othea Fueyo's mind, she was probably
right.

But what good was that going to do him?

He knew what was in the book. Getting it back was something that could
wait. It didn't sound particularly profitable and it didn't even sound
like fun.

What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped the
coins into the phone and dialed the number of the police commissioner's
office. After a brief argument with a secretary, he had Fernack on the
phone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was going to be polite.

If possible.

"Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner's
face was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some more information?"

Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said.

"On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to get
irritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying.

"On what kind of information you want," Fernack said.

"Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some more
about. Who the owner is, for one thing, and--"

Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished, apparently on his
desk, and brought up a sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen while
Malone copied off the name and address. "Lieutenant Lynch told me all
about it."

"Lynch?" Malone said. "But he--"

"Lynch works for me, Malone," Fernack said. "Remember that."

"But he said he'd--"

"He said he wouldn't do anything, and he won't," Fernack said. "He just
reported it to me for my action. He knew I was working with you, Malone.
And I _am_ his boss, remember."

"Great." Malone said. "Now, John Henry--"

"Hold it, Malone," Fernack said. "I'd like a little information, too,
you know. I'd like to know just what is going on, if it isn't too much
trouble."

"It's not that. John Henry," Malone said earnestly. "Really. It's just
that I--"

"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thin
air. All this nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense," Malone said.

"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day like
that. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was as
hard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with those impossible
robberies you had me looking up?"

"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it."

Fernack's face had begun its slow climb toward purple again. "Malone,"
he said, "if you're suppressing evidence, even if you are the FBI,
I'll--"

"I'm not suppr