"That's classified information." He
pushed his way into the corridor, trying to look as if he had fifteen
other jobs to accomplish within the next hour. Being an FBI agent was
going to help a little, but he still had to look good in order to
carry it off.

"But--"

"Thanks for your co-operation, Lieutenant," Malone said. "You've all
been very helpful." He smiled at them in what he hoped was a superior
manner. "So long," he said, and started walking.

"Wait!" Lynch said. He flung open the door of the interrogation room.
There was no doubt that it was empty. "Wait! Malone!"

Malone turned slowly, trying to look calm and in control of the
situation. "Yes?" he said.

Lynch looked at him with puzzled, pleading eyes. "Malone, _how_ did
you release him? We were right here. He didn't come through the door.
There isn't any other exit. So how did you get him out?"

There was only one answer to that, and Malone gave it with a quiet,
assured air. "I'm terribly sorry, Lieutenant," he said, "but that's
classified information, too." He gave the cops a little wave and
walked slowly down the corridor. When he reached the stairs he began
to speed up and he was out of the precinct station and into a taxicab
before any of the cops could have realized what had happened.

He took a deep breath, feeling as if it were the first he'd had in
several days. "Breathe air," he told himself. "It's _good_ for you."
Not that New York had any real air in it. It was mostly carbon fumes
and the like. But it was the nearest thing to air that Malone could
find at the moment, and he determined to go right on breathing it
until something better and cleaner showed up.

But that wasn't important now. As the cab tooled along down Broadway
toward 69th Street, Malone closed his eyes and began going over the
whole thing in his mind.

Mike Fueyo had vanished.

Of that, Malone told himself, there was no shadow of doubt. No
probable, possible shadow of doubt.

No possible doubt (as a matter of fact) whatever.

Dismissing the Grand Inquisitor with a negligent wave of his hand, he
concentrated on the main question. It was a good question. Malone
could have sat and pondered it admiringly for a long time.

As a matter of fact, that was all he could think of to do, as the cab
turned up 70th Street and headed east. He certainly didn't have any
answers for it.

But it was a lovely question:

_Where does that leave Kenneth J. Malone?_

And, possibly even