The Impossibles | Page 9

tell?" He
gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone."
"Sure," Malone said.
"Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs.
There's got to be some reason for that. I think they're covering up
another car like the one that got smashed: a remote-controlled Cadillac.
Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled Cadillac."
"They?" Malone said. "Who?"
"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently.
"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--"
"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose
around. Got it?"
"I have now," Malone said.
"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at it.
Okay?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
* * * * *
Of course there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone a
sheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burris
himself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had
taken a train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes
still made him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had
to. If jet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he
thought, they were certainly good enough for him.

But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip did him.
The reports contained thousands of words, none of which was either
new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, he considered, had
given him everything necessary for the job.
Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. He
considered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They
might make it easier for the average driver, of course--but that was no
reason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head and
smashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the West
Side Highway.
All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherished
it deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the train pulled
into Perm Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched the
buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolled slowly
along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense. And
nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashed up, had
they?
So what was all this nonsense about robot-controlled red Cadillacs?
Driving these unwelcome reflections from his mind, he paused to light
a cigarette. He had barely taken the first puff when a familiar voice said,
"Hey, buddy, hold the light, will you?"
Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said.
"What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since--"
"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out West on a couple of cases.
Must be a year since we worked together."
"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York?
Vacationing?"
"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation, but--"
"Oh," Malone said. "You re working with me."

Boyd nodded. "The chief sent me up. When I got back from the West,
he suddenly decided you might need a good assistant, so I took the
plane down, and got here ahead of you."
"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation--"
"Never mind," Boyd said; just a shade sadly. "I know. It isn't." He
seemed deep in thought, as if he were deciding whether or not to get rid
of Anne Boleyn. It was, Malone thought, an unusually apt simile. Boyd,
six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and twenty-five pounds,
had a large square face and a broad-beamed figure that might have
made him a dead ringer for Henry VIII of England even without his
Henry-like fringe of beard and his mustache. With them--thanks to the
recent FBI rule that agents could wear "facial hair, at the discretion of
the director or such board as he may appoint"--the resemblance to the
Tudor monarch was uncanny.
But, like his famous double, Boyd didn't stay sad for long. "I thought
I'd meet you at the station," he said, cheering up, "and maybe talk over
old times for a while, on the way to the hotel, anyhow. So long as there
wasn't anything else to do."
"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you get
pulled out of the Frisco office?"
Boyd grimaced. "You know," he said, "I had a good thing going for me
out there. Agent-in-Charge of the entire office. But right after that job
we did together--the Queen Elizabeth affair--Burris decided I was too
good a man to waste my fragrance on the desert air. Or whatever it is.
So he recalled me, assigned me from the home office, and I've been on
one