initials on it. But the first
page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter Lynch."

"Who's he?" the old man said.

"He's a cop," Malone said.

"My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it
and all. You a cop, youngster?"

Malone shook his head.

"Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "You
said black plastic? Black?"

"That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?"

"Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Empty
billfold, three hats, a couple of coats and some pencils. And an
umbrella. No dogs tonight, youngster, _and_ no notebooks."

"Oh," Malone said. "Well ... wait a minute."

"What is it, youngster?" the old man said. "I'm busy this time of day.
Got to sweep and clean. Got work to do. Not like you tourists."

With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to describe
the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at all."

"That's right," the old man said cheerfully.

"But you made me describe--"

"That's the rules," the old man said. "And I ain't about to go against
the rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wish
you were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose things
like people do."

Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if the
notebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find the
bars he had stopped in before the theater.

* * * * *

Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald
man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar for
something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas," he
said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellas
downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so many
umbrellas?"

"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.

"I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist--you
know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against the
fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by--"

Malone said good-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl,
the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.

[Illustration]

"Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you."

"Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?"

"Notesbook?" the bartender said.

"A little black plastic book