ybe it's home now."

"It isn't," Malone said. "And I've tried every place else."

"New York's a big city, Mr. Malone," BeeBee said.

Malone sighed. "I've tried every place I've been. The notebook
couldn't be somewhere I haven't been. A rolling stone follows its
owner." He thought about that. It didn't seem to mean anything, but
maybe it had. There was no way to tell for sure.

He went back to the bar to think things over and figure out his next
move. A bourbon and soda while thinking seemed the obvious order, and
Ray bustled off to get it.

Had he left the notebook on the street somewhere, just dropping it by
accident? Malone couldn't quite see that happening. It was, of course,
possible; but the possibility was so remote that he decided to try and
think of everything else first. There was Dorothy, for instance.

Had he got stewed enough so that he'd showed Dorothy the notebook?

He didn't remember doing it, and he didn't quite see why he would
have. Most of the evening was more or less clear in his mind; he
hadn't apparently, forgotten any other details, either.

All the same, it was an idea. He decided to give the girl a call and
find out for sure. Maybe she remembered something that would help him,
anyway.

He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away,
he remembered one more little fact.

He didn't have her number, and he didn't know anything about where she
lived, except that it could be reached by subway. That, Malone told
himself morosely, limited things nicely to the five boroughs of New
York.

And she said she was living with her aunt. Would she have a phone
listing under her own name? Or would the listing be under her aunt's
name, which he also didn't know?

At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he told
himself.

He did so.

There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattan
and in all the other boroughs.

Malone went back to the bar to think some more. He was on his second
bourbon and soda, still thinking but without any new ideas, when
BeeBee tapped him gently on the shoulder.

"Pardon me," the maitre d' said, "but are you English?"

"Am I what?" Malone said, spilling a little of his drink on the bar.

"Are you English?" BeeBee said.

"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish."

"That's nice," BeeBee said.

Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love to
know why you asked me."

"Well," BeeBee