loud.

He even remembered arguing with Dorothy about taking her home. She'd
won that round by ducking into a subway entrance, and he had turned
around after she'd left him and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi?

Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.

Then what had he forgotten?

He had met Dorothy, he told himself, starting all over again in an
effort to locate the gaps, at six o'clock, right after phoning...

"My God!" Malone said, and winced. He looked at his watch. It was ten
o'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernack
and Lynch.

Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work to
be done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving.

He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home.
_Probably at work already_, Malone thought, _while I lie here useless
and helpless._ He thought of the Sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and
decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to
Boyd.

But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showered
and shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, he
estimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was still
lousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move around
and talk and even think a little, if he was careful about it. Before
he left, he took a look at himself in the mirror.

Well, he told himself, that was nice.

It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that was
almost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bug
out at all, although Malone would have sworn that they were bleeding
all over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as he
remembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish at
every move.

He looked even better than he felt.

He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no need
to go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel room
and not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars or
the pedestrians for a while.

He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it
with great firmness, and sat down to the phone.

He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appeared
almost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonably
sure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, John
Henry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy