Malone said. He bowed again, and flipped offthe phone. Bowing in a phone booth wasn't the easiest thing in theworld to do, he thought to himself. But somehow he had managed it.
He reached into his pocket, half-convinced for a moment that it was anElizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that effect;after a time, Malone came to believe in the strange, bright world. Buthe shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fished out somecoins and thought for a minute.
So Dorothy--Dorothea--had lifted the notebook. That was some help,certainly. It let him know something more about the enemy he wasfacing. But it wasn't really a lot of help.
What did he do now?
Her Majesty had suggested going to the Fueyo house, collaring the girl(but treating her nicely, Malone reminded himself) and demanding thebook back. She'd even said he would get the book back, and since sheknew some of what went on in Dorothea Fueyo's mind, she was probablyright.
But what good was that going to do him?
He knew everything that was in the book. Getting it back was somethingthat could wait. It didn't sound particularly profitable, and itdidn't even sound like fun.
What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped thecoins into the phone and dialed the number of the PoliceCommissioner's office. After a brief argument with a secretary, he hadFernack on the phone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was goingto be polite.
If possible.
"Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner'sface was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some moreinformation?"
Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said.
"On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to getirritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying.
"On what kind of information you want," Fernack said.
"Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some moreabout. Who the owner is, for one thing, and--"
Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished around on his desk,and brought up a sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen whileMalone copied off the name and address. "Lieutenant Lynch told me allabout it."
"Lynch?" Malone said. "But he--"
"Lynch works for me, Malone," Fernack said. "Remember that."
"But he said he'd--"
"He said he wouldn't do anything, and he won't," Fernack said. "Hejust reported it to me for my action. He knew I was working with you,Malone. And I am his boss, remember."
"Great," Malone said. "Now, John Henry--"
"Hold it, Malone," Fernack said. "I'd like a little information too,you know. I'd like to know just what the hell is going on, if it isn'ttoo much trouble."
"It's not that, John Henry," Malone said earnestly. "Really. It's justthat I--"
"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thinair. All this nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense," Malone said.
"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day likethat. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was ashard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with thoseimpossible robberies you had me looking up?"
"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it."
Fernack's face had begun its slow climb toward purple again. "Malone,"he said, "if you're suppressing evidence, even if you are the FBI,I'll--"
"I'm not suppressing any evidence," Malone said. "I don't think _you_could prove a connection. I don't think _I_ could prove a connection.I don't think _anybody_ could--not right now."
Fernack leaned back, apparently mollified.
"John Henry," Malone said, "I want to ask you to keep your hands offthis case. To let me handle it my way."
Fernack nodded absently. "Sure, Malone," he said.
_"What?"_
"I said sure," Fernack said. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Well, yes," Malone said, "but--"
Fernack leaned all the way back in his chair, his face a mask ofdisappointment and frustration. "Malone," he said, "I wish I'd neverheard of this case. I wish I'd been retired or died before it evercame up. I've been a police officer in New York for a long time, and Iwish this case had waited a few more years to happen."
He stopped. Malone leaned against the back wall of the phone booth andlit a cigarette.
"Andy Burris called me less than half an hour ago," Fernack said.
"Oh," Malone said.
"That's right," Fernack said. "Good old Burris of the FBI. And he toldme this was a National Security case. National Security! It's yourbaby, Malone, because Burris wants it that way." He snorted. "So don'tworry about me," he said. "I'm just here to co-operate. The patriotic,loyal, dumb slave of a grateful government."
Malone blew out a plume of smoke. "You know, John Henry," he said,"you might have made a good FBI man yourself. You've got the rightattitude."
"Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly.
"Okay," Malone said. "But tell me, did you actually make arrangementsfor me to get into that warehouse? I suppose you know that's what Iwant."
"I guessed that much," Fernack said. "I haven't made any arrangementsat all yet, but I will. I'll have Safe and Loft get the keys, and afull set of floor plans to the place while they're at it. Will thatdo, Your Majesty?"
Malone choked on his smoke and shot a quick look over his shoulder.There was nothing there but the wall of the booth. Queen Elizabeth Iwas nowhere in evidence. Then he realized that Fernack had beentalking to him.
"Don't _do_ that," he said.
"What?" Fernack said.
Malone realized in one awful second how strange the explanation wasgoing to sound. Could he say that he thought he'd been mistaken for anold friend of his, Elizabeth Tudor? Could he say that he'd just had acall from her?
In the end he merely said, "Nothing," and let it go at that.
"Well, anyhow," Fernack said, "do you want anything else?"
"Not right now," Malone said. "I'll let you know, though And thanks,John Henry. No matter why you're doing this, thanks."
"I don't deserve 'em," Fernack muttered. "And I hope you get caught insome kind of deadfall and have to come screaming to the cops."
That, Malone reflected, was the second time a cop had suggested hisyelling if he got into trouble. Hadn't the police force ever heard oftelephones?
He said good-bye and flipped off.
Then he stared at the screen for a little while, as his cigaretteburned down between his fingers. At last he put the cigarette out andwent downstairs again to the bar.
If he had to do some heavy thinking, he told himself, there wasabsolutely no reason why he couldn't enjoy himself a little whiledoing it.
The evening rush had begun, and Malone found himself a stool simply byslipping into one while a drinker's back was turned. Once ensconced,he huddled himself up like an old drunk, thus effectively cuttinghimself off from interruptions, and lit another cigarette. Ray wasdown at the other end of the bar, chatting with a red-headed woman andher pale, bald escort. Malone sighed and set himself to the job ofserious, constructive thinking.
_How,_ he asked himself, _do you go about catching a person who canvanish away like so much smoke?_
Well, Malone could think of one solution, but it was pretty bloody.
Nailing the kids to a wall would probably work, but he couldn't saymuch else for it. There had to be another way out. For some reason,Malone just couldn't see himself with a mouthful of nails, a hammer,and a teen-ager.
It sounded just a little too messy.
Then, of course, there were handcuffs.
That sounded a little better. The trouble was that Malone simplydidn't have enough information, and knew it. Obviously, the kids couldcarry stuff with them when they teleported; the stuff they stoleproved that. And their clothes, Malone added. Apparently the kidsdidn't arrive at wherever they went stark staring naked.
But how close to a teleport did the things he carried have to be?
In other
words, Malone thought, if you put handcuffs on a teleport,would the handcuffs vanish when the teleport did? And did that includethe part of the cuff you were holding?
What happened if you snapped half the cuff around your own wristfirst? Did you go along with the teleport? Or did your wrist go, whileyou stayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed todeath?
Or what?
All the questions were
The Impossibles Page 25