A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ the head did funny things. "I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a ticking bomb ready to go off any second.

      There was a little silence. Then Sam said: "Give him his gun back, Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.

      "Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

      Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible mistake. Know who this guy is?"

      "He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radio away and gave all his attention to Malone.

      "He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."

      Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and loved. Maybe now the cops would do something about his head and take him away for burial.

      "Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red Cadillacs?"

      "Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone. "Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."

      "That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there never had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.

      "We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl car gets here we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you tell us what happened? Or is it—classified?"

      Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, and decided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'll answer one question for me."

      "Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."

      "Anything at all," Sam said.

      Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile. "All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"

      "In New York," Sam said.

      "I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just sort of all over New York?"

      "Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where you were when they slugged you?"

      "I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately remembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain had softened to agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting pretty tired of sitting around waiting for something to break on this case," he said, "and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I ended up in Greenwich Village—which is no place for a self-respecting man to end up."

      "I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, they call themselves. Crazy people."

      "Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost." Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the world to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused in Washington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He could find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.

      It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon. The Village had tracks, all right—thousands of tracks. Only none of them led anywhere in particular.

      "Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."

      The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill started to say: "But there isn't any—"

      "I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."

      "You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said

      "For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." He paused. "When I saw it I decided to go over and have a look. Just in case."

      "Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as if defying him to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care.

      "There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked over and tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car or anything. And I'll swear there was nobody behind me."

      "Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."

      "But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we got here," Bill said.

      "Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybe somebody dropped something by mistake—a safe or something. Because there wasn't anybody behind me."

      "There had to be," Bill said.

      "Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."

      There was a little silence.

      "What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, I mean."

      "Then?" Malone said. "Then, I went out like a light."

      A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up. "That's the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.

      The driver was a solidly-built little man with the face of a Pekingese. His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have been much more comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the regulation blue cap, leaned out at Bill, Sam and Malone.

      "What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.

      "No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking to the two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his arm around Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.

      Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was stronger than he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the rear door of the prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a seat inside, just as Bill said: "So with the cut and all, we figured he ought to go over to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the way, so we didn't bother with ambulances."

      The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "you just call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?"

      "Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he added in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."

      "So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The latest. Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then, apparently deciding that further invective would get him nowhere, he settled back in his seat, said: "Aah, forget it," and started the car with a small but perceptible jerk.

      Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it was late. He rested his head on the back seat and tried to relax, but all he could do was think about red Cadillacs.

      He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs.

      II

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