The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

thing he'd forgotten. By no means.

      He had heard that it was a good show, though. Some time, he reminded himself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it.

      He checked through the evening. Drinks. Dinner ... he had had dinner, hadn't he? Yes, he had. He recalled a broiled sea bass looking up at him with mournful eyes. He couldn't have dreamed anything like that.

      And then the theater, and after that some more drinks ... and so on, and so on, and so on, right to his arrival back in his hotel room, at four-thirty in the morning, on a bright, boiled cloud.

      He even remembered arguing with Dorothy about taking her home. She'd won that round by ducking into a subway entrance, and he had turned around after she'd left him and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi?

      Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.

      Then what had he forgotten?

      He had met Dorothy—he told himself, starting all over again in an effort to locate the gaps—at six o'clock, right after phoning ...

      He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernack and Lynch.

      Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work to be done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving.

      He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home. Probably at work already, Malone thought, while I lie here useless and helpless. He thought of a sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to Boyd.

      But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showered and shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, he estimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was still lousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move around and talk and even think a little, if he were careful about it. Before he left, he took a look at himself in the mirror.

      Well, he told himself, that was nice.

      It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that was almost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bug out at all although Malone would have sworn that they were bleeding all over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as he remembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish at every move.

      He looked even better than he felt.

      He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no need to go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel room and not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars or the pedestrians for a while.

      He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it with great firmness, and sat down to phone.

      He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appeared almost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonably sure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, John Henry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy, carefree voice. "And how are you this lovely morning?"

      "Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Malone, how did you—"

      "Any news for me?" Malone said.

      Fernack waited a long time before he answered, and when he did his voice was dangerously soft and calm. "Malone," he said, "when you asked for this survey, just what kind of news did you expect to get anyway?"

      "An awful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I do, John Henry?"

      "You did very well," Fernack said. "Too well. Listen, Malone, how could you know about anything like this?"

      Malone blinked. "Well," he said, "we have our sources. Confidential. Top secret. I'm sure you understand, commissioner." Hurriedly, he added: "What does the breakdown look like?"

      "It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, according to the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds of crime. And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of the swing. Hasn't moved down hardly at all."

      "Great," Malone said.

      Fernack stared. "What?" he said.

      "I mean—" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it: "I mean, that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."

      Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you're FBI," he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Pretty strange."

      "You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.

      "I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had anything to do with this—"

      "Me?"

      "And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in looking anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderer trying to steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."

      "What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And what kind of crimes were they, anyway?"

      "What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unanswered question. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe. But when I come up with enough facts to answer it—"

      "Don't be silly, commissioner," Malone said. "How about these crimes? What kind were they?"

      "Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that well enough. Most of them were just burglaries—locked barrooms, for instance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tampering with the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of any alarms being tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from the cash register, and all of the liquor is gone, too."

      Malone stared. "All the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.

      "Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of the time the extra stock's gone, too, from the basement or wherever they happen to keep it."

      "That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.

      "Quite a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not being insured against the losses."

      The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor—millions of bottles—went through Malone's mind like an icepick. He could almost see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a dog."

      "What did you say, Malone?"

      "Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars were robbed? Nothing else?"

      "Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you asking me to tell you this?"

      "Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.

      "I still think—" Fernack began, and then said: "Never mind. But it hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring shops. Jewelers. Malone, you name it, and it's been hit."

      Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime wave: Banks, for one."

      "Malone!"

      "Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homes with wall safes—though that's not quite accurate. The homes may have been robbed, but the safes won't have been touched."

      "Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said.

      "I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits the following description is safe: It's got a secure lock on it, and it's too small for a human being to get into."

      Fernack opened his mouth, shut it and stared downward, obviously scanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waited patiently for the explosion—but it never came.

      Instead, Fernack said: "You know,