He walked along Sixty-ninth Street to Park Avenue without noticing where
he was going. Luckily, the streets weren't really crowded, and Malone
only had to apologize twice, once for stepping on a man's toe and once
for absently toeing a woman's dog. When he reached the corner he headed
downtown, humming "Kathleen Mavourneen" under his breath and trying to
figure out his next move.
He needed more than one move. He needed a whole series of moves. This
was not the usual kind of case. Burris had called it a vacation and, in
one way, Malone supposed, Burris was perfectly right. For once there was
no question about who had committed the crimes. It was obvious by now
that Mike Fueyo and his Silent Spooks had been stealing the Cadillacs.
It was even obvious that Mike--or someone with Mike's talent--had bopped
him on the head, and taken the red Cadillac he had been examining. And
the same gang probably accounted for the Sergeant Jukovsky affair, too.
Or at least it was reasonable to assume that they did, Malone thought.
He could see how it had worked: one of the Silent Spooks was a lot
smaller than a grown man, and the two cops who hadn't seen anyone in the
parked car just hadn't been able to catch sight of the undersized
driver. Of course, there _had_ been someone in the car when it had been
driving along the West Side Highway. Someone who had teleported himself
right out of the car when it had gone over the embankment.
That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found in
the red Cadillacs Leibowitz & Hardin were examining now. But Malone had
already decided to let that phase of things go on. First of all, it was
always possible that he was wrong, and that some such machine really
did exist. Second, even if they didn't find a machine, they might find
something else. Almost anything, he thought, might turn up.
And, third, it kept Boyd decently busy, and out of Malone's hair.
That had been an easy solution. And, Malone thought, the problem of who
had been taking the red Cadillacs looked just as easy now, if his
answers were right. And he was reasonably sure of that.
Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question:
_How do you catch a teleport?_
Malone looked up, jarred to a stop by a man built like a brown bear,
with a chunky body and an oval, slightly sloping head and face. He had
very short brown hair shot through with gray, and he gave Malone a
small, inquisitive stare and looked away without a word.
Malone mumbled: "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at
Forty-seventh Street and Park Avenue. He jerked a hand up to his face,
and managed to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing
the initials SM carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone
thought wildly, muttered: "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling fairly
grateful to the unfortunate bystander.
He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a part of
his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a phone call in a
hurry.
He found a phone booth in a bar called the Ad Lib, at Madison Avenue.
Sternly telling himself that he was stopping there to make a phone call,
a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched right past
the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, where he made a
call to New York Police Commissioner John Henry Fernack.
Fernack's face was that of an old man, but there was no telling how old.
The early seventies was one guess, Malone imagined; the late fifties
might be another. He looked tough, as if he had spent all of his life
trying to persuade other people that he was young enough for the
handball tournament. When he saw Malone, his eyebrows lifted slightly,
but he didn't say anything.
"Commissioner," Malone said, "I called to ask you to do me a favor."
There was caution hidden in the calm and quiet voice. "Well," Fernack
said, "what is it, Malone?"
"Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through the
computer?" Malone said. "I need some dope."
"Depends on the given period," Fernack said. "I can't do it for 1774."
"What would I need data on robberies in 1774 for?" Malone said, honestly
interested.
"I never question the FBI," Fernack said soberly. "But what dates do you
want?"
"The past year, maybe the past year and a half."
"And what data?"
"I want every reported crime that hasn't been solved," Malone said,
"which also seems to have been committed by some impossible means. A
safe that was robbed without being opened, for instance--that's the kind
of thing I mean."
"Every unsolved crime?" Fernack said. "Now, hold your horses, Malone.
I'm not at all sure that--"
"Don't worry about a thing, commissioner," Malone said. "This is
confidential."
"You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to--"
"I said confidential, John Henry," Malone said, trying to sound friendly
and trustworthy. "After all, every place has unsolved crimes. Even the
FBI isn't absolutely perfect."
"Oh," Fernack said. "Sure. But confidential, Malone."
"You have my word," Malone said sincerely.