reakdown look like?"

"It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, according
to the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds of crime.
And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of the swing.
Hasn't moved down hardly at all."

"Great," Malone said.

Fernack stared. "What?" he said.

"I mean--" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it: "I mean,
that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."

Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you're FBI,"
he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Pretty strange."

"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.

"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had
anything to do with this--"

"Me?"

"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in looking
anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderer trying to
steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."

"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And what
kind of crimes were they, anyway?"

"What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unanswered
question. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe. But
when I come up with enough facts to answer it--"

"Don't be silly, commissioner," Malone said. "How about these crimes?
What kind were they?"

* * * * *

"Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that well
enough. Most of them were just burglaries--locked barrooms, for
instance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tampering with
the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of any alarms being
tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from the cash register,
and all of the liquor is gone, too."

Malone stared. "_All_ the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.

"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except
for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of
the time the extra stock's gone, too, from the basement or wherever they
happen to keep it."

"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.

"Quite a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not
being insured against the losses."

The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor--millions of bottles--went
through Malone's mind like an icepick. He could almost see them, handle
them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a
dog."

"Wha