know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." He
paused. "When I saw it I decided to go over and have a look. Just in
case."

"Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as if defying
him to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care.

"There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked over
and tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car or anything.
And I'll swear there was nobody behind me."

"Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."

"But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we got
here," Bill said.

"Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybe
somebody dropped something by mistake--a safe or something. Because
there wasn't anybody behind me."

"There had to be," Bill said.

"Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."

There was a little silence.

"What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, I
mean."

"Then?" Malone said. "Then, I went out like a light."

A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up. "That's
the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.

The driver was a solidly-built little man with the face of a Pekingese.
His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have been much more
comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the regulation blue cap,
leaned out at Bill, Sam and Malone.

"What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.

"No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking to
the two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his arm
around Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.

Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was stronger
than he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the rear door of
the prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a seat inside,
just as Bill said: "So with the cut and all, we figured he ought to go
over to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the way, so we didn't
bother with ambulances."

The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "you
just call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?"

"Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he added
in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."

"So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The latest.
Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then, apparently
deciding that furthe