Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime wave: Banks, for one." "Malone!" "Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homes with wall safes--though that's not quite accurate. The homes may have been robbed, but the safes won't have been touched." "Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said. "I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits the following description is safe: It's got a secure lock on it, and it's too small for a human being to get into." Fernack opened his mouth, shut it and stared downward, obviously scanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waited patiently for the explosion--but it never came. Instead, Fernack said: "You know, Malone, you remind me of an old friend of mine." "Really?" Malone said pleasantly. "You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference. You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference." "It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent the allegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that's neither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, what are the similarities?" Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voice was as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up with the damnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or even cared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things that don't have any explanations. And--" He stopped, his face dark in the screen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decided on purple as a good choice. "Well?" Malone said at last. "And you're always so right it makes me sick," Fernack finished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into the screen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said. Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker on the screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly: "I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports to me personally, at Sixty-ninth Street. By messenger. So long." He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone--" * * * * * With a satisfied, somewhat sheepish smile, Malone dialed another number. This time a desk sergeant told him politely that Lynch wasn't at the precinct, and wouldn't arrive until noon. Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it. It was a long wait before the lieutenant answered, and he didn't look much like a police officer when his face finally showed up on the screen. His hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. His eyes were slightly bleary, but he was definitely awake. "Oh," Malone said. "Hello." "Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy. Old pal. Old friend." "What's wrong?" Malone said.