"Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours then. I'll look everything over and if we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let you know as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone. Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately: "Mind telling me what all this is for?" Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did answer it was in his softest and most friendly tones: "I'd rather not say just now, John Henry." "But Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw set just a trifle. "If you--" Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a bit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any fireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said gently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is classified information--it's not my fault." Fernack said: "But--" and apparently realized that argument was not going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll have it for you as soon as possible." "Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later." "Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the controversy just once more. But all he said was: "So long, Malone." * * * * * Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner Fernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of duty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward. Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a medal, if possible." "What?" the bartender said. "A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach." The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he said. "Sleep it off." New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his drink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more or less weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't much care for the stuff--and even in Washington, people didn't go around accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless little pleasantry. Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon sunlight. He considered the itinerary of the Magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told his mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to send her money. Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone thought he was beginning to realize just _how_ easy. Houdini had once boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, that was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out or keep him in. But he was going to leave home.