The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

      "And the pieces of the car were eighty blocks away when they searched it?" Malone said.

      Burris nodded.

      "All right," Malone said pleasantly. "I give up."

      "Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Burris said. "According to the witnesses—not Jukovsky, who didn't wake up for a couple of minutes and so didn't see what happened next—after he fell out of the car, the motor started and the car drove off uptown."

      "Oh," Malone said. He thought about that for a minute and decided at last to hazard one little question. It sounded silly—but then, what didn't? "The car just drove off all by itself?" he said.

      Burris seemed abashed. "Well, Malone," he said carefully, "that's where the conflicting stories of the eyewitnesses don't agree. You see, two of the cops say there was nobody in the car. Nobody at all. Of any kind. Small or large."

      "And the other two?" Malone said.

      "The other two swear they saw somebody at the wheel," Burris said, "but they won't say whether it was a man, a woman, a small child or an anthropoid ape—and they haven't the faintest idea where he, she or it came from."

      "Great," Malone said. He felt a little tired. This trip was beginning to sound less and less like a vacation.

      "Those two cops swear there was something—or somebody—driving the car," Burris said. "And that isn't all."

      "It isn't?" Malone said.

      Burris shook his head. "A couple of the cops jumped into a squad car and started following the red Cadillac. One of these cops saw somebody in the car when it left the curb. The other one didn't. Got that?"

      "I've got it," Malone said, "but I don't exactly know what to do with it."

      "Just hold on to it," Burris said, "and listen to this: the cops were about two blocks behind at the start, and they couldn't close the gap right away. The Cadillac headed west and climbed up the ramp of the West Side Highway, heading north, out toward Westchester. I'd give a lot to know where they were going, too."

      "But they crashed," Malone said, remembering that the pieces were at 125th Street. "So—"

      "They didn't crash right away," Burris said. "The prowl car started gaining on the Cadillac slowly. And—now, get this, Malone—both the cops swear there was somebody in the driver's seat now."

      "Wait a minute," Malone said. "One of these cops didn't see anybody at all in the driver's seat when the car started off."

      "Right," Burris said.

      "But on the West Side Highway, he did see a driver," Malone said. He thought for a minute. "It could happen. The start happened so fast he could have been confused, or something."

      "There's another explanation," Burris said.

      "Sure," Malone said cheerfully. "We're all crazy. The whole world is crazy."

      "Not that one," Burris said. "I'll tell you when I finish with this thing about the car itself. There isn't much description of whoever or whatever was driving that car on the West Side Highway, by the way. In case you were thinking of asking."

      Malone, who hadn't been thinking of asking anything, tried to look clever. Burris regarded him owlishly for a second, and then went on:

      "The car was hitting it up at about a hundred and ten by this time, and accelerating all the time. But the souped-up squad car was coming on fast, too, and it was quite a chase. Luckily, there weren't many cars on the road. Somebody could have been killed, Malone."

      "Like the driver of the Cadillac," Malone ventured.

      Burris looked pained. "Not exactly," he said. "Because the car hit the 125th Street exit like a bomb. It swerved right, just as though it were going to take the exit and head off somewhere, but it was going much too fast by that time. There just wasn't any way to maneuver. The Cadillac hit the embankment, flipped over the edge, and smashed. It caught fire almost at once—of course the prowl car braked fast and went down the exit, after it. But there wasn't anything to do."

      "That's what I said," Malone said. "The driver of the Cadillac was killed. In a fire like that—"

      "Don't jump to conclusions, Malone," Burris said. "Wait. When the prowl car boys got to the scene, there was no sign of anybody in the car. Nobody at all."

      "In the heat of those flames—" Malone began.

      "Not enough heat, and not enough time," Burris said. "A human body couldn't have been destroyed in just a few minutes, not that completely. Some of the car's metal was melted, sure—but there would have been traces of anybody who'd been in the car. Nice, big, easily-seen traces. And there weren't any. No corpse, no remains, no nothing."

      Malone let that stew in his mind for a few seconds. "But the cops said—"

      "Whatever the cops said," Burris snapped, "there was nobody at all in that Cadillac when it went off the embankment."

      "Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "Here's a car with a driver who appears and disappears practically at will. Sometimes he's there and sometimes he's not there. It's not possible."

      "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't any."

      "O.K.," Malone said. "There wasn't any driver. So the car couldn't have gone anywhere. So the New York police force is lying to us. It's a good explanation, but it—"

      "They aren't lying," Burris said. "Why should they? I'm thinking of something else." He stopped, his eyes bright as he leaned across the desk toward Malone.

      "Do I get three guesses?" Malone said.

      Burris ignored him. "Frankly," he said, "I've got a hunch that the whole thing was done with remote control. Somewhere in that car was a very cleverly concealed device that was capable of running the Cadillac from a distance."

      It did sound plausible, Malone thought. "Did the prowl car boys find any traces of it when they examined the wreckage?" he said.

      "Not a thing," Burris said. "But, after all, it could have been melted. The fire did destroy a lot of the Cadillac, and there's just no telling. But I'd give long odds that there must have been some kind of robot device in that car. It's the only answer, isn't it?"

      "I suppose so," Malone said.

      "Malone," Burris said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's Country In The Face Of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find that device!"

      "In the wreck?" Malone said.

      Burris sighed and leaned back. "No," he said. "Of course not. Not in the wreck. But the other red Cadillacs—some of them, anyhow—ought to have—"

      "What red Cadillacs?" Malone said.

      "The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. One from New Jersey, out near Passaic."

      "Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malone said.

      "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—and I think they're covering up another car like the one that got smashed: a remote—controlled Cadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled Cadillac."

      "They?" Malone said. "Who?"