Cadillac, picking up a whole bundle of facts. Some of
the facts they had already known. Some were new, but unhelpful.

Somehow, nobody felt much like going out for a night on the town.
Instead both agents climbed wearily into bed, thinking morose and
disillusioned thoughts.

And, after that, a week passed. It was filled with ennui.

Only one new thing became clear. In spite of the almost identical
modus operandi used in all the car thefts, they were obviously the
work of a gang rather than a single person. This required the
assumption that there was not one insane man at work, but a crew of
them, all identically unbalanced.

"But the jobs are just too scattered to be the work of one man,"
Malone said. "To steal a car in Connecticut and drive it to the Bronx,
and then steal another car in Westfield, New Jersey, fifteen minutes
later takes more than talent. It takes an outright for-sure magician."

This conclusion, while interesting, was not really helpful. The fact
was that Malone needed more clues--or, anyhow, more facts--before he
could do anything at all. And there just weren't any new facts around.
He spent the week wandering morosely from one place to another
sometimes accompanied by Thomas Boyd and sometimes all alone. Time, he
knew, was ticking by at its usual rate. But there wasn't a thing he
could do about it.

He did try to relax and have some fun, as Burris had suggested. But he
didn't seem to be able to get his mind off the case.

Boyd, after the first little while, had no such trouble. He entered
the social life of the city with a whoop of joy and disappeared from
sight. That was fine for Boyd, Malone reflected, but it did leave
Malone himself just a little bit at loose ends.

Not that he begrudged Boyd his fun. It was nice that one of them was
enjoying himself, anyway.

It was just that Malone was beginning to get fidgety. He needed to be
doing something--even if it was only taking a walk.

So he took a walk and ended up, to his own surprise, downtown near
Greenwich Village.

And then he'd been bopped on the head.

3

The patrol car pulled up in front of St. Vincent's Hospital, and one
of the cops helped Malone into the emergency receiving room. He didn't
feel as bad as he had a few minutes before. The motion of the car
hadn't helped any, but his head seemed to be knitting a little, and
his legs were a little steadier. True, he didn't feel one hundred per