XI.
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 Sixty-ninthStreet, dining off his nails en route. When 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 andeverything else that had happened. "And there was this notebook," hesaid, 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'tquite recall. "This book I picked up," he said, and described it. "I'llsend 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'dfinished, Burris heaved a great sigh.
"My goodness," he said. "Last year it was telepathic spies, and thisyear 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 aboutnext 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 beworse."
"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 Cadillacbusiness. Sergeant Jukovsky was hit by a boy who vanished."
"I was hit by a boy who vanished, too," Malone said bitterly. "But, ofcourse, I'm just an FBI agent. Expendable. Nobody cares about--"
"Don't say that, Malone," Burris said. "You're one of my most valuableagents."
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 needhim."
"If you say so," Burris said doubtfully.
"Well," Malone said, "these kids are teleports. And maybe there's someway to stop a teleport. Give him a good, hard kick in the psi, forinstance."
"In the what?"
"Never mind," Malone said savagely. "But if I'm going to get anyinformation on what makes teleports tick, I'm going to have to get itfrom 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, meanwhilejust 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 checkedevery one, even the jacket pocket where he usually kept a handkerchiefand 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 hehadn't. He hadn't taken it out of his pocket, for one thing, and if ithad 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 when morning had come--but hecould 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'dput 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 thetheater where he and Dorothy had seen "The Hot Seat."
Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, hestrolled out and, giving Boyd and the Agent-in-Charge one small smileeach, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight trying to decidewhich place to check first. He settled on the theater because it wasmost probable: after all, people were always losing things in theaters.Besides, if he started at the theater, and found the notebook there, hecould then go on to a bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in abar, he didn't much relish the idea of going on to an empty theater inthe middle of the afternoon to celebrate getting the book back.
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 anygood result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors, whichopened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance and found himselffacing an old, bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom and a surprisedexpression.
"I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.
"Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'dheard 'em all, but--"
"No," Malone said. "You don't understand."
"I don't have to understand," the old man said. "That's what's sorestful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't have tounderstand nothing. Good-by."
"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone saiddesperately.
"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come withme."
The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of thetheater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if itwere 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'sthe rules here. After all."
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?"
"Statler Hilton Hotel," 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 losingthings. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into thishere theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up toclaim 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 longenough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part waterspaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking aboutimpossibilities. What a strange-looking beast. And then there was thetime--"
"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." Hemade motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the firstpage 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 itand all. You a cop, youngster?"
Malone shook his head.
"Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "Yousaid black plastic? Black?"
"That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?"
"Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Emptybillfold, three hats, a couple of coats and some pencils. And anumbrella. 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 describethe 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 againstthe rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wishyou were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose thingslike people do."
Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if thenotebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find thebars he had stopped in before the theater.
* * * * *
Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised baldman told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar forsomething like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas," hesaid, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellasdownstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so manyumbrellas?"
"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.
"I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist--youknow, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against thefetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by--"
Malone said good-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl,the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth 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 sobig. And it----"
"Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"
"Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean, _it_. Would I be looking for itif I hadn't lost it?"
"Who knows?" the bartender said, and shrugged.
"But you said you were looking for me," Malone said. "What about?"
"Oh," the bartender said. "I only say that. Make customer feel good,think we miss him. Customers like, so we do. What your name?"
"Pizarro," Malone said disgustedly, and went away.
The last stop was Topp's. Well, he had to find the notebook there. Itwas the only place the notebook could be. That was logic, and Malone wasproud of it. He walked into Topp's trying to remember the bartender'sname, and found it just as he walked into the bar.
"Hello, Wally," he said gaily.
The bartender stared at him. "I'm not Wally," he said. "Wally's theother barman. My name's Ray."
"Oh," Malone said, feeling deflated. "Well, I've come about anotebook."
"Yes, sir?" Ray said.
"I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. Ifyou'll just take me to the Lost and Found department--"
"One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, allalone.
In a few seconds he was back. "I didn't see the notebook myself, sir,"he said. "But if Wally picked it up, he'd have turned it over to the_maitre d'_. Perhaps you'd like to check with him."
"Sure," Malone said. The _maitre d'_ turned out to be a shortish,heavy-set man with large blue eyes, a silver mane and a thin,pencil-line mustache. He was addressed, for no reason Malone was able todiscover, as BeeBee.
Ray introduced them. "This gentleman wants to know about a notebook," hetold BeeBee.
"Notebook?" BeeBee said.
Malone explained at length. BeeBee nodded in an understanding fashionfor some moments and, when Malone had finished, disappeared in search ofthe Lost and Found. He came back rather quickly, with the disturbingnews that no notebook was anywhere in the place.
"It's got to be here," Malone insisted.
"Well," BeeBee said, "it isn't. Maybe you left it some place else. Maybeit's home now."
"It isn't," Malone said. "And I've tried every place else."
"New York's a big city, Mr. Malone," BeeBee said.
Malone sighed. "I've tried every place I've been. The notebook couldn'tbe somewhere I haven't been. A rolling stone follows its owner." Hethought about that. It didn't seem to mean anything, but maybe it hadonce. There was no way to tell for sure.
He went back to the bar to think things over and figure out his nextmove. A bourbon-and-soda while thinking seemed the obvious order, andRay bustled off to get it.
* * * * *
Had he left the notebook on the street somewhere, just dropping it byaccident? Malone couldn't quite see that happening. It was, of course,possible--but the possibility was so remote that he decided to try andthink of everything else first. There was Dorothy, for instance.
Was it possible that she might have the book?
It was. But, if so, how had she got it?
Malone enumerated possibilities on his fingers. First, he could havedropped it or something like that, and she could have picked it up. Butdropping the notebook was a chance he'd eliminated already. It justdidn't sound likely.
Besides, if he were going to work on the dropping hypothesis, he mightas well start from anywhere, on the assumption that he had dropped itanywhere on the street.
But if he _had_ dropped it--second finger--and Dorothy had picked itup, wouldn't she have given it back?
She would have, Malone decided, unless she actually intended to stealit.
And if she had intended to steal it, she could just as easily havelifted it out of his pocket in the first place. She didn't need to waitfor it to fall out conveniently, all by itself.
Third finger: why would she steal the notebook? What good was it to her?And how did she even know he had it?
None of those questions seemed to have any answers. Of course, if she'dbeen connected with the Silent Spooks in some way, it would explain alittle--but somehow Malone couldn't see Dorothy as a Silent Spook.
Malone stared at his ring finger and pinky. He pressed the ring fingerdown, thinking that perhaps Dorothy had picked the notebook up and justforgotten to give it back. That was possible, even if not likely.
Only it required that notebook dropping out again.
The pinky went down. She might be some sort of a kleptomaniac, Malonethought.
That didn't look very probable.
No, Malone decided, realizing that he had no more fingers left, it wasimpossible to shake off the feeling that the girl had deliberately takenthe book for some definite purpose of her own.
He decided to give her a call.
He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away heremembered one more little fact.
He didn't have her number, and he didn't know anything about where shelived, except that it could be reached by subway. That, Malone toldhimself morosely, limited things nicely to the five boroughs of NewYork.
And she'd said she was living with her aunt. Would she have a phonelisting under her own name, or would the listing be under her aunt'sname--which he also didn't know?
At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he toldhimself.
He did so.
There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattanand in all the other boroughs.
Malone frowned thoughtfully. _I wish somebody would tell me how to getin touch with her_, he thought. _She might know more about that bookthan I do._
The thought bothered him. But, to offset it, there was a nice newfeeling growing at the back of his mind.
He felt as if he were going to know the answer soon enough.
He felt as if he were going to be lucky again.
>
In the meantime, he went back to the bar to think some more. He was onhis second bourbon-and-soda, still thinking but without any new ideas,when BeeBee tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"Pardon me," the _maitre d'_ said, "but are you English?"
"Am I what?" Malone said, spilling a little of his drink on the bar.
"Are you English?" BeeBee inquired.
"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish."
"That's nice," BeeBee said.
Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love toknow why you asked me."
"Well," BeeBee said, "I knew you couldn't be American. Not after thephone call. You don't have to hide your nationality here; we're quiteaccustomed to foreign visitors. And we don't have special prices fortourists."
Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly,"what it is you're talking about?"
"Certainly," BeeBee said with aplomb. "There's a call for you in theupstairs booth. A long-distance call, personal."
"Oh," Malone said. "Who'd know I was--" He stopped, thinking hard. Therewas no way in the world for anyone to know he was in Topp's. Therefore,nobody could be calling him. "They've got the wrong name," he saiddecisively.
"Oh, no," BeeBee said. "I heard them quite distinctly. You _are_ SirKenneth Malone, aren't you?"
* * * * *
Malone gaped for one long second, and then his mind caught up with thefacts. "Oh," he said. "Sure." He raced upstairs to the phone booth,said: "This is Sir Kenneth Malone," into the blank screen, and waitedpatiently.
After a while an operator said: "Person to person call, Sir Kenneth,from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?"
"I'll take it," Malone said. A face appeared on the screen, and Maloneknew he was right. He knew exactly how he'd been located, and by whom.
Looking at the face in the screen alone, it might have been thought thatthe woman who appeared there was somebody's grandmother, kindly,red-cheeked and twinkle-eyed. Perhaps that wasn't the only stereotype;she could have been an old-maid schoolteacher, one of the kindlyschoolteachers who taught, once upon a time that never was, in thelittle old red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positivelyradiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace.
But if the face was the face of a sentimental dream, the garb was thegarb of royalty. Somebody's grandmother was on her way to a costumeparty. She wore the full court costume of the days of Queen Elizabeth I,complete with brocaded velvet gown, wide ruff collar and bejeweledskullcap.
She was, Malone knew, completely insane.
Like all the other telepaths Malone and the rest of the FBI had foundduring their work in uncovering a telepathic spy, she had been locatedin an insane asylum. Months of extensive psychotherapy, including allthe newest techniques and some so old that psychiatrists were a littleafraid to use them, had done absolutely nothing to shake the firmestconviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson.
She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightful Queen of England.
She claimed she was immortal--which was not true. She also claimed to bea telepath. This was perfectly accurate. It had been her help that hadenabled Malone to find the telepathic spy, and a grateful government hadrewarded her.
It had given her a special expense allotment for life, covering theclothing she wore, and the style in which she lived. Rooms had been setaside for her at Yucca Flats, and she held court there, sometimes beingtreated by psychiatrists and sometimes helping Dr. Thomas O'Connor inhis experiments and in the development of new psionic machines.
She was probably the happiest psychotic on Earth.
Malone stared at her. For a second he could think of nothing to say but:"My God." He said it.
"Not at all, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "Your Queen."
Malone took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.
"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said, and waited. After a secondMalone figured out what she was waiting for.
He inclined his head in as courtly a bow as he could manage over avisiphone. "I am deeply honored," he said, "that Your Majesty has calledon me. Is there any way in which I might be of service?"
"Oh, goodness me, no," said the little old lady. "I don't need a thing.They do one very well here in Yucca Flats. You must come out soon andsee my new throne room. I've had the decorations done by ... but I cansee you're not interested in that, Sir Kenneth."
"But--" Malone realized it was useless to argue with the old lady. Shewas telepathic, and knew exactly what he was thinking. That, after all,was how he had been located; she had mentally "hunted" for him until shefound him.
But why?
"I'll tell you why, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "I'm worriedabout you."
"Worried? About me, Your Majesty?"
"Certainly," the little old lady said, inclining her head just theproper number of degrees, and raising it again. "You, Sir Kenneth, andthat silly little notebook you lost. You've been stewing about it forthe last hour."
It was obvious that, for reasons of her own, the Queen had seen fit tolook into Malone's mind. She'd found him worrying, and called him aboutit. It was, Malone thought, sweet of her in a way. But it was also justa bit disconcerting.
He was perfectly well aware that the Queen could read his mind at anydistance. But unless something reminded him of the fact, he didn't haveto think about it.
And he didn't like to think about it.
"Don't be disturbed," the Queen said. "Please. I only want to help you,Sir Kenneth; you know that."
"Well, of course I do," Malone said. "But--"
"Heavens to Betsy," she said. "Sir Kenneth, what kind of a detective areyou?"
"What?" Malone said, and added at once: "Your Majesty." He knewperfectly well, of course, that Miss Thompson was not Queen ElizabethI--and he knew that Miss Thompson knew what he thought.
But she didn't mind. Politeness, she held, was the act of being pleasanton the surface, no matter what a person really thought. People werepolite to their bosses, she pointed out, even though they were perfectlysure that they could do a better job than the bosses were doing.
So she insisted on the surface pretense that Malone was going through,treating her like a Queen.
The psychiatrists had called her delusion a beautifully rationalizedone. As far as Malone was concerned, it made more sense than most ofreal life.
* * * * *
"That's very nice of you, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "But I want toask you again: what kind of detective are you? Haven't you got anycommon sense at all?"
Malone hated to admit it, but he had always had just that suspicion.After all, he wasn't a very good detective. He was just lucky. His luckhad enabled him to break a lot of tough cases. But some day people wouldfind out, and then--
"Well," the Queen said, "at the very least you ought to _act_ like adetective." She sniffed audibly. "Sir Kenneth, I'm ashamed that a memberof My Own FBI can't do any better than you're doing now."
Malone blinked into the screen. He did feel ashamed in a vague sort ofway, and he was willing to admit it. But he did feel, wistfully, that itwould be nice to know just what he was being ashamed of. "Have I beenmissing something?" he said.
"Outside of the obvious," the Queen said, "that you've been missing yournotebook--or, rather, Mike Fueyo's notebook."
"Yes?" Malone said.
"You certainly have," the Queen said. "Don't you see what happened tothat notebook? You've been missing the only possible explanation."
"All I can figure," Malone said, "is that Dorothy Francis picked mypocket."
"Exactly," the Queen said. "Now, if you'd only wear proper clothing, anda proper pouch at your belt--"
"I'd be stared at," Malone said. "In court clothing--"
"No one in New York would stare at you," the Queen said. "They'd thinkit was what they call an advertising stunt."
"Anyhow," Malone said, "I wasn't wearing court cl
othing. So that made iteasy for her to steal the notebook."
Her Majesty gave him a bright smile. "There!" she said.
"There, what?" Malone said.
"I knew you could do it," the Queen said. "All you had to do was applyyour intelligence and you'd come up with just the fact you needed."
"What fact?" Malone said.
"That Miss Francis has your notebook," the Queen said. "You just toldme."
"All right," Malone said, and stopped, and took a deep breath. After apause he said: "What is that supposed to mean? What on Earth would shewant with it? Just to look at all the pretty pictures?"
"Don't be silly," the Queen said, with some asperity. "She doesn't evenwant to look at the thing. She doesn't care what's in it."
Malone closed his eyes. "Riddle time," he murmured. "Great." Then hesighed. "O.K.," he said. "What _does_ she want with it? She must havesome use for it. She isn't just a kleptomaniac or something--is she?"
"Of course not," the Queen said.
"Then she has a reason," Malone said. "Fine. But what is it? Is she anauxiliary member of the Silent Spooks, or something like that? Don'ttell me she's Mike Fueyo's girl friend. I don't think I could take that.It's too silly."
"Naturally it's silly! Sir Kenneth, I--" She stopped, and her face litup suddenly with pleasure. "Now you're on the right track!" she said."You just keep right on with that line of thought."
Malone blinked in awe. "You mean she's--"
He didn't want to say it. But the evidence was all there. Dorothy'sappearance at the station. The remark Mrs. Fueyo had made when he wentto the apartment.
It all fit.
"That's right," the Queen said, a little sadly. "She's DorotheaFrancisca Fueyo--little Miguel Fueyo's older sister."