case, that
was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out nor keep
him in.

But he was going to leave home.

Malone said, "Hmm," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again.
By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collided
with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot of
paint, and a brush. Malone looked at the street sign, where the words
_Avenue of the Americas_ had been painted out, and _Sixth Avenue_
hand-lettered in.

"They finally give in," the painter told him. "But do you think they
buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He
gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared
into the crowd.

Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And
how cheap could a pretzel be, anyhow? Malone didn't remember ever
having seen an especially tight-fisted one.

New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.

He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and
absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another
attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.

He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street
from the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was a coincidence that he
had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't
quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the
phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of
several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.

He dialed the number of Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found
himself connected with a new desk sergeant.

"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."

"Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only
_Lieutenant_ Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish _Echo_!"

"Damn it," Malone said, "I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.

The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and
maybe you aren't," he said at last.

"Does the lieutenant know you?"

"We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins.
Put him on the phone."

"Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."

The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared
again to show Lynch's face.

"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new
little trick to show up poor stupid policemen? Like, sa