Most of them were just burglaries--locked barrooms, forinstance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tamperingwith the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of anyalarms being tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from thecash register, and all of the liquor is gone too."
Malone stared. "_All_ the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.
"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Exceptfor the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most ofthe time the extra stock's gone too, from the basement or whereverthey happen to keep it."
"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.
"A hell of a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke,not being insured against the losses."
The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor--millions ofbottles--went through Malone's mind like an ice pick. He could almostsee them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered."What hair. What a dog."
"What did you say, Malone?"
"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a secondanother query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only barswere robbed? Nothing else?"
"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are youasking me to tell you this?"
"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.
"I still think--" Fernack began, and then said, "Never mind.. But ithasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoringshops. Jewelers. Hell, Malone, you name it and it's been hit."
Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at hisbest, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's alist of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crimewave. Banks, for one."
"Malone!"
"Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homeswith wall safes, though that's not quite accurate. The homes may havebeen robbed, but the safes won't have been touched."
"Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said. "My God, man--"
"I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fitsthe following description is safe: it's got a secure lock on it, andit's too small for a human being to get into."
Fernack opened his mouth, shut it, and stared downward, obviouslyscanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waitedpatiently for the explosion, but it never came.
Instead, Fernack said, "You know, Malone, you remind me of an oldfriend of mine."
"Really?" Malone said pleasantly.
"You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference.You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference."
"It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent theallegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that'sneither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, whatare the similarities?"
Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voicewas as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up withthe goddamnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or evencared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things thatdon't have any explanation. And--" He stopped, his face dark in thescreen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decidedon purple as a good choice.
"Well?" Malone said at last.
"And you're always so goddamned right it makes me sick," Fernackfinished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into thescreen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said.
Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker onthe screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly,"I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports tome personally, at 69th Street. By messenger. So long."
He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone--"
With a satisfied, somewhat sheepish smile, Malone dialed anothernumber. This time a desk sergeant told him politely that Lynch wasn'tat the precinct, and wouldn't arrive until noon.
Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it.
It was a long wait before the lieutenant answered, and he didn't lookmuch like a police officer when his face finally showed up on thescreen. His hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. His eyes wereslightly bleary, but he was definitely awake.
"Oh," Malone said. "Hello."
"Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy.Old pal. Old friend."
"What's wrong?" Malone said.
"Wrong?" Lynch said. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wantedto thank you for not waking me up last night. I only waited for yourcall until midnight. Then I decided I just wasn't very important toyou. You obviously had much bigger things on your mind."
"As a matter of fact," Malone said, speculatively eying Lynch'sfigure, dressed in a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, "you're right."
"That's what I thought," Lynch said. "And I decided that, since youwere so terribly busy, it could wait until I woke up. Or even until Igot down to the station. How about it, _buddy-boy_?"
"Listen, Lynch," Malone said, "we made a bet. Ten to one. I just wantto know if I can come down to collect or not."
There was a second of silence.
"All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you abuck. Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us."
"Good," Malone said. He wondered briefly just what was good about it,and decided he'd rather have lost the money to Lynch. But facts, hereflected, were facts. Thoroughly nasty facts.
"I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere atall. Malone, how did you know--"
"Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they'reall gone? Vanished?"
Lynch's face reddened. "Sure I'm sure," he said. "Every last one ofthem is gone. And what more do you want me to do about it?" He paused,then added, "What do you expect, Malone? Miracles?"
Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I--"
"Oh, never mind," Lynch said. "But I--"
"Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you."
"One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully.
Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. "Don't be silly," hesaid. "It's just that this guy might have some information, but hewon't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or somethinglike that."
"Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?"
"I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman."
Malone nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll be right over."
"Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think thisis--my house or a reception center?"
"Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?"
"How about three o'clock at the precinct station?" Lynch said. "I canhave him there by then, and you can get together and talk." He paused."Nobody likes the cops," he said. "People hear the FBI's mixed up inthis, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something."
"Sorry to hear it," Malone said.
"I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly.
Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?"
"Right," Lynch said, and Malone flipped off.
He sat there for a few seconds, grinning quietly. His brain throbbedlike an overheated motor, but he didn't really mind any more. Histheory had been justified, and that was the most important thing.
The Silent Spooks were all teleports.
Eight of them--eight kids on the loose, stealing everything they couldlay their hands on, and completely safe. How could you catch a boy whojust disappeared when you started for him? No wonder their nameshadn't appeared on the police blotter, Malone thought.
Spooks didn't get into trouble. They didn't have to.
They could get into any place big enough to hold them, take what theywanted and just disappear. They'd been doing it for about eightmonths, according to the figures Malone had received from Fernack;maybe teleportative ability didn't deve
lop until you were aroundfourteen or fifteen.
But it had developed in these kids--and they were using it in the mostobvious way. They had a sure method of getting