"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 dog before you start talking about
impossibilities. Hell of 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, _and_ no 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-headed 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-bye in a hurry and left. His next stop was the
Xochitl, the Mexican bar on 46th Street. He greeted the bartender
warmly.
"Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you."
"Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?"
"Notesbook?" the bartender said.
"A little black plastic book," Malone said, making motions, "about so
big. And it--"
"Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"
"Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean _it_. Would I be looking for
it if I hadn't lost it?"
"Who knows?" the bartender said, and shrugged.
"But you said you were looking for me," Malone said. "What about?"
"Oh," the bartender said. "I only say that. Make customer feel good,
think we miss him. Customers like, so we do. What your name?"
"Pizarro," Malone said disgustedly, and went away.
The last stop was Topp's. Well, he had to find the notebook there. It
was the only place the notebook could be. That was logic, and Malone
was proud of it. He walked into Topp's, trying to remember the
bartender's name, and found it just as he walked into the bar.
"Hello, Wally," he said gaily.
The bartender stared at him. "I'm not Wally," he said. "Wally's the
night barman. My name's Ray."
"Oh," Malone said, feeling deflated. "Well, I've come about a
notebook."
"Yes, sir?" Ray said.
"I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. If
you'll just take me to the Lost and Found--"
"One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, all
alone.
In a few seconds he was back. "I didn't see the notebook myself, sir,"
he said. "But if Wally picked it up, he'd have turned it over to the
maître d'. Perhaps you'd like to check with him."
"Sure," Malone said. The daytime maître d' turned out to be a
shortish, heavy-set man with large blue eyes, a silver mane, and a
thin, pencil-line mustache. He was addressed, for no reason Malone was
able to discover, as BeeBee.
Ray introduced them. "This gentleman wants to know about a notebook,"
he told BeeBee.
"Notebook?" BeeBee said.
Malone explained at length. BeeBee nodded in an understanding fashion
for some moments and, when Malone had finished, disappeared in search
of the Lost and Found. He came back rather quickly, with the
disturbing news that no notebook was anywhere in the place.
"It's got to be here," Malone said.
"Well," BeeBee said, "it isn't. Maybe you left it some place else.
Maybe it's home now."
"It isn't," Malone said. "And I've tried every place else."
"New York's a big city, Mr. Malone," BeeBee said.
Malone sighed. "I've tried every place I've been. The notebook
couldn't be somewhere I haven't been. A rolling stone follows its
owner." He thought about that. It didn't seem to mean anything, but
maybe it had. There was no way to tell for sure.
He went back to the bar to think things over and figure out his next
move. A bourbon and soda while thinking seemed the obvious order, and
Ray bustled off to get it.
Had he left the notebook on the street somewhere, just dropping it by
accident? Malone couldn't quite see that happening. It was, of course,
possible; but the possibility was so remote that he decided to try and
think of everything else first. There was Dorothy, for instance.
Had he got stewed enough so that he'd showed Dorothy the notebook?
He didn't remember doing it, and he didn't quite see why he would
have. Most of the evening was more or less clear in his mind; he
hadn't apparently, forgotten any other details, either.
All the same, it was an idea. He decided to give the girl a call and
find out for sure. Maybe she remembered something that would help him,
anyway.
He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away,
he remembered one more little fact.
He didn't have her number, and he didn't know anything about where she
lived, except that it could be reached by subway. That, Malone told
himself morosely, limited things nicely to the five boroughs of New
York.
And she said she was living with her aunt. Would she have a phone
listing under her own name? Or would the listing be under her aunt's
name, which he also didn't know?
At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he told
himself.
He did so.
There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattan
and in all the other boroughs.
Malone went back to the bar to think some more. He was on his second
bourbon and soda, still thinking but without any new ideas, when
BeeBee tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Pardon me," the maître d' said, "but are you English?"
"Am I what?" Malone said, spilling a little of his drink on the bar.
"Are you English?" BeeBee said.
"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish."
"That's nice," BeeBee said.
Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love to
know why you asked me."
"Well," BeeBee said, "I knew you couldn't be American. Not after the
phone call. You don't have to hide your nationality here; we're quite
accustomed to foreign visitors. And we don't have special prices for
tourists."
Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly,
"what it is you're talking about?"
"Certainly," BeeBee said with aplomb. "There's a call for you in the
upstairs booth. A long-distance call, personal."
"Oh," Malone said. "Who'd know I was--" He stopped, thinking hard.
There was no way for anybody in the world to know he was in Topp's.
Therefore, nobody could be calling him. "They've got the wrong name,"
he said decisively.
"Oh, no," BeeBee said. "I heard them quite distinctly. You _are_ Sir
Kenneth Malone, aren't you?"
Malone gaped for one long second, and then his mind caught up with the
facts. "Oh," he said. "Sure." He raced upstairs to the phone booth,
said, "This is Sir Kenneth Malone," into the blank screen, and waited.
After a while an operator said, "Person-to-person call, Sir Kenneth,
from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?"
"I'll take it," Malone said. A face appeared on the screen, and Malone
knew he was right. He knew exactly how he'd been located, and by whom.
Looking only at the face in the screen, it might have been thought
that the woman who appeared there was somebody's grandmother, kindly,
red-cheeked, and twinkle-eyed. Perhaps that wasn't the only
stereotype; she could have been an old-maid schoolteacher, one of the
kindly schoolteachers who taught, once upon a time that never was, in
the little red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positively
radiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace.
But if the face was the face of a sentimental dream, the garb was the
garb of royalty. Somebody's grandmother was on her way to a costume
party. She wore the full court costume of the days of Queen Elizabeth
I, complete with brocaded velvet gown, wide ruff collar, and bejeweled
skullcap.
She was, Malone knew, completely insane.
Like all the other telepaths Malone and the rest of the FBI had found
during their work in uncovering a telepathic spy, she had been located
in an insane asylum. Months of extensive psychotherapy, including all
the newest techniques and some so old that psychiatrists were a little
afraid to use them, had done absolutely nothing to shake the firm
conviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson.
She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightful Queen of England.
She claimed she was immortal, which was not true. She also claimed to
be a telepath. This was perfectly accurate. It had been her help that
had enabled Malone to find the telepathic spy, and a grateful
government had rewarded her.
It had given her a special expense allotment for life, covering the
clothing she wore, and the style in which she lived. Rooms had been
set aside for her at Yucca Flats, and she held court there, sometimes
being treated by psychiatrists and sometimes helping Dr. Thomas
O'Connor in his experiments and in the development of new psionic
machines.
She was probably the happiest psychopath on Earth.
Malone stared at her. For a second he could think of nothing to say
but, "My God." He said it.
"Not at all, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "Your Queen."
Malone took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.
"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said, and waited. After a second
Malone figured out what she was waiting for.
He inclined his head in as courtly a bow as he could manage over a
visiphone. "I am deeply honored," he said, "that Your Majesty has
called on me. Is there any way in which I might be of service?"
"Oh, goodness me, no," said the little old lady. "I don't need a
thing. They do one very well here in Yucca Flats. You must come out
soon and see my new throne room. I've had the decorations done by--but
I can see you're not interested in that, Sir Kenneth."
"But--" Malone realized it was useless to argue with the old lady. She
was telepathic, and knew exactly what he was thinking. That, after
all, was how he had been located; she had mentally "hunted" for him
until she found him.
But why?
"I'll tell you why, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "I'm
worried about you."
"Worried? About me, Your Majesty?"
"Certainly," the little old lady said, inclining her head just the
proper number of degrees, and raising it again. "You, Sir Kenneth, and
that silly little notebook you lost. You've been stewing about it for
the last hour."
It was obvious that, for reasons of her own, the Queen had seen fit to
look into Malone's mind. She'd found him worrying, and called him
about it. It was, Malone thought, sweet of her in a way. But it was
also just a bit disconcerting.
He was perfectly well aware that the Queen could read his mind at any
distance. But unless something reminded him of the fact, he didn't
have to think about it.
And he didn't like to think about it.
"Don't be disturbed," the Queen said. "Please. I only want to help
you, Sir Kenneth; you know that."
"Well, of course I do," Malone said. "But--"
"Heavens to Betsy," she said. "Sir Kenneth, what kind of a detective
are you?"
"What?" Malone said, and added at once, "Your Majesty." He knew
perfectly well, of course, that Miss Thompson was not Queen Elizabeth
I--and he knew that Miss Thompson knew what he thought.
But she didn't mind. Politeness, she held, was the act of being
pleasant on the surface, no matter what a person really thought.
People were polite to their bosses, she pointed out, even though they
were perfectly sure that they could do a better job than the bosses
were doing.
So she insisted on the surface pretense that Malone was going through,
treating her like a Queen.
The psychiatrists had called her delusion a beautifully rationalized
one. As far as Malone was concerned, it made more sense than most of
real life.
"That's very nice of you, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "But I ask you
again, what kind of detective are you? Haven't you got any common
sense at all?"
Malone hated to admit it, but he had always had just that suspicion.
After all, he wasn't a very good detective. He was just lucky. His
luck had enabled him to break a lot of tough cases. But some day
people would find out, and then--
"Well," the Queen said, "at the very least you ought to _act_ like a
detective." She sniffed audibly. "Sir Kenneth, I'm ashamed that a
member of my own FBI can't do any better than you're doing now."
Malone blinked into the screen. He did feel ashamed in a vague sort of
way, and he was willing to admit it. But he did feel, wistfully, that
it would be nice to know just what he was being ashamed of. "Have I
been missing something?" he said.
"Outside of the obvious," the Queen said, "that you've been missing
your notebook--or rather Mike Fueyo's notebook--"
"Yes?" Malone said.
"You certainly have," the Queen said. "Don't you see what happened to
that notebook? You've been missing the only possible explanation."
"But there isn't any," Malone said. "Unless Miss Francis has it."
Her Majesty gave him a bright smile. "There!" she said.
"There, what?" Malone said.
"I knew you could do it," the Queen said. "All you had to do was apply
your intelligence, and you'd come up with just the fact you needed."
"What fact?" Malone said.
"That Miss Francis has your notebook," the Queen said. "You just told
me."
"All right," Malone said, and stopped and took a deep breath. "My
God," he said after a pause. "What is that supposed to mean? Did I
give it to her after all?"
"No," the Queen said.
"Did I lose it, and did she pick it up?"
"No," the Queen said.
"My God," Malone said again. "All right. I give up. Is this Twenty
Questions?"
"Sir Kenneth!" the Queen said. "What a way to talk to your Queen!"