The Impossibles Read online

job."

  "Pretty good," Boyd said. "But suppose he doesn't?"

  "Then they aren't there," Malone said, "and we'll have to think ofsomething else." He considered that. It sounded fine. Only he wishedhe knew what else there was to think of.

  Well, that was just pessimism. Leibowitz would find something, and thecase would be over, and he could go back to Washington and rest. InAugust he was going to have his vacation anyway, and August wasn'tvery far away.

  Malone put a smile carefully on his face and told Boyd, "Get going."He slammed his hat on his head.

  Wincing, he took it off and replaced it gently. The bottle of pillswas still in his pocket, but he wasn't due for another one just yet.

  He had time to go over to the precinct station in the West Eightiesfirst. He headed outside to get another taxi.

  4

  The door didn't say anything at all except _Lt. P. Lynch_. Malonelooked at it for a couple of seconds. He'd asked the desk sergeant forLynch, shown his credentials and been directed up a set of stairs andaround a hall. But he still didn't know what Lynch did, who he was, orwhat his name was doing in the little black notebook.

  Well, he told himself, there was only one way to find out.

  He opened the door.

  The room was small and dark. It had a single desk in it, and threechairs, and a hatrack. There wasn't any coat or hat on the hatrack,and there was nobody in the chairs. In a fourth chair, behind thedesk, sat a huskily built man. He had steel-gray hair, a hard jaw and,Malone noticed with surprise, a faint twinkle in his eye.

  "Lieutenant Lynch?" Malone said.

  "Right," Lynch said. "What's the trouble?"

  "I'm Kenneth J. Malone, FBI." He reached for his wallet and found it.He flipped it open for Lynch, who stared at it for what seemed a long,long time, and then burst into laughter.

  "What's so funny?" Malone asked. Lynch laughed some more.

  "Oh, come on," Malone said bitterly. "After all, there's no reason totreat an FBI agent like some kind of a--"

  "FBI agent?" Lynch said. "Listen, buster, this is the funniest gagI've seen since I came on the force. Really a hell of a funny thing.Who told you to pull it? Jablonski downstairs? Or one of the boys onthe beat? I know those beat patrolmen, always on the lookout for a newjoke.. But this tops 'em all. This is the--"

  "You're a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said tartly.

  "A what?" Lynch said. "I'm not Irish."

  "You talk like an Irishman," Malone said.

  "I know it," Lynch said, and shrugged. "Around some precincts, yousort of pick it up. When all the other cops are--hey, listen. How'd weget to talking about me?"

  "I said you were a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said.

  "I was a--_what_?"

  "Disgrace." Malone looked carefully at Lynch. In a fight, heconsidered, he might get in a lucky punch that would kill Malone.Otherwise, Malone didn't have a thing to worry about except a fewmonths of hospitalization.

  Lynch looked as if he were about to get mad, and then he looked downat Malone's wallet again and started to laugh.

  "For God's sake," Malone said. "What's so damned funny?"

  He grabbed the wallet and turned it toward him. At once, of course, herealized what had happened. He hadn't flipped it open to his badge atall. He'd flipped it open, instead, to a card in the card case:

  KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS THAT Sir Kenneth Malone, Knight, is hereby formally installed with the title of KNIGHT OF THE BATH and this card shall signify his right to that title and his high and respected position as officer in and of THE QUEEN'S OWN FBI

  In a very small voice, Malone said, "There's been a terrible mistake."

  "Mistake?" Lynch said.

  Malone flipped the wallet open to his FBI shield. Lynch gave it a goodlong examination, peering at it from every angle and holding it up tothe light two or three times. He even wet his thumb and rubbed thebadge with it. At last he looked up.

  "I guess you are the FBI," he said. "But what's with the gag?"

  "It isn't a gag," Malone said. "It's just--" He thought of the littleold lady in Yucca Flats, the little old lady who had been the primemover in the last case he and Boyd had worked on together. Without thelittle old lady, the case might never have been solved; she was anauthentic telepath, about the best that had ever been found.

  But with her, Boyd and Malone had had enough troubles. Besides being atelepath, she was quite thoroughly insane. She had one fixed delusion:she believed she was Queen Elizabeth I.

  She was still at Yucca Flats, along with the other telepaths Malone'sinvestigation had turned up. And she still believed, quite calmly,that she was Good Queen Bess. Malone had been knighted by her duringthe course of the investigation. This new honor had come to himthrough the mail; apparently she had decided to ennoble some of herfriends still further.

  Malone made a mental note to ask Boyd if he'd received one. After all,there couldn't be too many Knights of the Bath. There was no sense inletting _everybody_ in.

  Then he realized that he was beginning to believe everything again.There had been times, working with the little old lady, when he hadbeen firmly convinced that he was, in fact, the swaggering, ruthlessswordsman, Sir Kenneth Malone. And even now...

  "Well?" Lynch said.

  "It's too long a story," Malone said. "And besides, it's not what Icame here about."

  Lynch shrugged again. "Okay," he said. "Tell it your way."

  "First," Malone said, "what's your job?"

  "Me? Precinct Lieutenant."

  "Of this precinct?"

  Lynch stared. "What else?" he said.

  "Who knows?" Malone said. He found the black notebook and passed itacross to Lynch. "I'm on this red Cadillac business, you know," hesaid by way of introduction.

  "I've been hearing about it," Lynch said. He picked up the notebookwithout opening it and held it like a ticking bomb. "And I meanhearing about it," he said. "We haven't had any trouble at all in thisprecinct."

  "I know," Malone said. "I've read the reports."

  "Listen, not a single red Cadillac has been stolen from here, or beenreported found here. We run a tight precinct here, and let me tellyou--"

  "I'm sure you do a fine job," Malone said hastily. "But I want you tolook at the notebook. The first page."

  Lynch opened his mouth, closed it, and then flipped the notebookcover. He stared at the first page for a few seconds. "What's this?"he said at last. "Another gag?"

  "No gag, Lieutenant," Malone said.

  "It's your name and mine," Lynch said. "What is that supposed tomean?"

  Malone shrugged. "Search me," he said. "The notebook was found only acouple of feet away from another car theft, last night." That was thesimplest way he could think of to put it. "So I asked the Commissionerwho Peter Lynch was, and he told me it was you."

  "And, by God, it is," Lynch said, staring at the notebook. He seemedto be expecting it to rise and strike him.

  Malone said, "Have you got any idea who'd be writing about you andme?"

  Lynch shook his head. "If I had any ideas I'd feel a lot better," hesaid.

  He wet his finger and turned the notebook page carefully over. When hesaw the list of names on the second page he stopped again, and stared.This time he whistled under his breath.

  Very cautiously, Malone said, "Something?"

  "I'll be damned," Lynch said feelingly.

  "What's wrong?" Malone said.

  The police lieutenant looked up. "I don't know if it's wrong or what,"he said. "It gives me sort of the willies. I know every one of thesekids."

  Malone took out a pill and swallowed it in a hurry. He felt exactly asif he had been given another concussion, absolutely free and withoutany obligations. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a longtime. At last he managed to say, _"Kids?"_

  "That's right," Lynch said. "What did you think?"


  Malone shrugged helplessly.

  "Every single one of them," Lynch said. "Right from around here."

  There was a little silence.

  "Who are they?" Malone said carefully.

  "They're some kind of kid gang--a social club, or something like that.This first kid--Miguel Fueyo's his full name--is the leader. They callthemselves the Silent