ad, and taken the red Cadillac he had been
examining. And the same gang probably accounted for the Sergeant
Jukovsky affair, too.

Or at least it was reasonable to assume that they did, Malone thought.
He could see how it had worked. One of the Silent Spooks was a lot
smaller than a grown man, and the two cops who hadn't seen anyone in
the parked car just hadn't been able to catch sight of the undersized
driver. Of course, there _had_ been someone in the car when it had
been driving along the West Side Highway. Someone who had teleported
himself right out of the car when it had gone over the embankment.

That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found in
the red Cadillacs Leibowitz and Hardin were examining now. But Malone
had already decided to let that phase of things go on. First of all,
it was always possible that he was wrong, and that some such machine
really did exist. Second, even if they didn't find a machine, they
might find something else. Almost anything, he thought, might turn up.

And third, it kept Boyd decently busy, and out of Malone's hair.

That had been an easy solution. And, Malone thought, the problem of
who had been taking the red Cadillacs looked just as easy now, if his
answers were right. And he was reasonably sure of that.

Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question: _How
do you catch a teleport?_

Malone looked up, jarred to a stop by a man built like a brown bear,
with a chunky body and an oval, slightly sloping head and face. He had
very short brown hair shot through with gray, and gave Malone a small
inquisitive stare and looked away without a word.

Malone mumbled, "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at
47th Street and Park Avenue. He jerked a hand up to his face, and
managed to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing the
initials S.M. carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone
thought wildly, muttered, "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling
fairly grateful to the unfortunate bystander.

He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a part
of his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a call in a
hurry.

He found a phone booth in a bar called the Ad Lib, at Madison Avenue.
Sternly telling himself that he was stopping there to make a phone
call, a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched right
past the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, whe