, doing
something or other to somebody you'd never heard of before. That was
just theoretical, a case for solution, nothing but an ordinary job.
But when the car stepped up and bopped Malone himself on the head, it
became a personal matter. Now Malone had more than a job to contend
with. Now he was thinking about revenge.
_By God_, he told himself, _no car in the world--not even a
Cadillac--can get away with beaning Kenneth J. Malone!_
Malone was not quite certain that he agreed with Burris' idea of a
self-operating car, but at least it was something to work on. A car
that could reach out, crown an investigator, and then drive off
humming something innocent under its breath was certainly a unique and
dangerous machine within the meaning of the act. Of course, there were
problems attendant on this view of things. For one thing, Malone
couldn't quite see how the car could have beaned him when he was ten
feet away from it. But that was, he told himself uncomfortably, a
minor point. He could deal with it when he felt a little better.
The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under
the doctor's calm hands, and swore subvocally.
"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around
that way. Just wait quietly until the dermijel sets."
Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he
decided he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly.
"Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed.
"But you--"
"What did you expect?" the doctor said. "Even an FBI agent isn't
immune to blackjacks, you know." He resumed his work on Malone's
skull.
"Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?"
"The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow."
Malone blinked. Somehow, though he could manage a fuzzy picture of a
car reaching out to hit him, the introduction of a blackjack into this
imaginative effort confused things a little. But he resolutely ignored
it.
"The bruise is just the right size and shape," the doctor said. "And
that cut on your head comes from the seams on the leather casing."
"You're sure?" Malone said doubtfully. It did seem as if a car had a
lot more dangerous weapons around, without resorting to blackjacks. If
it had really wanted to damage him, why hadn't it hit him with the
engine block?
"I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this
hospital long enough to recognize a blackjack wound."
That was a disturbing idea, in a way. It gave a new color to Malone's
reflection on Greenwich Villagers. Maybe things had changed since he'd
heard about them. Maybe the blackjack had supplanted the guitar.
But that wasn't the important thing.
The fact that it had been a blackjack that had hit him _was_
important. It was vital, as a matter of fact. Malone knew that
perfectly well. It was a key fact in the case he was investigating.
The only trouble was that he didn't see what, if anything, it meant.
The doctor stepped back and regarded Malone's head with something like
pride. "There," he said. "You'll be all right now."
"A concussion?"
"Sure," the doctor said. "But it isn't serious. Just take these
pills--one every two hours until they're gone--and you'll be rid of
any effects within twenty-four hours." He went to a cabinet, fiddled
around for a minute, and came back with a small bottle containing six
orange pills. They looked very large and threatening.
"Fine," Malone said doubtfully.
"You'll be all right," the doctor said, giving Malone a cheerful,
confident grin. "Nothing at all to worry about." He loaded a hypojet
and blasted something through the skin of Malone's upper arm. Malone
swallowed hard. He knew perfectly well that he hadn't felt a thing but
he couldn't quite make himself believe it.
"That'll take care of you for tonight," the doctor said. "Get some
sleep and start in on the pills when you wake up, okay?"
"Okay," Malone said. It was going to make waking up something less
than a pleasure, but he wanted to get well, didn't he?
Of course he did. If that Cadillac thought it was going to beat him...
"You can stand up now," the doctor said.
"Okay," Malone said, trying it. "Thanks, Doctor. I--"
There was a knock at the door. The doctor jerked his head around.
"Who's that?" he said.
"Me," a bass voice said, unhelpfully.
The emergency-room door opened a crack and a face peered in. It took
Malone a second to recognize Bill, the waffle-faced cop who had picked
him up next to the lamp post three years or so before. "Long time no
see," Malone said at random.
"What?" Bill said, and opened the door wider. He came in and closed it
behind him. "It's okay, Doc," he said to the attendant. "I'm a cop."
"Been hurt?" the doctor said.
Bill shook his head. "Not recently," he said. "I came to see this
guy." He looked at Malone. "They told me you were still here," he
said.
"Who's they?" Malone said.
"Outside," Bill said. "The attendants out there. They said you were
still getting stitched up."
"And quite right, too," Malone said solemnly.
"Oh," Bill said. "Sure." He fished in his pockets. "You dropped your
notebook, though, and I came to give it back to you." He located the
object he was hunting for and brought it out with the triumphant
gesture of a man displaying the head of a dragon he had slain. "Here,"
he said, waving the book.
"Notebook?" Malone said. He stared at it. It was a small looseleaf
book bound in cheap black plastic.
"We found it in the gutter," Bill said.
Malone took a tentative step forward and managed not to fall. He
stepped back again and looked at Bill scornfully. "I wasn't even in
the gutter," he said. "There are limits."
"Sure," Bill said. "But the notebook was, so I brought it along to
you. I thought you might need it or something." He handed it over to
Malone with a flourish.
It wasn't Malone's notebook. In the first place, he had never owned a
notebook that looked anything like that, and in the second place he
hadn't had any notebooks on him when he went for his walk. _Mine not
to question why_, Malone told himself with a shrug, and flipped the
book open.
At once he saw why the cop had mistaken it for his.
It had his name in it.
On the very first page were two names, written out in a careful,
semieducated scrawl:
_Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI_
_Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD_
The rest of the page was blank. Malone wondered who Lieutenant Lynch
was, and made a mental note to find out. Then he wondered what his
name was doing in somebody else's notebook. Maybe, he thought, it was
a list of people to slug, and the car had made it up. But he hadn't
heard of anybody named Lynch being hit on the head by a marauding
automobile, and he couldn't quite picture a Cadillac jotting things
down in a notebook for future reference. Besides, he had an idea that
a Cadillac's handwriting would be more formal, and prettier.
He turned the page. On the next leaf there were more names, eight of
them. The first one was written in red pencil and the others were in
ordinary black. Malone stared at them:
_Mike F._
_Ramon O._
_Mario G._
_Silvo E._
_Alvarez A._
_Felipe la B._
_Juan de los S._
_Ray del E._
All the names except Mike F. sounded Spanish, or possibly Puerto
Rican. Malone wondered who they were. Juvenile delinquents? Other
people to slug? Police officers?
Maybe they were all the names of Spanish-speaking Cadillacs.
He blinked and rubbed at his forehead with one hand. His head still
hurt, and that was probably why he was getting such strange ideas. It
was obvious that, whatever the notebook was, it hadn't been written by
an automobile.
He turned the page again.
Here there was a carefully detailed drawing of a car. Malone
recognized it as a 1972 Cadillac without any effort at all.
And it had been carefully colored in with red pencil.