ftest and friendliest tones. "I'd rather not
say just now, John Henry."

"But, Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw
set just a trifle--"if you--"

Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a
bit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any
fireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said
gently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is
classified information; it's not my fault."

Fernack said, "But--" and apparently realized that argument was not
going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll
have it for you as soon as possible."

"Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."

"Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the
controversy just once more. But all he said was "So long, Malone."

Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He
stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could
barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner
Fernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone.
He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of
duty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward.

Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and
beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And
a medal, if possible."

"A what?" the bartender said.

"A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."

The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he
said. "Sleep it off for a while."

New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his
drink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more or
less weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't
much care for the stuff--and even in Washington, people didn't go
around accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless
little pleasantry.

Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon
sunlight.

He considered the itinerary of the magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone
straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told
his mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to
send her money.

Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone
thought he was beginning to realize just _how_ easy. Houdini had once
boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's