The Impossibles

by Randall Garrett

doors for a while withoutany good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors,which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance, and foundhimself facing an old bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom, and asurprised expression.

  "I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.

  "Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'dheard 'em all, but--"

  "No," Malone said. "You don't understand."

  "I don't got to understand," the old man said. "That's what's sorestful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't got tounderstand nothing. Good-bye."

  "I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone saiddesperately.

  "Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You comewith me."

  The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of thetheater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if itwere a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said,"Name?"

  Malone said, "I just want to find a notebook."

  "Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly."It's the rules here."

  Malone sighed. "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is--"

  The old man, fiercely scribbling, looked up. "Wait a minute, can'tyou?" he said. "I ain't through 'Kenneth' yet." He wrote on, andfinally said, "Address?"

  "Hotel New Yorker," Malone said. "In Manhattan?" the old man said."That's right," Malone said wearily.

  "Ah," the old man said. "Tourist, ain't you? Tourists is always losingthings. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into thishere theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed upto claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part waterspaniel."

  Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said, "That's impossible."

  "Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater longenough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part waterspaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking aboutimpossibilities. Hell of a strange-looking beast. And then there wasthe 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 thefirst page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant PeterLynch."

  "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 init 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. "Emptybillfold, three hats, a couple of coats, and some pencils. And anumbrella. 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 todescribe the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks atall."

  "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 againstthe rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wishyou were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose thingslike people do."

  Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if thenotebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find thebars he had stopped in before the theater.

  Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprisedbald-headed man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in thebar for something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking forumbrellas," he said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over tenumbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why peoplelose so many umbrellas?"

  "Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.

  "I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist--youknow, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest againstthe fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by--"

  Malone said good-bye in a hurry and left. His next stop was theXochitl, the Mexican bar on 46th Street. He greeted the bartenderwarmly.

  "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 sobig. And it--"

  "Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"

  "Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean _it_. Would I be looking forit 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. Itwas the only place the notebook could be. That was logic, and Malonewas proud of it. He walked into Topp's, trying to remember thebartender'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 thenight barman. My name's Ray."

  "Oh," Malone said, feeling deflated. "Well, I've come about anotebook."

  "Yes, sir?" Ray said.

  "I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. Ifyou'll just take me to the Lost and Found--"

  "One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, allalone.

  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 themaitre d'. Perhaps you'd like to check with him."

  "Sure," Malone said. The daytime maitre d' turned out to be ashortish, heavy-set man with large blue eyes, a silver mane, and athin, pencil-line mustache. He was addressed, for no reason Malone wasable 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 fashionfor some moments and, when Malone had finished, disappeared in searchof the Lost and Found. He came back rather quickly, with thedisturbing 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 notebookcouldn't be somewhere I haven't been. A rolling stone follows itsowner." He thought about that. It didn't seem to mean anything, butmaybe it had. There was no way to tell for sure.

  He went back to the bar to think things over and figure out his nextmove. A bourbon and soda while thinking seemed the obvious order, andRay bustled off to get it.

  Had he left the notebook on the street somewhere, just dropping it byaccident? Malone couldn't quite see that happening. It was, of course,possible; but the possibility was so remote that he decided to try andthink 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 wouldhave. Most of the evening was more
or less clear in his mind; hehadn't apparently, forgotten any other details,