There were no squiggles after his own name, and Malone felt oddly
thankful for that, without knowing exactly why. But what did the names
mean? And who had--
"Uh ... Mr. Malone--" Bill said tentatively. "That _is_ your notebook,
isn't it?"
"Oh," Malone said. He looked up at the cop and put on his most
ingratiating smile. "Sure," he said. "It's mine. Sure it is. Just
checking to see if I'd lost any pages. Not good. Losing pages out of a
notebook. Never. Have to check, you know. Procedure. Very secret."
"Sure," Bill said uncertainly.
Malone took a deep breath. "Thought I'd lost the notebook," he said. "I
appreciate your returning it."
"Oh," Bill said, "that's O.K., Mr. Malone. Glad to do it."
"You don't know what this means to me," Malone said truthfully.
"No trouble at all," Bill said. "Any time." He gave Malone a big smile
and turned back to the door. "But I got to get back to my beat," he
said. "Listen, I'll see you. And if I can be any help--"
"Sure," Malone said. "I'll let you know. And thanks again."
"Welcome," Bill said, and opened the door. He strode out with the air of
a man who has just been decorated with the Silver Star, the Purple Heart
and the Congressional Medal of Honor.
Malone tried a few more steps and discovered that he could walk without
falling down. He thanked the doctor again.
"Perfectly all right," the doctor said. "Nothing to it. Why, you ought
to see some of the cases we get here. There was a guy here the other
night with both his legs all mashed up by a--"
"I'll bet," Malone said hurriedly. "Well, I've got to be on my way. Just
send the bill to FBI Headquarters on Sixty-ninth Street." He closed the
door on the doctor's enthusiastic: "Yes, _sir_!" and went on down the
hallway and out into the street. At Seventh Avenue and Greenwich Avenue
he flagged a cab.
What a place to be, Malone thought as the cab drove away. Where but in
Greenwich Village did avenues intersect each other without so much as a
by-your-leave?
"Statler-Hilton Hotel," he said, giving the whole thing up as a bad job.
He put his hat on his head and adjusted it painfully to the proper
angle.
And that, he thought, made another little problem. The car had not only
hit him on the head; it had removed his hat before doing so, and then
replaced it. It had only fallen off when he'd started to get up against
the lamp post.
_A nice quiet vacation_, Malone thought bitterly.
He fumed in silence all the way to the hotel, through the lobby, up in
the elevator and to the door of his room. Then he remembered the
notebook.
That was important evidence. He decided to tell Boyd about it right
away.
He went into the bathroom and tapped gently on the door to Boyd's
connecting room. The door swung open.
Boyd, apparently, was still out painting the town--Malone considered the
word _red_ and dropped the whole phrase with a sigh. At any rate, his
partner was nowhere in the room. He went back into his own room, closed
the door and got wearily ready for bed.
* * * * *
Dawn came, and then daylight, and then a lot more daylight. It was
streaming in through the windows with careless abandon, filling the room
with a lot of bright sunshine and the muggy heat of the city. From the
street below, the cheerful noises of traffic and pedestrians floated up
and filled Malone's ears.
He turned over in bed, and tried to go back to sleep.
But sleep wouldn't come. After a long time he gave up, and swung himself
over the edge of the bed. Standing up was a delicate job, but he managed
it, feeling rather proud of himself in a dim, semiconscious sort of way.
He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then opened the
connecting door to Boyd's room softly.
Boyd was home. He lay in a great tangle of bedclothes, snoring hideously
and making little motions with his hands and arms like a beached whale.
Malone padded over to him and dug him fiercely in the ribs.
"Come on," he said. "Wake up, Tommy-boy."
Boyd's eyes did not open. In a voice as hollow as a zombie's, he said:
"My head. Hurts."
"Can't feel any worse than mine," Malone said cheerily. This, he
reflected, was not quite true. Considering everything it had been
through recently, his head felt remarkably like its old, carefree self.
"You'll feel better once you're awake."
"No, I won't," Boyd said simply. He jammed his head under a pillow and
began to snore again. It was an awesome sound, like a man strangling to
death in chicken-fat. Malone sighed and poked at random among the
bedclothes.
Boyd swore distantly, and Malone poked him again.
"The sun is up," Malone said, "and all the little pedestrians are
chirping. It is time to rise."
Boyd said: "Gah," and withdrew his head from the pillow. Gently, as if
he were afraid he were going to fall apart, he rose to a sitting
position. When he had arrived at it, he opened his eyes.
"Now," Malone said, "isn't that better?"
Boyd closed his eyes again. "No," he said.
"Come on," Malone said. "We've got to be up and moving."
"I'm up," Boyd said. His eyes flickered open. "But I can't move," he
added. "We had quite a time last night."
"We?" Malone said.
"Me, and a couple of girls, and another guy. Just people I met." Boyd
started to stand up and thought better of it. "Just having a good time,
that's all."
Malone thought of reading his partner a lecture on the Evils of Drink,
and decided against it. Boyd might remember it, and use it against him
some time. Then he realized what had to be done. He went back into his
own room, dialed for room service, and ordered a couple of pots of
strong black coffee.
By the time a good deal of that was awash in Boyd's intestinal system,
he was almost capable of rational, connected conversation. He filled
himself to the eyebrows with aspirins and other remedies, and actually
succeeded in getting dressed. He seemed quite proud of this feat.
"O.K.," Malone said. "Now we have to go downstairs."
"You mean outside?" Boyd said. "Into all that noise?" He winced.
"Bite the bullet," Malone said cheerfully. "Keep a stiff upper lip."
"Nonsense," Boyd said, hunting for his coat with a doleful air. "Have
you ever seen anybody with a loose upper lip?"
Malone, busy with his own coat, didn't bother with a reply. He managed
somehow to get Boyd downstairs and bundled into a cab. They headed for
Sixty-ninth Street.
* * * * *
There, he made several phone calls. The first, of course, was to Burris
in Washington. After that he got the New York Police Commissioner on the
wire and, finding that he needed still more authority, he called the
Mayor and then, by long-distance to Albany, the Governor.
But by noon he had everything straightened out. He had a plan fully
worked out in his mind, and he had the authority to go ahead with it.
Now, he could make his final call.
"They're completely trustworthy," Burris had told him. "Not only that,
but they have a clearance for this kind of special work--we've needed
them before."
"Good," Malone said.
"Not only that," Burris told him. "They're good men. Maybe among the
best in their field."
So Malone made his last call, to the firm of Leibowitz & Hardin,
Electronic Engineers.
Then he beckoned to Boyd.
"I don't see what I've been sitting around here for, all this time," his
partner complained. "I could have been home sleeping until you needed
me. And--"
"I need you now," Malone said. "I want you to take over part of this
plan."
Boyd nodded sourly. "Oh, all right," he said.
"Here's what I want," Malone said. "Every red 1972 Cadillac in the area
is to be picked up for inspection. I don't care why--make up a reason. A
general traffic check. Anything you please. You can work that end of it
out with the Commissioner; he knows about it and he's willing to go
along."
"Great," Boyd said. "Do you have any idea how many cars there are in a
city this size?"
"Well, we don't want all of them," Malone said. "Only red 1972
Cadillacs."
"It's still a lot," Boyd said.
"If there were only three," Malone said, "we wouldn't have any
problems."
"And wouldn't that be nice?" Boyd said.
"Sure," Malone said, "but it isn't true. Anyhow: I want every one of
those cars checked for any oddity, no matter how small. If there's an
inch-long scratch on one fender, I want to know about it. If you've got
to take the cars apart, then do that."
"Me?" Boyd said. "All by myself?"
"No," Malone said. "Use your head. There'll be a team working with you.
Let me explain it. Every nut, every bolt, every inch of those cars has
to be examined thoroughly--got it?"
"I've got it," Boyd said, "but I don't like it. After all, Malone--"
Malone ignored him. "The Governor of New York promised his
co-operation," he said, "and he said he'd get in touch with the
Governors of New Jersey and Connecticut and get co-operation from that
angle. So we'll have state and local police working with us."
"That's a help," Boyd said. "We'll make such a happy team of workmen.
Singing as we pull the cars apart through the long day and night and ...
listen, Malone, when do you want reports on this?"
"Yesterday," Malone said.
Boyd's eyebrows raised, then lowered. "Great," he said dully.
"I don't care how you get the cars," Malone said. "If you've got to,
condemn 'em. But get every last one of them. And bring them over to
Leibowitz & Hardin for a complete checkup. I'll give you the address."
"Thanks," Boyd said.
"Not at all," Malone said. "Glad to be of help. And don't worry; I'll
have other work to do." He paused, and then went on: "I talked to Dr.
Isaac Leibowitz, he's the head of the firm out there--and he says...."
"Wait a minute," Boyd said.
"What?"
"You mean I don't have to take the cars apart myself? You mean this
Leibowitz & Hardin, or whatever it is, will do it for me?"
"Of course," Malone said wearily. "You re not an auto technician or an
electronics man. You're an agent of the FBI."
"I was beginning to wonder," Boyd said. "After all."
[Illustration]
"Anyhow," Malone said doggedly, "I talked to Leibowitz, and he says he
can give a car a complete check in about six hours, normally."
"Six hours?" Boyd stared. "That's going to take forever," he said.
"Well, he can set up a kind of assembly-line process and turn out a car
every fifteen minutes. Any better?"
Boyd nodded.
"Good," Malone said. "There can't be so many 1972 red Cadillacs in the
area that we can't get through them all at that speed." He thought a
minute and then added: "By the way, you might check with the Cadillac
dealers around town, and find out just how many there are, sold to
people living in the area."
"And while I'm doing all that," Boyd said, "what are you going to be
doing?"
Malone looked at him and sighed. "I'll worry about that," he said. "Just
get started."
"Suppose Leibowitz can't find anything?" Boyd said.
"If Leibowitz can't find it, it's not there," Malone said. "He can find
electronic devices anywhere in any car made, he says--even if they're
printed circuits hidden under the paint job."
"Pretty good," Boyd said. "But suppose he doesn't?"
"Then they aren't there," Malone said, "and we'll have to think of
something else." He considered that. It sounded fine. Only he wished he
knew what else there was to think of.
Well, that was just pessimism. Leibowitz would find something, and the
case would be over, and he could go back to Washington and rest. In
August he was going to have his vacation, anyway, and August wasn't very
far away.
Malone put a smile carefully on his face and told Boyd: "Get going." He
slammed his hat on his head.
Wincing, he took it off and replaced it gently. The bottle of pills was
still in his pocket, but he wasn't due for another one just yet.
He had time to go over to the precinct station in the West Eighties
first.
He headed outside to get another taxi.