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 case, that
was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out or keep him
in.

But he was going to leave home.

Malone said: "Hm-m-m," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it
again. By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly
collided with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a
pot of paint and a brush. Malone looked up at the street sign, where the
words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue"
hand-lettered in.

"They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll
buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He
gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared
into the crowd.

Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And
how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having
seen an especially tight-fisted one.

New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.

He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and
absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another
attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.

He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from
the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was just a coincidence that he
had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't
quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the
phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of
several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.

He dialed the number for Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found
himself connected with a new desk sergeant.

"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."

"Glad to know you, Malone," the