Kettleman saw the open door and headed for it blindly. As he left he flashed one last smile after Malone, who sighed, shut the door, and leaned against it for a second.
The things an FBI agent had to go through!
When he had recovered, he opened the door again and peered carefully down the hallway to make sure Kettleman had gone. Then he left the interrogation room and went down the hall, past the desk sergeant, and up the stairs to Lieutenant Lynch's office. He was still breathing a little hard when he opened Lynch's door, and Lynch didn't seem to be expecting him at all. He was very busy with a veritable snow flurry of papers, and he looked as if he had been involved with them steadily ever since he had left Malone and Kettleman alone downstairs.
"Well,” Malone said. “Hello there, Lieutenant."
Lynch looked up, his face a mask of surprise. “Oh,” he said. “It's you. Through with Kettleman?"
"I'm through,” Malone said. “As if you didn't know.” He looked at Lynch for a long minute, and then said, “Lieutenant..."
Lynch had gone right back to his papers. He looked up again with a bland expression. “Yes?"
"Lieutenant, how reliable is Kettleman?” Malone said.
Lynch shrugged. “He's always been pretty good with the kids, if that's what you mean. You know these social workers-I've never got much information out of him. He feels it's his duty to the kids-I don't know. Some such thing. Why do you ask?"
"Well,” Malone said, “what he told me. Was he kidding me? Or does he know what he's talking about? Was what he said reasonably accurate?"
"How would I know?” Lynch said. “After all, you were down there alone, weren't you? I was up here working. If you'll tell me what he said, maybe I'll be able to tell you whether or not I think he was kidding."
Malone placed both his palms on the lieutenant's desk, mashing a couple of piles of papers. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes on Lynch's bland, innocent face. “Now look, Lynch,” he said. “I like you. I really do. You're a good cop. You get things done."
"Well, thanks,” Lynch said. “But I don't see what this has to do with—"
"I just don't want you trying to kid your buddy-boy,” Malone said.
"Kid you?” Lynch said. “I don't get it."
"Come on, now,” Malone said. “I know that room was bugged, just as well as you do. It was the sensible thing for you to pull, and you pulled it. You've got the whole thing recorded, haven't you?"
"Me?” Lynch said. “Why would I—"
"Oh, cut it out,” Malone said impatiently. “Let's not play games, okay?"
There was a second of silence.
"All right,” Lynch said. “So I recorded the conversation. Kill me. Crucify me. I'm stealing FBI secrets. I'm a spy secretly working for a foreign power. Take me out and electrocute me."
"I don't want to fight you,” Malone said wearily. “So you've got the stuff recorded. That's your business."
"My business?"
"Sure,” Malone said cheerfully. “As long as you don't try to use it."
"Now, Malone—” Lynch began.
"This is touchy stuff,” Malone said. “We're going to have to take a lot of care in handling it. And I don't want you throwing raids all over the place and mixing everything up."
"Malone, I—"
"Eventually,” Malone said, “I'm going to need your help with these kids. But for right now, I want to handle this my way, without any interference."
"I wouldn't think of—"
"You wanted information,” Malone said. “Fine. That's all right with me. You got the information, and that's okay too. But if you try to use it before I say the word, I'll-I'll talk to good old Uncle John Henry Fernack. And he'll help me out; he'll give you a refresher course on How To Be A Beat Cop. In Kew Gardens. It's nice and lonely out there now, Lynch, You'd love it."
"Malone,” Lynch said tiredly.
"Don't give me any arguments,” Malone said. “I don't want any arguments."
"I won't argue with you, Malone,” Lynch said. “I've been trying to tell you something."
Malone stepped away from the desk. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead."
Lynch took a deep breath. “Malone, I'm not trying to queer your pitch,” he said. “If I were going to pull a raid, here's what I'd have to do: get my own cops together, then call the precinct that covers that old warehouse. We don't cover the warehouse from here, Malone, and we'd need the responsible precinct's aid in anything we did down there."
Malone said, “Well, all I—"
"Not only that,” Lynch said. “I'd have to call Safe and Loft, and get them in on it. A warehouse raid would probably be their baby first of all. That means it takes this precinct, the warehouse precinct, and the Safe and Loft Squad, all together, to raid that warehouse. Malone, would I pull a raid at this stage, if I had to go through all that, without knowing what the hell I was going to find down there?"
"Oh,” Malone said.
"If those kids can just appear and disappear at will,” Lynch said, “I'm not going to pull a raid on them, and end up looking like a damn fool, until I've got some way of making sure they're there when the raid goes through."
Malone coughed gently. “Okay,” he said at last. “Sorry."
"There's only one thing I want,” Lynch said. “I want to be able to move as soon as possible."
"Well, sure,” Malone said apologetically.
"And that means I'm going to have to be informed,” Lynch said. “I want to know what's going on, as fast as possible."
Malone nodded gently. “Sure,” he said. “I'll tell you everything that happens-as soon as I know myself. But right now, I haven't got a thing for you. All I have is a kind of theory, and it's pretty screwy."
He stopped. Lynch looked up at him. “How screwy can it get?” he said. “The facts are nutty enough."
"You have absolutely no idea,” Malone assured him. “I'm not even saying a word about this, not until I prove it out one way or another. I'm not even thinking about it-not until it stops sounding so nutty to me."
"Okay, Malone,” Lynch said. “I can see a piece of it, if no more. The Fueyo kid vanishes mysteriously-never mind all that about you getting him out of the interrogation room by some kind of confidential method. There isn't any confidential method. I know that better than you do."
"I had to say something, didn't I?” Malone asked apologetically.
"So the kid disappears,” Lynch said, brushing Malone's question away with a wave of his hand. “So now I hear all this stuff from Kettleman. And it begins to add up. The kids can disappear somehow, and reappear some place else. Walk through walls?” He shrugged. “How should I know? But they can sure as hell do something like it."
"Something,” Malone said. “Like I said, it sounds screwy."
"I don't like it,” Lynch said.
Malone nodded. “Nobody likes it,” he said. “But keep it under your hat. I'll give you everything I have-whenever I have anything. And by the way—"
"Yes?” Lynch said.
"Thanks for giving me and Kettleman a chance to talk,” Malone said. “Even if you had reasons of your own."
"Oh,” Lynch said. “You mean the recording."
"I was a little suspicious,” Malone said. “I didn't think you'd give Kettleman to me without getting something for yourself."
"Would you?” Lynch said.
Malone shrugged. “I'm not crazy either,” he said.
Lynch picked up a handful of papers. “I've got all this work to do,” he said. “So I'll see you later."
"Okay,” Malone said.
"And if you need my help, buddy-boy,” Lynch said, “just yell. Right?"
"I'll yell,” Malone said. “Don't worry about that. I'll yell loud enough to get myself heard in Space Station One."
CHAPTER 9
The afternoon was bright and sunny, but it didn't match Malone's mood. He got a cab outside the precinct station and headed for 69th Street, dining off his nails en route. W
hen he hit the FBI headquarters, he called Washington and got Burris on the line.
He made a full report to the FBI chief, including his wild theory and everything else that had happened. “And there was this notebook,” he said, and reached into his jacket pocket for it.
The pocket was empty.
"What notebook?” Burris said.
Malone tried to remember if he'd left the book in his room. He couldn't quite recall. “This book I picked up,” he said, and described it. “I'll send it on, or bring it in when the case is over."
"All right,” Burris said.
Malone went on with his description of what had happened. When he'd finished, Burris heaved a great sigh.
"My goodness,” he said. “Last year it was telepathic spies, and this year it's teleporting thieves. Malone, I hate to think about next year."
"I wish you hadn't said that,” Malone said sadly.
Burris blinked. “Why?” he said.
"Oh, just because,” Malone said. “I haven't even had time to think about next year yet. But I'll think about it now."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad,” Burris said.
Malone shook his head. “No, Chief,” he said. “You're wrong. It'll be worse."
"This is bad enough,” Burris said.
"It's a great vacation,” Malone said.
"Please,” Burris said. “Did I have any idea—"
"Yes,” Malone said.
Burris’ eyes closed. “All right, Malone,” he said after a little pause. “Let's get back to the report. At least it explains the red Cadillac business. Sergeant Jukovsky was hit by a boy who vanished. Vanished. My God."
"I was hit by a boy who vanished, too,” Malone said bitterly. “But of course I'm just an FBI agent. Expendable. Nobody cares about—"
"Don't say that, Malone,” Burris said. “You're one of my most valuable agents."
Malone tried to stop himself from beaming, but he couldn't. “Well, Chief,” he began, “I—"
"Vanishing boys,” Burris muttered. “What are you going to do with them, Malone?"
"I was hoping you might have some kind of suggestion,” Malone said.
"Me?"
"Well,” Malone said, “I suppose I'll figure it out. When I catch them. But I did want something from you, Chief."
"Anything, Malone,” Burris said. “Anything at all."
"I want you to get hold of Dr. O'Connor, out at Yucca Flats, if you can. He's the best psionics man Westinghouse has right now, and I might need him."
"If you say so,” Burris said doubtfully.
"Well,” Malone said, “these kids are teleports. And maybe there's some way to stop a teleport. Give him a good hard kick in the psi, for instance."
"In the what?"
"Never mind,” Malone said savagely. “But if I'm going to get any information on what makes teleports tick, I'm going to have to get it from Dr. O'Connor. Right?"
"Right,” Burris said.
"So get in touch with Dr. O'Connor,” Malone said.
"I'll have him call you,” Burris said. “Meanwhile-well, meanwhile just carry on, Malone. I've got every confidence in you."
"Thanks,” Malone growled.
"If anybody can crack a case like this,” Burris said, “it's you."
"I suppose it had better be,” Malone said, and rang off.
Then he started to think. The notebook wasn't in his pockets. He checked every one, even the jacket pocket where he usually kept a handkerchief and nothing else. It wasn't anywhere on his person.
Had he left it in his room?
He thought about that for several minutes, and finally decided that he hadn't. He hadn't taken it out of his pocket, for one thing, and if it had fallen to the ground he couldn't have helped seeing it. Of course he'd put his wallet, keys, change, and other such items on the dresser, and then replaced them in his pockets in the morning. But he could remember how they'd looked on the dresser.
The notebook hadn't been there among them.
Now that he came to think of it, when had he seen the notebook last? He'd shown it to Lieutenant Lynch during the afternoon, and then he'd put it back in his pocket, and he hadn't looked for it again.
So it had to be somewhere in one of the bars he'd visited, or at the theater where he and Dorothy had seen The Hot Seat.
Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he strolled out and, giving Boyd and the Agent-in-Charge one small smile each, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight, trying to decide which place to check first.
He settled on the theater because it was most probable. After all, people were always losing things in theaters. Besides, if he started at the theater, and found the notebook there, he could then go on to a bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in a bar, he didn't much relish the idea of going on to an empty theater in the middle of the afternoon to celebrate.
Shaking his head over this flimsy structure of logic, he headed down to The Hot Seat. He banged on the lobby doors for a while without any good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors, which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance, and found himself facing an old be whiskered man with a dustpan, a broom, and a surprised expression.
"I'm looking for a notebook,” Malone said.
"Try a stationery store, youngster,” the old man said. “I thought I'd heard ‘em all, but—"
"No,” Malone said. “You don't understand."
"I don't got to understand,” the old man said. “That's what's so restful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't got to understand nothing. Good-bye."
"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night,” Malone said desperately.
"Oh,” the old man said. “Lost and Found. That's different. You come with me."
The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it were 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't you?” he said. “I ain't through ‘Kenneth’ yet.” He wrote on, and finally 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 losing things. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into this here theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up to claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part water spaniel."
Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said, “That's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible,” the old man said. “Work for a theater long enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water spaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking about impossibilities. Hell of a strange-looking beast. And then there was the 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 the first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter Lynch."
"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 in it 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. “Empty billfold, three hats, a couple of coats, and some pencils. And an umbrella. 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 to describe the notebook?” he said. “You haven't got any notebooks at all."
"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 against the rules. Not for no tourist.” He put the pencil down and rose. “Wish you were a cop,” he said. “I never met a cop. They don't lose things like people do."
Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if the notebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find the bars he had stopped in before the theater.
Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald-headed man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar for something like six weeks. “Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas,” he said, “we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so many umbrellas?"
"Maybe they hate rain,” Malone said.
"I don't know,” the bald man said. “I'm sort of a psychologist-you know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against the fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by—"
Malone said good-bye in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl, the Mexican bar on 46th Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.
"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 so big. And it—"
"Not find,” the bartender said. “You lose him?"
"Sure I lost him,” Malone said. “I mean it. Would I be looking for it if I hadn't lost it?"
"Who knows?” the bartender said, and shrugged.
The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind Page 24
