e said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."

"That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and
looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red
Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there never
had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.

"We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl car
gets here we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you tell us
what happened? Or is it--classified?"

Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, and
decided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'll
answer one question for me."

"Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."

"Anything at all," Sam said.

Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile.
"All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"

"In New York," Sam said.

"I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just
sort of all over New York?"

"Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where
you were when they slugged you?"

"I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately remembered
that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain had softened
to agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting pretty tired of
sitting around waiting for something to break on this case," he said,
"and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I ended up in Greenwich
Village--which is no place for a self-respecting man to end up."

"I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, they
call themselves. Crazy people."

"Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost."
Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the world
to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused in
Washington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He could
find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.

It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon.
The Village had tracks, all right--thousands of tracks. Only none of
them led anywhere in particular.

"Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."

The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill
started to say: "But there isn't any--"

"I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."

"You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.

"For all I