had by all."

A cop stumbled up, handed Lynch his cap and disappeared without a word.
Lynch stared mournfully at it. The emblem was crushed and the cap looked
rather worn and useless. He put it on his head, where it assumed the
rakish tilt of a hobo's favorite tam-o'-shanter, and said: "I hope
you're not thinking of blaming _me_ for this fiasco."

"Not at all," Malone said nobly. He hurt all over, but on reflection he
thought that he would probably live. "It was nobody's fault." Except, he
thought, his own. If he'd only told Lynch to come in when called
for--and under no other circumstances--this wouldn't have happened. He
looked around at the remains of New York's Finest, and felt guilty.

The lieutenant from the local precinct limped up, rubbing a well-kicked
shin and trying to disentangle pieces of floor lamp from his hair.
"Listen, Lynch," he said, "What's with these kids? What's going on here?
Look at my men."

"Some days," Lynch said, "it just doesn't pay to get up."

"Sure," the local man said, "but what do I do now?"

"Make your reports."

"But--"

"To the Commissioner," Lynch said, "and to nobody else. If this gets
into the papers, heads will roll."

"My head is rolling right now," the local man said. "Know what one of
those kids did? Stood in front of a floor lamp. I swung at him and he
vanished. Vanished. I hit the lamp, and then the lamp hit me."

"Just see that this doesn't get out," Lynch said.

"It can't," the local man said. "Anybody who mentioned this to a
reporter would just be laughed out of town. It's not possible." He
paused thoughtfully, and added: "We'd all be laughed out of town."

"And probably replaced with the FBI," Lynch said morosely. He looked at
Malone. "Nothing personal, you understand," he said.

"Of course," Malone said. "We can't do any more here, can we?"

"I don't think we can do any more anywhere," Lynch said. "Let's lock the
place up and leave and forget all about it."

"Fine," Malone said. "I've got work to do." He looked round, found
Dorothea and signaled to her. "Come on, Dorothea. Where's Boyd?"

"Here I am," Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He
had one hand held to his chin.

"What's the matter with you?" Malone asked.

Boyd took his hand away. There was a bald spot the size of a quarter on
the point of his chin. "One of those kids," he said sadly, "has a hell
of a strong grip. Come on, Miss Fueyo. Come on, Malone. Let's get out of