Malone thought of several possible answers and finally chose one.
"That," he said, "was my mother-in-law. She worries about me every
time I go out on a job with you."
"Very funny," Boyd said. "I am screaming with laughter."
"Just get back to work, Tommy-boy," Malone said, "and leave everything
to me."
He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Lighting a
cigarette--and wishing he were alone in his own room, so that he could
smoke a cigar and not have to worry about looking dashing and
alert--Malone strolled out of the office with a final wave to Boyd. He
was thinking about Mike Fueyo, and he stopped his chain of reasoning
just long enough to look in at the office of the Agent-in-Charge, and
ask him to pry loose two tickets for _The Hot Seat_ for that night.
"My God," the agent said. He was a tall thin man who looked as if he
suffered from chronic stomach trouble. "You must be crazy. Are they
all like that in Washington?"
"No," Malone said cheerfully. "Some of them are pretty normal. There's
this one man--Napoleon, we call him--who keeps insisting that he
should have won the battle of Waterloo. But otherwise he's perfectly
fine."
He flicked his cigarette in the air and left, grinning. Five steps
away the grin disappeared and a frown took its place.
6
He walked along 69th Street to Park Avenue without noticing where he
was going. Luckily, the streets weren't really crowded, and Malone
only had to apologize twice, once for stepping on a man's toe and once
for absently toeing a woman's dog. When he reached the corner he
headed downtown, humming _Kathleen Mavourneen_ under his breath and
trying to figure out his next move.
He needed more than one move. He needed a whole series of moves. This
was not the usual kind of case. Burris had called it a vacation and,
in one way, Malone supposed, Burris was perfectly right. For once
there was no question about who had committed the crimes. It was
obvious by now that Mike Fueyo and his Silent Spooks had been stealing
the Cadillacs.
It was even obvious that Mike--or someone with Mike's talent--had
bopped him on the head, and taken the red Cadillac he had been
examining. And the same gang probably accounted for the Sergeant
Jukovsky affair, too.
Or at least it was reasonable to assume that they did, Malone thought.
He could see how it had worked. One of the Silent Spooks was a lot
smaller than a grown man, and the two cops who hadn't seen anyone in
the parked car just hadn't been able to catch sight of the undersized
driver. Of course, there _had_ been someone in the car when it had
been driving along the West Side Highway. Someone who had teleported
himself right out of the car when it had gone over the embankment.
That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found in
the red Cadillacs Leibowitz and Hardin were examining now. But Malone
had already decided to let that phase of things go on. First of all,
it was always possible that he was wrong, and that some such machine
really did exist. Second, even if they didn't find a machine, they
might find something else. Almost anything, he thought, might turn up.
And third, it kept Boyd decently busy, and out of Malone's hair.
That had been an easy solution. And, Malone thought, the problem of
who had been taking the red Cadillacs looked just as easy now, if his
answers were right. And he was reasonably sure of that.
Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question: _How
do you catch a teleport?_
Malone looked up, jarred to a stop by a man built like a brown bear,
with a chunky body and an oval, slightly sloping head and face. He had
very short brown hair shot through with gray, and gave Malone a small
inquisitive stare and looked away without a word.
Malone mumbled, "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at
47th Street and Park Avenue. He jerked a hand up to his face, and
managed to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing the
initials S.M. carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone
thought wildly, muttered, "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling
fairly grateful to the unfortunate bystander.
He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a part
of his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a call in a
hurry.
He found a phone booth in a bar called the Ad Lib, at Madison Avenue.
Sternly telling himself that he was stopping there to make a phone
call, a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched right
past the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, where he
made a call to New York Police Commissioner John Henry Fernack.
Fernack's face was that of an old man, but there was no telling how
old. The early seventies was one guess, Malone imagined; the late
fifties might be another. He looked tough, as if he had spent all of
his life trying to persuade other people that he was young enough for
the handball tournament. When he saw Malone, his eyebrows lifted
slightly, but he didn't say anything.
"Commissioner," Malone said, "I called to ask you to do me a favor."
There was caution hidden in the calm and quiet voice. "Well," Fernack
said, "what is it, Malone?"
"Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through the
computer?" Malone said. "I need some dope."
"Depends on the given period," Fernack said. "I can't do it for 1774."
"What would I need data on robberies in 1774 for?" Malone said,
honestly interested.
"I never question the FBI," Fernack said soberly. "But what dates do
you want?"
"The past year, maybe the past year and a half."
"And what data?"
"I want every reported crime that hasn't been solved," Malone said,
"and which seems to have been committed by some impossible means. A
safe that was robbed without being opened, for instance--that's the
kind of thing I mean."
"Every unsolved crime?" Fernack said. "Now, hold your horses, Malone.
I'm not at all sure that--"
"Don't worry about a thing, Commissioner," Malone said. "This is
confidential."
"You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to--"
"I said confidential, John Henry," Malone said, trying to sound
friendly and trustworthy. "After all, every place has unsolved crimes.
Even the FBI isn't absolutely perfect."
"Oh," Fernack said. "Sure. But confidential, Malone."
"You have my word," Malone said sincerely.