"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.
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 room.
8
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 sort 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 plant probably was. 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 to 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 in front. 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 oddball about the
Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never drink
liquor, 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 'fit into' 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 quite successful 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
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 got _something_, 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 know 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 social
worker 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, the Spooks do have a sort of secret
meeting place, you know. And they meet there."