The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

she's—" Malone discovered that he couldn't talk. He swallowed a couple of times and then went on. "She's Mike Fueyo's sister."

      "That's exactly right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.

      "Then she ... swiped the book to protect her little brother," Malone said. "Oh, boy."

      "Exactly, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.

      "And she doesn't care about me at all," Malone said. "I mean, she only went out with me because I was me. Malone. And she wanted the notebook. That was all there was to it."

      "I wouldn't say that, if I were you," she went on. "Quite the contrary. She does like you, you know. And she thinks you're a very nice person." The Queen beamed. "You are, you know," she said.

      "Oh," Malone said uncomfortably. "Sure."

      "You don't have to think that she merely went out with you because of her brother's notebook," the Queen said. "But she does have a strong sense of loyalty—and he is her younger brother, after all."

      "He sure is," Malone said. "He's a great kid, little Mike."

      "You see," the Queen continued imperturbably, "Mike told her about losing the notebook the other night—when he struck you."

      "When he struck me," Malone said. "Oh, yes. He struck me all right."

      "He guessed that you must have it when you started asking questions about the Silent Spooks, you see," the Queen said. "That was the only way you could have found out about him—unless you were telepathic. Which, of course, you're not."

      "No," Malone said.

      "Now, understand me," the Queen said. "I do not think that his striking you was a very nice act."

      "I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like ... it hurt quite a lot."

      "Certainly," the Queen said. "But, then, he didn't hurt the car any, and he didn't want to. He just wanted to ride around in it for a while."

      "He likes red Cadillacs," Malone said.

      "Oh, yes," the Queen said. "He thinks they're wonderful."

      "Good for him," Malone said sourly.

      "Well, now," the Queen said. "You just go right on over to her house. Of course, she doesn't live with an aunt."

      "No," Malone said. "She lives with Mike and his mother."

      "Why not?" the Queen said. "She's part of the family."

      Malone nodded silently.

      "She'll give you the book, Sir Kenneth. I just know that she will. And I want you to be very nice to her when you ask for it. She's a very nice girl, you know."

      "She's a swell girl," Malone said morosely. "And I'll ... hey. Wait a minute."

      "Yes, Sir Kenneth?"

      "How come you can read her thoughts?" Malone said. "And Mike's? I thought you had to know somebody pretty well before you could read them at a distance like this. Do you? Know them, I mean."

      "Oh, no," the Queen said. "But I can read you, of course." Malone could see that the Queen was trying very hard not to look proud of herself. "And last night," she went on, "you two were ... well, Sir Kenneth, you had a real rapport with each other. My goodness, yes."

      "Well," Malone said, "we—"

      "Don't explain, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "It really isn't necessary; I thought it was very sweet. And—in any case—I can pick her up now. Because of that rapport. Not quite as well as I can pick you up, but enough to get the strong surface thoughts."

      "Oh," Malone said. "But Mike—"

      "I can't pick him up at all, this far away," the Queen said. "There is just a faint touch of him, though, through the girl. But all I know about him is what she thinks." She smiled gently. "He's a nice boy, basically," she said.

      "Sure he is," Malone said. "He's got a nice blackjack, too—basically." He grimaced. "Were you reading my mind all last night?" he said.

      "Well," the Queen said, "no. Toward morning you were getting so fuzzy I just didn't bother."

      "I can understand that," Malone said. "I nearly didn't bother myself."

      The Queen nodded. "But toward afternoon," she said, "I didn't have anything to do, so I just listened in. You do have such a nice mind, Sir Kenneth—so refreshing and different. Especially when you're in love."

      Malone blushed quietly.

      "Oh, I know," the Queen said. "You'd much rather think of yourself as a sort of apprentice lecher, a kind of cynical Don Juan, but—"

      "I know," Malone said. "Don't tell me about it. All right?"

      "Of course, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said, "if you wish it."

      "Basically, I'm a nice boy," Malone said. "Sure I am." He paused. "Do you have any more pertinent information, Your Majesty?"

      "Not right now," the Queen admitted. "But if I do, I'll let you know." She giggled. "You know, I had to argue awfully hard with Dr. Hatterer to get to use the telephone," she said.

      "I'll bet," Malone said.

      "But I did manage," she said, and winked. "I won't have that sort of trouble again."

      Malone wondered briefly what dark secret Dr. Hatterer had, that Her Majesty had discovered in his mind and used to blackmail him with. At last he decided that it was probably none of his business, and didn't matter too much anyway.

      "Quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "And good-bye for now."

      "Good-bye, Your Majesty," Malone said. He bowed again, and flipped off the phone. Bowing in a phone booth wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do, he thought to himself. But somehow he had managed it.

      He reached into his pocket—half-convinced, for one second, that it was an Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that effect; after a time, Malone came to believe in her strange, bright world. But he shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fished out some coins and thought for a minute.

      So Dorothy—Dorothea—had lifted the notebook. That was some help, certainly. It let him know something more about the enemy he was facing. But it wasn't really a lot of help.

      What did he do now?

      Her Majesty had suggested going to the Fueyo house, collaring the girl—but treating her nicely, Malone reminded himself—and demanding the book back. She'd even said he would get the book back—and, since she knew some of what went on in Dorothea Fueyo's mind, she was probably right.

      But what good was that going to do him?

      He knew what was in the book. Getting it back was something that could wait. It didn't sound particularly profitable and it didn't even sound like fun.

      What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped the coins into the phone and dialed the number of the police commissioner's office. After a brief argument with a secretary, he had Fernack on the phone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was going to be polite.

      If possible.

      "Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner's face was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some more information?"

      Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said.

      "On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to get irritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying.

      "On what kind of information you want," Fernack said.

      "Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some more about. Who the owner is, for one thing, and—"

      Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished, apparently on his desk, and brought up a sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen while Malone copied off the name and address. "Lieutenant Lynch told me all