The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

like outright idiocy. This was plainly impossible.

      Unfortunately, it had happened.

      Locking the car doors didn't do a bit of good. The thief or thieves got in without so much as scratching the lock. This, obviously, proved that the criminal was either an extremely good lock-pick or knew where to get duplicate keys.

      However, the ignition was invariably shorted across.

      This proved neatly that the criminal was not a very good lock-pick, and did not know where to get duplicate keys.

      Query: why work so hard on the doors, and not work at all on the ignition?

      That was the first place. The second place was just what had been bothering Malone all along. There didn't seem to be any purpose to the car thefts. They hadn't been sold, or used as getaway cars. True, teenage delinquents sometimes stole cars just to use them joyriding, or as some sort of prank.

      But a car or two every night? How many joyrides can one gang take? Malone thought. And how long does it take to get tired of the same prank?

      And why, Malone asked himself wearily for what was beginning to feel like the ten thousandth time, why only red Cadillacs?

      Burris, he told himself, must have been right all along. The red Cadillacs were only a smoke screen for something else. Perhaps it was the robot car, perhaps not—but whatever it was, Burris' general answer was the only one that made any sense at all.

      That should have been a comforting thought, Malone reflected. Somehow, though it wasn't.

      After they'd finished with the files and personnel at Sixty-ninth Street, Malone and Boyd started downtown on what turned out to be a sort of unguided tour of the New York Police Department. They spoke to some of the eyewitnesses, and ended up in Centre Street asking a lot of reasonably useless questions in the Motor Vehicle Bureau. In general, they spent nearly six hours on the Affair of the Self-Propelled Cadillac, picking up a whole bundle of facts. Some of the facts they had already known. Some were new, but unhelpful.

      Somehow, nobody felt much like going out for a night on the town. Instead, both agents climbed wearily into bed thinking morose and disillusioned thoughts.

      And, after that, a week passed. It was filled with ennui.

      Only one thing became clear. In spite of the almost identical modus operandi, used in all the car thefts, they were obviously the work of a gang rather than a single person. This required the assumption that there was not one insane man at work, but a crew of them, all identically unbalanced.

      "But the jobs are just too scattered to be the work of one man," Malone said. "To steal a car in Connecticut and drive it to the Bronx, and then steal another car in Westfield, New Jersey fifteen minutes later takes more than talent. It takes an outright for-sure magician."

      This conclusion, while interesting, was not really helpful. The fact was that Malone needed more clues—or, anyhow, more facts—before he could do anything at all. And there just weren't any new facts around. He spent the week wandering morosely from one place to another, sometimes accompanied by Thomas Boyd and sometimes all alone. Time, he knew, was ticking by at its usual rate. But there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

      He did try to relax and have some fun, as Burris had suggested. But he didn't seem to be able to get his mind off the case.

      Boyd, after the first little while, had no such trouble. He entered the social life of the city with a whoop of joy and disappeared from sight. That was fine for Boyd, Malone reflected, but it did leave Malone himself just a little bit at loose ends.

      Not that he begrudged Boyd his fun. It was nice that one of them was enjoying himself, anyway.

      It was just that Malone was beginning to get fidgety. He needed to be doing something—even if it were only taking a walk.

      So he took a walk, and ended up, to his own surprise, downtown near Greenwich Village.

      And then he'd been bopped on the head.

      IV

       Table of Contents

      The patrol car pulled up in front of St. Vincent's Hospital and one of the cops helped Malone into the Emergency Receiving Room. He didn't feel as bad as he had a few minutes before. The motion of the car hadn't helped any, but his head seemed to be knitting a little, and his legs were a little steadier. True, he didn't feel one hundred per cent healthy, but he was beginning to think he might live, after all. And while the doctor was bandaging his head a spirit of new life began to fill the FBI agent.

      He was no longer morose and undirected. He had a purpose in life, and that purpose filled him with cold determination. He was going to find the robot-operated car—or whatever it turned out to be.

      The doctor, Malone noticed, was whistling "Greensleaves" under his breath as he worked. That, he supposed, was the influence of the bohemian folk singers of Greenwich Village. But he put the noise resolutely out of his mind and concentrated on the red Cadillac.

      It was one thing to think about a robot car, miles away, doing something or other to somebody you'd never heard of before. That was just theoretical, a case for solution, nothing but an ordinary job.

      But when the car stepped up and bopped Malone himself on the head, it became a personal matter. Now Malone had more than a job to contend with. Now he was thinking about revenge.

      He told himself: No car in the world—not even a Cadillac—can get away with beaning Kenneth J. Malone!

      Malone was not quite certain that he agreed with Burris' idea of a self-operating car, but at least it was something to work on. A car that could reach out, crown an investigator and then drive off humming something innocent under its breath was certainly a unique and dangerous machine within the meaning of the act. Of course, there were problems attendant on this view of things; for one thing, Malone couldn't quite see how the car could have beaned him when he was ten feet away from it. But that was, he told himself uncomfortably, a minor point. He could deal with it when he felt a little better.

      The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under the doctors calm hands, and swore subvocally.

      "Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that way. Just wait quietly until the demijel sets."

      Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he decided he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly.

      "Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed.

      "But you—"

      "What did you expect?" the doctor said. "Even an FBI agent isn't immune to blackjacks, you know." He resumed his work on Malone's skull.

      "Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?"

      "The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow."

      Malone blinked. Somehow, though he could manage a fuzzy picture of a car reaching out to hit him, the introduction of a blackjack into this imaginative effort confused things a little. But he resolutely ignored it.

      "The bruise is just the right size and shape," the doctor said. "And that cut on your head comes from the seams on the leather casing."

      "You're sure?" Malone said doubtfully. It did seem as if a car had a lot more dangerous weapons around, without resorting to blackjacks. If it had really wanted to damage him, why hadn't it hit him with the engine block?

      "I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this hospital long enough to recognize a blackjack wound."

      That was a disturbing idea, in a way. It gave a new color to Malone's reflection on Greenwich Villagers. Maybe things had changed since he'd heard about them. Maybe the blackjack had supplanted the guitar. But that wasn't the important thing.

      The fact that it had been a blackjack that had hit him