The Impossibles Page 2

Malone said. He let go of the post with one hand,keeping a precarious grip with the other. He stared at his watch. Thehands danced back and forth, but he focused on them after a while. Itwas 1:05. "Happened just--a few minutes ago," he said. "Maybe you cancatch him."

  The big cop said, "Nobody around here. The place is deserted--exceptfor you, buddy." He paused and then added: "Let's see someidentification, huh? Or did he take your wallet?"

  Malone thought about getting the wallet, and decided against it. Themotions required would be a little tricky, and he wasn't sure he couldmanage them without letting go of the post entirely. At last hedecided to let the cop get his wallet. "Inside coat pocket," he said.

  The other policeman blinked and looked up. His face was a studiedblank. "Hey, buddy," he said. "You know you got blood on your head?"

  "Be damned," the big cop said. "Sam's right. You're bleeding, mister."

  "Good," Malone said.

  The big cop said, "Huh?"

  "I thought maybe my skull was going to explode from high bloodpressure," Malone said. It was beginning to be a little easier totalk. "But as long as there's a slow leak, I guess I'm out of danger."

  "Get his wallet," Sam said. "I'll watch him."

  A hand went into Malone's jacket pocket. It tickled a little bit, butMalone didn't think of objecting. Naturally enough, the hand andMalone's wallet did not make an instantaneous connection. When thehand touched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit, itstopped, frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out.

  "What's that, Bill?" Sam said.

  Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed."It's a gun," he said.

  "My God," Sam said. "The guy's heeled! Watch him! Don't let him getaway!"

  Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move."It's okay," he said.

  "Okay, hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with agun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why [are] youcarrying a gun?" he said.

  "I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal."

  Bill backed away from Malone, putting the Magnum in his pocket andkeeping the FBI agent covered with his own Police Positive. At thesame time, he fished out the personal radio every patrolman carried inhis uniform, and began calling for a prowl car in a low, somewhatnervous voice.

  Sam said, "My God. A gun. He could of shot everybody."

  "Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."

  Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he _was_ a famousgangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent wasjust a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things."I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworldsort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached himgently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were aticking bomb ready to go off any second.

  There was a little silence. Then Sam said, "Give him his gun back,Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.

  "Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

  Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terriblemistake. Know who this guy is?"

  "He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put theradio away and gave all his attention to Malone.

  "He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. Andnot only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."

  Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't agangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known andloved. Maybe now the cops would do-something about his head and takehim away for burial.

  "Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those redCadillacs?"

  "Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone."Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."

  "That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly andlooked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a redCadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street therenever had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.

  "We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowlcar gets here, we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can youtell us what happened? Or is it classified?"

  Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, anddecided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'llanswer one question for me."

  "Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."

  "Anything at all," Sam said.

  Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile."All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"

  "In New York," Sam said.

  "I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or justsort of all over New York?"

  "Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that whereyou were when they slugged you?"

  "I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediatelyremembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the painhad softened to agony, and then opened them again. "I was gettingpretty tired of sitting around waiting for something to break on thiscase," he said, "and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. Iended up in Greenwich Village--which is a hell of a place for aself-respecting man to end up."

  "I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians,they call themselves. Crazy people."

  "Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost."Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in theworld to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused inWashington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. Hecould find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.

  It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon.The Village had tracks, all right--thousands of tracks. Only none ofthem led anywhere in particular.

  "Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."

  The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Billstarted to say, "But there isn't any--"

  "I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."

  "You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.

  "For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." Hepaused. "When I saw it, though--when I saw it, I decided to go overand have a look. Just in case."

  "Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as ifdefying him to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care.

  "There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked overand tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car oranything. And I'll swear there was nobody behind me."

  "Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."

  "But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we gothere," Bill said.

  "Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybesomebody dropped something by mistake--a safe or something. Becausethere wasn't anybody behind me."

  "There had to be," Bill said.

  "Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."

  There was a little silence.

  "What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, Imean."

  "Then?" Malone said. "Then I went out like a light."

  A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up."That's the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.

  The driver was a solidly built little man with the face of aPekingese. His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have beenmuch more comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of theregulation blue cap, leaned out at Bill, Sam, and Malone.

  "What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.

  "No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking tothe two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his armaround Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.

  Malone was a little unwill
ing to let go, at first. But Sam wasstronger than he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to therear door of the prowl