Out Like a Light

  XII.

  Malone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at theface of the little old lady in the screen. At last he said: "Her name isFueyo!"

  "I've told you so," the Queen said with some asperity.

  "I know," Malone said. "But--"

  "You're excited," the Queen said. "You're stunned. Goodness, you don'tneed to tell me that, Sir Kenneth. I know."

  "But she's--" Malone discovered that he couldn't talk. He swallowed acouple of times and then went on. "She's Mike Fueyo's sister."

  "That's exactly right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.

  "Then she ... swiped the book to protect her little brother," Malonesaid. "Oh, boy."

  "Exactly, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.

  "And she doesn't care about me at all," Malone said. "I mean, she onlywent out with me because I was me. Malone. And she wanted the notebook.That was all there was to it."

  "I wouldn't say that, if I were you," she went on. "Quite the contrary.She does like you, you know. And she thinks you're a very nice person."The Queen beamed. "You are, you know," she said.

  "Oh," Malone said uncomfortably. "Sure."

  "You don't have to think that she merely went out with you because ofher brother's notebook," the Queen said. "But she does have a strongsense of loyalty--and he _is_ her younger brother, after all."

  "He sure is," Malone said. "He's a great kid, little Mike."

  "You see," the Queen continued imperturbably, "Mike told her aboutlosing the notebook the other night--when he struck you."

  "When he struck me," Malone said. "Oh, yes. He struck me all right."

  "He guessed that you must have it when you started asking questionsabout the Silent Spooks, you see," the Queen said. "That was the onlyway you could have found out about him--unless you were telepathic.Which, of course, you're not."

  "No," Malone said.

  "Now, understand me," the Queen said. "I do not think that his strikingyou was a very nice act."

  "I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like ... it hurt quite a lot."

  "Certainly," the Queen said. "But, then, he didn't hurt the car any, andhe didn't want to. He just wanted to ride around in it for a while."

  "He likes red Cadillacs," Malone said.

  "Oh, yes," the Queen said. "He thinks they're wonderful."

  "Good for him," Malone said sourly.

  "Well, now," the Queen said. "You just go right on over to her house. Ofcourse, she doesn't live with an aunt."

  "No," Malone said. "She lives with Mike and his mother."

  "Why not?" the Queen said. "She's part of the family."

  Malone nodded silently.

  "She'll give you the book, Sir Kenneth. I just know that she will. And Iwant you to be very nice to her when you ask for it. She's a very nicegirl, you know."

  "She's a swell girl," Malone said morosely. "And I'll ... hey. Wait aminute."

  "Yes, Sir Kenneth?"

  "How come you can read her thoughts?" Malone said. "And Mike's? Ithought you had to know somebody pretty well before you could read themat a distance like this. Do you? Know them, I mean."

  "Oh, no," the Queen said. "But I can read _you_, of course." Malonecould see that the Queen was trying very hard not to look proud ofherself. "And last night," she went on, "you two were ... well, SirKenneth, you had a real _rapport_ with each other. My goodness, yes."

  "Well," Malone said, "we--"

  "Don't explain, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "It really isn'tnecessary; I thought it was very sweet. And--in any case--I can pick herup now. Because of that rapport. Not quite as well as I can pick you up,but enough to get the strong surface thoughts."

  "Oh," Malone said. "But Mike--"

  "I can't pick him up at all, this far away," the Queen said. "There isjust a faint touch of him, though, through the girl. But all I knowabout him is what she thinks." She smiled gently. "He's a nice boy,basically," she said.

  "Sure he is," Malone said. "He's got a nice blackjack, too--basically."He grimaced. "Were you reading my mind all last night?" he said.

  "Well," the Queen said, "no. Toward morning you were getting so fuzzy Ijust didn't bother."

  "I can understand that," Malone said. "I nearly didn't bother myself."

  The Queen nodded. "But toward afternoon," she said, "I didn't haveanything to do, so I just listened in. You do have such a nice mind, SirKenneth--so refreshing and different. Especially when you're in love."

  Malone blushed quietly.

  "Oh, I know," the Queen said. "You'd much rather think of yourself as asort of apprentice lecher, a kind of cynical Don Juan, but--"

  "I know," Malone said. "Don't tell me about it. All right?"

  "Of course, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said, "if you wish it."

  "Basically, I'm a nice boy," Malone said. "Sure I am." He paused. "Doyou have any more pertinent information, Your Majesty?"

  "Not right now," the Queen admitted. "But if I do, I'll let you know."She giggled. "You know, I had to argue awfully hard with Dr. Hatterer toget to use the telephone," she said.

  "I'll bet," Malone said.

  "But I did manage," she said, and winked. "I won't have that sort oftrouble again."

  Malone wondered briefly what dark secret Dr. Hatterer had, that HerMajesty had discovered in his mind and used to blackmail him with. Atlast he decided that it was probably none of his business, and didn'tmatter too much anyway.

  "Quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "And good-bye for now."

  "Good-bye, Your Majesty," Malone said. He bowed again, and flipped offthe phone. Bowing in a phone booth wasn't the easiest thing in the worldto do, he thought to himself. But somehow he had managed it.

  * * * * *

  He reached into his pocket--half-convinced, for one second, that it wasan Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had thateffect; after a time, Malone came to believe in her strange, brightworld. But he shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fishedout some coins 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 was facing.But it wasn't really a lot of help.

  What did he do now?

  Her Majesty had suggested going to the Fueyo house, collaring thegirl--but treating her nicely, Malone reminded himself--and demandingthe book back. She'd even said he would get the book back--and, sinceshe knew some of what went on in Dorothea Fueyo's mind, she was probablyright.

  But what good was that going to do him?

  He knew what was in the book. Getting it back was something that couldwait. It didn't sound particularly profitable and it didn't even soundlike fun.

  What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped thecoins into the phone and dialed the number of the police commissioner'soffice. After a brief argument with a secretary, he had Fernack on thephone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was going to 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 more information?"

  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, apparently on hisdesk, 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. "He justreported 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 is going on, if it isn't too muchtrouble."

  "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 those impossiblerobberies 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. Idon'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 ever cameup. I've been a police officer in New York for a long time, and I wishthis 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 your baby,Malone, because Burris wants it that way." He snorted. "So don't worryabout 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, "youmight have made a good FBI man yourself. You've got the right attitude."

  "Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly.

  "O.K.," 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 arrangements atall yet, but I will. I'll have Safe and Loft get the keys, and a fullset of floor plans to the place while they're at it. Will that do, YourMajesty?"

  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 I wasnowhere in evidence. Then he realized that Fernack had been talking tohim.

  "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 of telephones?

  He said good-by and flipped off.

  Then he stared at the screen for a little while, as his cigarette burneddown between his fingers. At last he put the cigarette out and wentdownstairs 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 while doingit.

  * * * * *

  The evening rush had begun, and Malone found himself a stool by thesimple expedient of slipping into one while a drinker's back was turned.Once ensconced, he huddled himself up like an old drunk, thuseffectively cutting himself off from interruptions, and lit anothercigarette. Ray was down at the other end of the bar, chatting with ared-headed woman and her pale, bald escort. Malone sighed and sethimself to the job of serious, constructive thinking.

  How, he asked himself, do you go about catching a person who can vanishaway 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 say muchelse for it. There had to be another way out. For some reason Malonejust couldn't see himself with a mouthful of nails, a hammer and ateen-ager.

  It sounded just a little too messy.

  Then, of course, there were handcuffs.

  That sounded a little better. The trouble was that Malone simply didn'thave enough information, and knew it. Obviously, the kids could carrystuff with them when they teleported; the stuff they stole proved that.And their clothes, Malone added. Apparently the kids didn't arrive atwherever 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 wrist first?Did you go along with the teleport? Or did your wrist go, while youstayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed to death?

  Or what?

  All the questions were intriguing ones. Malone sighed, wishing he knewthe answer to even one of them.

  It was somewhat comforting to think that he'd managed to progress alittle, anyway. The kids hadn't meant anybody to find out aboutthem--but Malone had found out about them, and alerted all the cops intown, as well as the rest of the FBI. He knew just who they were, andwhere they lived, and how they performed the "miracles" they performed.

  Anyhow, he knew something about that last item.

  He even knew who had his notebook.

  He tabled that thought, and went back to feeling victorious. Within afew seconds, the sense of achievement was gone, and futility had come inits place. After all, he still didn't know how to catch the kids, didhe?

  No.

  He thought about handcuffs some more and then gave up. He'd just have totry it and see how it worked. And if the teleports took his wrist awayhe'd ... he'd ... he'd go after them and make them give it back.

  Sure he would.

  That reminded him of the notebook again, and, since the thing was beingso persistent, he decided he might as well pay some attention to it.

  Dorothea had the notebook. Malone tried to see himself barging in on herand asking for it, and he didn't care for the picture at all--no matterhow Good Queen Bess felt about it.

  After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid.

  So what did she know?

  He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apartment, talking toDorothea.

  "Dorothea," he muttered. "You filched my notebook."

  That didn't sound very effective. And besides, it wasn't really hisnotebook. He tried again.

  "Dorothea, you pinched your brother's notebook."

  Now, for some reason, it sounded like something covered by the ViceSquad. It sounded terrible. But there were other ways of saying the samething.

  "Dorothea," he muttered, "you borrowed your brother's notebook."

  That was too pa
tronizing. Malone told himself that he sounded like acharacter straight out of the 3-D screens, and settled himself gamelyfor another try.

  "Dorothea, you _have_ your brother's notebook."

  To which the obvious answer was: "Yes, I do, and so what?"

  Or, possibly: "How do you know?"

  And Malone thought about answering that one. "Queen Elizabeth told me,"was the literal truth, but somehow it didn't sound like it. And hecouldn't find another answer to give the girl.

  "Dorothea," he said, and a voice from nowhere added:

  "Will you have another drink?"

  Malone exploded, "That's not the question. Drinks have nothing to dowith notebooks. I'm after notebooks. Can't you understand--" Belatedly,he looked up.

  There was Ray, the barman.

  "Oh," he said.

  "I just came over," Ray said. "And I figured if you couldn't find yournotebook, maybe you'd like a drink. So long as you're here."

  "Ray," Malone said with feeling, "you are an eminently reasonablefellow. I accept your solution. Nay, more. I endorse your solution.Wholeheartedly."

  Ray went off to mix, and Malone stared after him happily. This wasreally a nice place, he reflected--almost as nice as the City Hall Barin Chicago where he'd gone long ago with his father.

  But he tore his mind away from the happy past and concentrated, instead,on the miserable present. He decided for the last time that he was notgoing to ask Dorothea for the book--not just yet, anyhow. After all, itwasn't as if he needed the book; he knew his own name, and he knewLynch's name, and he knew the names on the second page. And he didn'tsee any particular need for a picture of a red Cadillac, no matter hownicely colored it was.

  So, he asked himself, why embarrass everybody by trying to get it back?

  Of course, it _was_ technically a crime to pick pockets, and that wentdouble or triple for the pockets of FBI agents. But Malone told himselfthat he didn't feel like pressing charges, anyhow. And Dorothy probablydidn't make a habit of pocket-picking.

  He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of six.

  Now, he knew what his next move was going to be.

  He was going to go back to his hotel and change his clothes.

  That is, he amended, as soon as he finished the drink that Ray wassetting up in front of him.