"That's right," the Queen said. "She's little Miguel Fueyo's older
sister."
10
Malone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at the
face of the little old lady on the screen. At last he spoke. "My God,"
he said. "Her name is Fueyo. I'll be damned."
"I've told you," the Queen said with some asperity, "not to swear, Sir
Kenneth."
"I know," Malone said. "But--"
"You're excited," the Queen said. "You're stunned. Goodness, you don't
need to tell me that, Sir Kenneth. I know."
"But she's--" Malone discovered that he couldn't talk. He swallowed a
couple of times and then went on. "She's Mike Fueyo's sister."
"That's exactly right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "That's just what
I told you."
"Then she swiped the book to protect her little brother," Malone said.
"Oh, boy."
"Exactly, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.
"And she doesn't care about me at all," Malone said. "I mean, she only
went out with me because I was me. Malone. And she wanted the
notebook. That was all there was to it." He added an expletive. The
Queen frowned, but said nothing about it.
"I wouldn't say that if I were you," she went on. "Quite the contrary.
She does like you, you know. And she thinks you're a very nice
person." The Queen beamed. "You are, you know," she said.
"Oh," Malone said uncomfortably. "Sure."
"You don't have to think that she merely went out with you because of
her brother's notebook," the Queen said. "But she does have a strong
sense of loyalty--and he is--her younger brother, after all."
"He sure is," Malone said. "He's a great kid, little Mike."
"You see," the Queen continued imperturbably, "Mike told her about
losing the notebook the other night--when he struck you."
"When he struck me," Malone said. "Oh, yes. He struck me, all right."
"He guessed that you must have it when you started asking questions
about the Silent Spooks, you see," the Queen said. "That was the only
way you could have found out about him--unless you were telepathic.
Which, of course, you're not."
"No," Malone said.
"Now, understand me," the Queen said. "I do not think that his
striking you was a very nice act."
"I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like--it hurt quite a lot."
"Certainly," the Queen said. "But he didn't hurt the car any, and he
didn't want to. He just wanted to ride around in it for a while."
"He likes red Cadillacs," Malone said.
"Oh, yes," the Queen said. "He thinks they're wonderful."
"Good for him," Malone said sourly.
"Well, now," the Queen said. "You just go right on over to her house.
Of course she doesn't live with an aunt."
"No," Malone said. "She lives with Mike and his mother."
"Why not?" the Queen said. "She's part of the family."
Malone nodded silently.
"She'll give you the book, Sir Kenneth. I just know that she will. And
I want you to be very nice to her when you ask for it. She's a very
nice girl, you know."
"She's a swell girl," Malone said morosely. "And I'll--hey. Wait a
minute."
"Yes, Sir Kenneth?"
"How come you can read her thoughts?" Malone said. "And Mike's? I
thought you had to know somebody pretty well before you could read
them at a distance like this. Do you? Know them, I mean."
"Oh, no," the Queen said. "But I can read _you_, of course." Malone
could see that the Queen was trying very hard not to look proud of
herself. "And last night," she went on, "you two were--well, Sir
Kenneth, you had a real _rapport_ with each other. My goodness, yes."
"Well," Malone said, "we--"
"Don't explain, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "It really isn't
necessary; I thought it was very sweet. And, in any case, I can pick
her up now. Because of that rapport. Not quite as well as I can pick
you up, but enough to get the strong surface thoughts."
"Oh," Malone said. "But Mike--"
"I can't pick him up at all, this far away," the Queen said. "There is
just a faint touch of him, though, through the girl. But all I know
about him is what she thinks." She smiled gently. "He's a nice boy,
basically," she said.
"Sure he is," Malone said. "He's got a nice blackjack,
too--basically." He grimaced. "Were you reading my mind all last
night?" he said.
"Well," the Queen said, "no. Toward morning you were getting so fuzzy
I just didn't bother."
"I can understand that," Malone said. "I nearly didn't bother myself."
The queen nodded. "But toward afternoon," she said, "I didn't have
anything to do, so I just listened in. You do have such a nice mind,
Sir Kenneth. So refreshing and different. Especially when you're in
love."
Malone blushed quietly.
"Oh, I know," the Queen said. "You'd much rather think of yourself as
a sort of apprentice lecher, a kind of cynical Don Juan, but--"
"I know," Malone said. "Don't tell me about it. All right?"
"Of course, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said, "if you wish it."
"Basically, I'm a nice boy," Malone said. "Sure I am." He paused. "Do
you have any more pertinent information, Your Majesty?"
"Not right now," the Queen admitted. "But if I do, I'll let you know."
She giggled. "You know, I had to argue awfully hard with Dr. Hatterer
to get to use the telephone," she said.
"I'll bet," Malone said.
"But I did manage," she said, and winked. "I won't have that sort of
trouble again."
Malone wondered briefly what dark secret Dr. Hatterer had, that Her
Majesty had discovered in his mind and used to blackmail him with. At
last he decided that it was probably none of his business, and didn't
matter too much anyway.
"Quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "And good bye for now."
"Good-bye, Your Majesty," Malone said. He bowed again, and flipped off
the phone. Bowing in a phone booth wasn't the easiest thing in the
world to do, he thought to himself. But somehow he had managed it.
He reached into his pocket, half-convinced for a moment that it was an
Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that effect;
after a time, Malone came to believe in the strange, bright world. But
he shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fished out some
coins and thought for a minute.
So Dorothy--Dorothea--had lifted the notebook. That was some help,
certainly. It let him know something more about the enemy he was
facing. But it wasn't really a lot of help.
What did he do now?
Her Majesty had suggested going to the Fueyo house, collaring the girl
(but treating her nicely, Malone reminded himself) and demanding the
book back. She'd even said he would get the book back, and since she
knew some of what went on in Dorothea Fueyo's mind, she was probably
right.
But what good was that going to do him?
He knew everything that was in the book. Getting it back was something
that could wait. It didn't sound particularly profitable, and it
didn't even sound like fun.
What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped the
coins into the phone and dialed the number of the Police
Commissioner's office. After a brief argument with a secretary, he had
Fernack on the phone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was going
to be polite.
If possible.
"Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner's
face was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some more
information?"
Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said.
"On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to get
irritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying.
"On what kind of information you want," Fernack said.
"Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some more
about. Who the owner is, for one thing, and--"
Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished around on his desk,
and brought up a sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen while
Malone copied off the name and address. "Lieutenant Lynch told me all
about it."
"Lynch?" Malone said. "But he--"
"Lynch works for me, Malone," Fernack said. "Remember that."
"But he said he'd--"
"He said he wouldn't do anything, and he won't," Fernack said. "He
just reported it to me for my action. He knew I was working with you,
Malone. And I am his boss, remember."
"Great," Malone said. "Now, John Henry--"
"Hold it, Malone," Fernack said. "I'd like a little information too,
you know. I'd like to know just what the hell is going on, if it isn't
too much trouble."
"It's not that, John Henry," Malone said earnestly. "Really. It's just
that I--"
"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thin
air. All this nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense," Malone said.
"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day like
that. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was as
hard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with those
impossible robberies you had me looking up?"
"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it."
Fernack's face had begun its slow climb toward purple again. "Malone,"
he said, "if you're suppressing evidence, even if you are the FBI,
I'll--"
"I'm not suppressing any evidence," Malone said. "I don't think _you_
could prove a connection. I don't think _I_ could prove a connection.
I don't think _anybody_ could--not right now."
Fernack leaned back, apparently mollified.
"John Henry," Malone said, "I want to ask you to keep your hands off
this case. To let me handle it my way."
Fernack nodded absently. "Sure, Malone," he said.
_"What?"_
"I said sure," Fernack said. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Well, yes," Malone said, "but--"
Fernack leaned all the way back in his chair, his face a mask of
disappointment and frustration. "Malone," he said, "I wish I'd never
heard of this case. I wish I'd been retired or died before it ever
came up. I've been a police officer in New York for a long time, and I
wish this case had waited a few more years to happen."
He stopped. Malone leaned against the back wall of the phone booth and
lit a cigarette.
"Andy Burris called me less than half an hour ago," Fernack said.
"Oh," Malone said.
"That's right," Fernack said. "Good old Burris of the FBI. And he told
me this was a National Security case. National Security! It's your
baby, Malone, because Burris wants it that way." He snorted. "So don't
worry about me," he said. "I'm just here to co-operate. The patriotic,
loyal, dumb slave of a grateful government."
Malone blew out a plume of smoke. "You know, John Henry," he said,
"you might have made a good FBI man yourself. You've got the right
attitude."
"Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly.
"Okay," Malone said. "But tell me, did you actually make arrangements
for me to get into that warehouse? I suppose you know that's what I
want."
"I guessed that much," Fernack said. "I haven't made any arrangements
at all yet, but I will. I'll have Safe and Loft get the keys, and a
full set of floor plans to the place while they're at it. Will that
do, Your Majesty?"
Malone choked on his smoke and shot a quick look over his shoulder.
There was nothing there but the wall of the booth. Queen Elizabeth I
was nowhere in evidence. Then he realized that Fernack had been
talking to him.
"Don't _do_ that," he said.
"What?" Fernack said.
Malone realized in one awful second how strange the explanation was
going to sound. Could he say that he thought he'd been mistaken for an
old friend of his, Elizabeth Tudor? Could he say that he'd just had a
call from her?
In the end he merely said, "Nothing," and let it go at that.
"Well, anyhow," Fernack said, "do you want anything else?"
"Not right now," Malone said. "I'll let you know, though And thanks,
John Henry. No matter why you're doing this, thanks."
"I don't deserve 'em," Fernack muttered. "And I hope you get caught in
some kind of deadfall and have to come screaming to the cops."
That, Malone reflected, was the second time a cop had suggested his
yelling if he got into trouble. Hadn't the police force ever heard of
telephones?
He said good-bye and flipped off.
Then he stared at the screen for a little while, as his cigarette
burned down between his fingers. At last he put the cigarette out and
went downstairs again to the bar.
If he had to do some heavy thinking, he told himself, there was
absolutely no reason why he couldn't enjoy himself a little while
doing it.
The evening rush had begun, and Malone found himself a stool simply by
slipping into one while a drinker's back was turned. Once ensconced,
he huddled himself up like an old drunk, thus effectively cutting
himself off from interruptions, and lit another cigarette. Ray was
down at the other end of the bar, chatting with a red-headed woman and
her pale, bald escort. Malone sighed and set himself to the job of
serious, constructive thinking.
_How,_ he asked himself, _do you go about catching a person who can
vanish away like so much smoke?_
Well, Malone could think of one solution, but it was pretty bloody.
Nailing the kids to a wall would probably work, but he couldn't say
much else for it. There had to be another way out. For some reason,
Malone just couldn't see himself with a mouthful of nails, a hammer,
and a teen-ager.
It sounded just a little too messy.
Then, of course, there were handcuffs.
That sounded a little better. The trouble was that Malone simply
didn't have enough information, and knew it. Obviously, the kids could
carry stuff with them when they teleported; the stuff they stole
proved that. And their clothes, Malone added. Apparently the kids
didn't arrive at wherever they went stark staring naked.
But how close to a teleport did the things he carried have to be?
In other words, Malone thought, if you put handcuffs on a teleport,
would the handcuffs vanish when the teleport did? And did that include
the part of the cuff you were holding?
What happened if you snapped half the cuff around your own wrist
first? Did you go along with the teleport? Or did your wrist go, while
you stayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed to
death?
Or what?
All the questions were intriguing ones. Malone sighed, wishing he knew
the answer to even one of them.
It was somewhat comforting to think that he'd managed to progress a
little, anyway. The kids hadn't meant anybody to find out about them;
but Malone had found out about them, and alerted all the cops in town,
as well as the rest of the FBI. He knew just who they were, and where
they lived, and how they performed the "miracles" they performed.
Anyhow, he knew something about that last item.
He even knew who had his notebook.
He tabled that thought, and went back to feeling victorious. Within a
few seconds, the sense of achievement was gone, and futility had come
in its place. After all, he still didn't know how to catch the kids,
did he?
No.
He thought about handcuffs some more and then gave up. He'd just have
to try it and see how it worked. And if the teleports took his wrist
away he'd--he'd go after them and make them give it back.
Sure he would.
That reminded him of the notebook again, and since the thing was being
so persistent, he decided he might as well pay some attention to it.
Dorothea had the notebook. Malone tried to see himself barging in on
her and asking for it, and he didn't care for the picture at all--no
matter how Good Queen Bess felt about it.
After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid.
So what did she know?
He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apartment, talking to
Dorothea.
"Dorothea," he muttered. "You filched my notebook."
That didn't sound very effective. And besides, it wasn't really his
notebook. He tried again.
"Dorothea, you pinched your brother's notebook."
Now, for some reason, it sounded like something covered by the Vice
Squad. It sounded terrible. But there were other ways of saying the
same thing.
"Dorothea," he muttered, "you borrowed your brother's notebook."
That was too patronizing. Malone told himself that he sounded like a
character straight out of 3-D screens, and settled himself gamely for
another try.
"Dorothea, you _have_ your brother's notebook."