nobody at all inthat Cadillac when it went off the embankment."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "Here's a car with a driver whoappears and disappears practically at will. Sometimes he's there andsometimes he's not there."
"Ah," Burris said. "That's why I have another explanation."
Malone shifted his feet. Maybe there _was_ another explanation. But,he told himself, it would have to be a good one.
"Nobody expects a car to drive itself down a highway," Burris said.
"That's right," Malone said. "That's why it's all impossible."
"So," Burris said, "it would be a natural hallucination--or illusion,anyhow--for somebody to imagine he did see a driver when there wasn'tany."
"Okay," Malone said. "There wasn't any driver. So the car couldn'thave gone anywhere. So the New York police force is lying to us. It'sa good explanation, but it--"
"They aren't lying," Burris said. "Why should they? I'm thinking ofsomething else." He stopped, his eyes bright as he leaned across thedesk toward Malone.
"Do I get three guesses?" Malone said.
Burris ignored him. "Frankly," he said, "I've got a hunch that thewhole thing was done with remote control. Somewhere in that car was avery cleverly concealed device that was capable of running theCadillac from a distance."
It did sound plausible, Malone thought. "Did the prowl car boys findany traces of it when they examined the wreckage?" he said.
"Not a thing," Burris said. "But, after all, it could have beenmelted. The fire did destroy a lot of the Cadillac, and there's justno telling. But I'd give long odds that there must have been some kindof robot device in that car. It's the only answer, isn't it?"
"I suppose so," Malone said.
"Malone," Burns said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's CountryIn The Face of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find thatdevice!"
"In the wreck?" Malone said.
Burris sighed and leaned back. "No," he said. "Of course not. Not inthe wreck. But the other red Cadillacs--some of them, anyhow--ought tohave--"
"What red Cadillacs?" Malone said.
"The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. Onefrom New Jersey, out near Passaic."
"Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malonesaid.
"Well," Burris said, "there's been no report of it. But who can tell?"He gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone."
"Sure," Malone said.
"Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs.There's got to be some reason for that. I think they're covering upanother car like the one that got smashed: a remote-controlledCadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlledCadillac."
"They?" Malone said. "Who?"
"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently.
"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--"
"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nosearound. Got it?"
"I have now," Malone said.
"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look atit. Okay?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
* * * * *
Of course there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone asheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burrishimself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had takena train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes stillmade him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had to. Ifjet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he thought,they were certainly good enough for him.
But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip didhim. The reports contained thousands of words, none of which waseither new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, heconsidered, had given him everything necessary for the job.
Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. Heconsidered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They mightmake it easier for the average driver, of course--but that was noreason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head andsmashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the WestSide Highway.
All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherishedit deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the trainpulled into Penn Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punchedthe buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolledslowly along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense.And nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashedup, had they?
So what was all this nonsense about robot-controlled red Cadillacs?
Driving these unwelcome reflections from his mind, he paused to lighta cigarette. He had barely taken the first puff when a familiar voicesaid, "Hey, buddy, hold the light, will you?"
Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said. "Whatare you doing here? I haven't seen you since--"
"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out West on a couple of cases.Must be a year since we worked together."
"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York?Vacationing?"
"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation,but--"
"Oh," Malone said. "You re working with me."
Boyd nodded. "The chief sent me up. When I got back from the West, hesuddenly decided you might need a good assistant, so I took the planedown, and got here ahead of you."
"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation--"
"Never mind," Boyd said; just a shade sadly. "I know. It isn't." Heseemed deep in thought, as if he were deciding whether or not to getrid of Anne Boleyn. It was, Malone thought, an unusually apt simile.Boyd, six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and twenty-fivepounds, had a large square face and a broad-beamed figure that mighthave made him a dead ringer for Henry VIII of England even without hisHenry-like fringe of beard and his mustache. With them--thanks to therecent FBI rule that agents could wear "facial hair, at the discretionof the director or such board as he may appoint"--the resemblance tothe Tudor monarch was uncanny.
But, like his famous double, Boyd didn't stay sad for long. "I thoughtI'd meet you at the station," he said, cheering up, "and maybe talkover old times for a while, on the way to the hotel, anyhow. So longas there wasn't anything else to do."
"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you getpulled out of the Frisco office?"
Boyd grimaced. "You know," he said, "I had a good thing going for meout there. Agent-in-Charge of the entire office. But right after thatjob we did together--the Queen Elizabeth affair--Burris decided I wastoo good a man to waste my fragrance on the desert air. Or whatever itis. So he recalled me, assigned me from the home office, and I've beenon one case after another ever since."
"You're a home-office agent now?" Malone said.
"I'm a Roving Reporter," Boyd said, and struck a pose. "I'm a GeneralTrouble-shooter and a Mr. Fix-It. Just like you, Hero."
"Thanks," Malone said. "How about the local office here? Seen the boysyet?"
Boyd shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you toshow up. But I did manage hotel rooms--a couple of rooms with aconnecting bath over at the Hotel New Yorker. Nice place. You'll likeit, Ken."
"I'll love it," Malone said. "Especially that connecting bath. Itwould have been terrible to have an unconnecting bath. Sort ofdistracting."
"Okay," Boyd said. "Okay. You know what I mean." He stared down atMalone's hand. "You know you've still got your lighter on?" he added.
Malone looked down at it and shut it off. "You asked me to hold it,"he said.
"I didn't mean indefinitely," Boyd said. "Anyhow, how about grabbing acab and heading on down to the hotel to get your stuff away, before wecheck in at 69th Street?"
"Good idea," Malone said. "And besides, I could do with a clean shirt.Not to mention a bath."
"Trains get worse and worse," Boyd said absently.
Malone punched the
redcap's buttons again, and he and Boyd followed itthrough the crowded station to the taxi stand. The robot piled thesuitcases into the cab, and somehow Malone and Boyd found room forthemselves.
"Hotel New Yorker," Boyd said grandly.
The driver swung