The Impossibles Page 14

had worked. One of the Silent Spooks was a lotsmaller than a grown man, and the two cops who hadn't seen anyone inthe parked car just hadn't been able to catch sight of the undersizeddriver. Of course, there _had_ been someone in the car when it hadbeen driving along the West Side Highway. Someone who had teleportedhimself right out of the car when it had gone over the embankment.

  That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found inthe red Cadillacs Leibowitz and Hardin were examining now. But Malonehad 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 machinereally did exist. Second, even if they didn't find a machine, theymight 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 ofwho had been taking the red Cadillacs looked just as easy now, if hisanswers were right. And he was reasonably sure of that.

  Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question: _Howdo 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 hadvery short brown hair shot through with gray, and gave Malone a smallinquisitive stare and looked away without a word.

  Malone mumbled, "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at47th Street and Park Avenue. He jerked a hand up to his face, andmanaged to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing theinitials S.M. carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malonethought wildly, muttered, "Sorry," again and turned west, feelingfairly grateful to the unfortunate bystander.

  He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a partof his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a call in ahurry.

  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 phonecall, a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched rightpast the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, where hemade a call to New York Police Commissioner John Henry Fernack.

  Fernack's face was that of an old man, but there was no telling howold. The early seventies was one guess, Malone imagined; the latefifties might be another. He looked tough, as if he had spent all ofhis life trying to persuade other people that he was young enough forthe handball tournament. When he saw Malone, his eyebrows liftedslightly, 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," Fernacksaid, "what is it, Malone?"

  "Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through thecomputer?" 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 doyou 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,"and which seems to have been committed by some impossible means. Asafe that was robbed without being opened, for instance--that's thekind 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 isconfidential."

  "You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to--"

  "I said confidential, John Henry," Malone said, trying to soundfriendly 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.

  Fernack said, "Well--"

  "How fast can you get me the dope?" Malone said.

  "I don't exactly know," Fernack said. "The last time anything evenremotely like this was run through--departmental survey, but youwouldn't be interested--it took something like eight hours."

  "Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours, then. I'll look everything over andif we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let youknow as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone.

  Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately, "Mind telling me whatall this is for?"

  Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he didanswer it was in his softest and friendliest tones. "I'd rather notsay just now, John Henry."

  "But, Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jawset just a trifle--"if you--"

  Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get abit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off anyfireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he saidgently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this isclassified information; it's not my fault."

  Fernack said, "But--" and apparently realized that argument was notgoing to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'llhave it for you as soon as possible."

  "Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."

  "Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open thecontroversy just once more. But all he said was "So long, Malone."

  Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. Hestepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he couldbarely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down CommissionerFernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone.He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call ofduty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward.

  Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar andbeckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "Anda medal, if possible."

  "A what?" the bartender said.

  "A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."

  The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," hesaid. "Sleep it off for a while."

  New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get hisdrink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more orless weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn'tmuch care for the stuff--and even in Washington, people didn't goaround accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmlesslittle pleasantry.

  Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoonsunlight.

  He considered the itinerary of the magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gonestraight home from the police station, apparently, and had then toldhis mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised tosend her money.

  Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malonethought he was beginning to realize just _how_ easy. Houdini had onceboasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, thatwas just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out nor keephim in.

  But he was going to leave home.

  Malone said, "Hmm," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again.By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collidedwith a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot ofpaint, and a brush. Malone looked at the street sign, where the words_Avenue of the Americas_ had been painted out, and _Sixth Avenue_hand-lettered in.

  "They finally give in," the painter told him. "But do you think theybuy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." Hegave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappearedinto the crowd.

  Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. Andhow cheap could a pretzel be, anyhow? Malone didn't remember everhaving seen an especially tight-fisted one.

  New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.

  He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, andabsently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seve
nth, he had anotherattack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.

  He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the streetfrom the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was a coincidence that hehad landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn'tquite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for thephone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments ofseveral rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.

  He dialed the number of Lieutenant Lynch's precinct,