The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing the initials SM carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone thought wildly, muttered: "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling fairly grateful to the unfortunate bystander.

      He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a part of his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a phone call in a hurry.

      He found a phone booth in a bar called the Ad Lib, at Madison Avenue. Sternly telling himself that he was stopping there to make a phone call, a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched right past the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, where he made a call to New York Police Commissioner John Henry Fernack.

      Fernack's face was that of an old man, but there was no telling how old. The early seventies was one guess, Malone imagined; the late fifties might be another. He looked tough, as if he had spent all of his life trying to persuade other people that he was young enough for the handball tournament. When he saw Malone, his eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn't say anything.

      "Commissioner," Malone said, "I called to ask you to do me a favor."

      There was caution hidden in the calm and quiet voice. "Well," Fernack said, "what is it, Malone?"

      "Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through the computer?" Malone said. "I need some dope."

      "Depends on the given period," Fernack said. "I can't do it for 1774."

      "What would I need data on robberies in 1774 for?" Malone said, honestly interested.

      "I never question the FBI," Fernack said soberly. "But what dates do you want?"

      "The past year, maybe the past year and a half."

      "And what data?"

      "I want every reported crime that hasn't been solved," Malone said, "which also seems to have been committed by some impossible means. A safe that was robbed without being opened, for instance—that's the kind of thing I mean."

      "Every unsolved crime?" Fernack said. "Now, hold your horses, Malone. I'm not at all sure that—"

      "Don't worry about a thing, commissioner," Malone said. "This is confidential."

      "You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to—"

      "I said confidential, John Henry," Malone said, trying to sound friendly and trustworthy. "After all, every place has unsolved crimes. Even the FBI isn't absolutely perfect."

      "Oh," Fernack said. "Sure. But confidential, Malone."

      "You have my word," Malone said sincerely.

      Fernack said: "Well—"

      "How fast can you get the dope?" Malone said.

      "I don't exactly know," Fernack said. "The last time anything even remotely like this was run through—departmental survey, but you wouldn't be interested—it took something like eight hours."

      "Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours then. I'll look everything over and if we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let you know as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone.

      Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately: "Mind telling me what all this is for?"

      Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did answer it was in his softest and most friendly tones: "I'd rather not say just now, John Henry."

      "But Malone—" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw set just a trifle. "If you—"

      Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a bit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any fireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said gently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is classified information—it's not my fault."

      Fernack said: "But—" and apparently realized that argument was not going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll have it for you as soon as possible."

      "Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."

      "Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the controversy just once more. But all he said was: "So long, Malone."

      Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner Fernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of duty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward.

      Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a medal, if possible."

      "What?" the bartender said.

      "A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."

      The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he said. "Sleep it off."

      New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his drink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago—where he'd been more or less weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't much care for the stuff—and even in Washington, people didn't go around accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless little pleasantry.

      Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon sunlight.

      He considered the itinerary of the Magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told his mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to send her money.

      Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone thought he was beginning to realize just how easy. Houdini had once boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, that was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out or keep him in.

      But he was going to leave home.

      Malone said: "Hm-m-m," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again. By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collided with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot of paint and a brush. Malone looked up at the street sign, where the words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" hand-lettered in.

      "They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared into the crowd.

      Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having seen an especially tight-fisted one.

      New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.

      He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.

      He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from the Church of Saint Mary the СКАЧАТЬ