"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 no 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 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.