The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

among them.

      Now that he came to think of it, when had he seen the notebook last? He'd shown it to Lieutenant Lynch during the afternoon, and then he'd put it back in his pocket, and he hadn't looked for it again.

      So it had to be somewhere in one of the bars he'd visited, or at the theater where he and Dorothy had seen "The Hot Seat."

      Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he strolled out and, giving Boyd and the Agent-in-Charge one small smile each, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight trying to decide which place to check first. He settled on the theater because it was most probable: after all, people were always losing things in theaters. Besides, if he started at the theater, and found the notebook there, he could then go on to a bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in a bar, he didn't much relish the idea of going on to an empty theater in the middle of the afternoon to celebrate getting the book back.

      Shaking his head over this flimsy structure of logic, he headed down to "The Hot Seat." He banged on the lobby doors for a while without any good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors, which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance and found himself facing an old, bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom and a surprised expression.

      "I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.

      "Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'd heard 'em all, but—"

      "No," Malone said. "You don't understand."

      "I don't have to understand," the old man said. "That's what's so restful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't have to understand nothing. Good-by."

      "I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone said desperately.

      "Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come with me."

      The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it were a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said: "Name?"

      Malone said: "I just want to find a notebook."

      "Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly. "It's the rules here. After all."

      Malone sighed: "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is—"

      The old man, fiercely scribbling, looked up. "Wait a minute, can't you?" he said. "I ain't through 'Kenneth' yet." He wrote on, and finally said: "Address?"

      "Statler Hilton Hotel," Malone said.

      "In Manhattan?" the old man said.

      "That's right," Malone said wearily.

      "Ah," the old man said. "Tourist, ain't you? Tourists is always losing things. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into this here theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up to claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part water spaniel."

      Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said: "That's impossible."

      "Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater long enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water spaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking about impossibilities. What a strange-looking beast. And then there was the time—"

      "About the notebook," Malone said.

      "Notebook?" the old man said.

      "I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that—"

      "Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again.

      Malone heaved a great sigh. "Black plastic," he said. "About so big." He made motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter Lynch."

      "Who's he?" the old man said.

      "He's a cop," Malone said.

      "My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it and all. You a cop, youngster?"

      Malone shook his head.

      "Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "You said black plastic? Black?"

      "That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?"

      "Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Empty billfold, three hats, a couple of coats and some pencils. And an umbrella. No dogs tonight, youngster, and no notebooks."

      "Oh," Malone said. "Well ... wait a minute."

      "What is it, youngster?" the old man said. "I'm busy this time of day. Got to sweep and clean. Got work to do. Not like you tourists."

      With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to describe the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at all."

      "That's right," the old man said cheerfully.

      "But you made me describe—"

      "That's the rules," the old man said. "And I ain't about to go against the rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wish you were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose things like people do."

      Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if the notebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find the bars he had stopped in before the theater.

      Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar for something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas," he said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so many umbrellas?"

      "Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.

      "I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist—you know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against the fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by—"

      Malone said good-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl, the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.

      "Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you."

      "Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?"

      "Notesbook?" the bartender said.

      "A little black plastic book," Malone said, making motions, "about so big. And it——"

      "Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"

      "Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean, it. Would I be looking for it if I hadn't lost it?"

      "Who knows?" the bartender said, and shrugged.

      "But you said you were looking for me," Malone said. "What about?"

      "Oh," the bartender said. "I only say that. Make customer feel good, think we miss him. Customers like, so we do. What your name?"

      "Pizarro," Malone said disgustedly, and went away.

      The last stop was Topp's. Well, he had to find the notebook there. It was the only place the notebook could be. That was logic, and Malone was proud of it. He walked into Topp's trying to remember the bartender's name, and found it just as he walked into the bar.

      "Hello, Wally," he said gaily.

      The bartender stared at him. "I'm not Wally," he said. "Wally's the other barman. My name's Ray."

      "Oh," Malone said, feeling deflated. "Well, I've come about a notebook."

      "Yes, sir?" Ray said.

      "I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. If you'll just take me to the Lost and Found department—"

      "One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, all alone.

      In a few seconds he was back. "I didn't see the notebook myself,