Dorothea had the notebook. Malone tried to see himself barging in on her and asking for it, and he didn't care for the picture at all--no matter how Good Queen Bess felt about it. After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid. So what did she know? He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apartment, talking to Dorothea. "Dorothea," he muttered. "You filched my notebook." That didn't sound very effective. And besides, it wasn't really his notebook. He tried again. "Dorothea, you pinched your brother's notebook." Now, for some reason, it sounded like something covered by the Vice Squad. It sounded terrible. But there were other ways of saying the same thing. "Dorothea," he muttered, "you borrowed your brother's notebook." That was too patronizing. Malone told himself that he sounded like a character straight out of the 3-D screens, and settled himself gamely for another try. "Dorothea, you _have_ your brother's notebook." To which the obvious answer was: "Yes, I do, and so what?" Or, possibly: "How do you know?" And Malone thought about answering that one. "Queen Elizabeth told me," was the literal truth, but somehow it didn't sound like it. And he couldn't find another answer to give the girl. "Dorothea," he said, and a voice from nowhere added: "Will you have another drink?" Malone exploded, "That's not the question. Drinks have nothing to do with notebooks. I'm after notebooks. Can't you understand--" Belatedly, he looked up. There was Ray, the barman. "Oh," he said. "I just came over," Ray said. "And I figured if you couldn't find your notebook, maybe you'd like a drink. So long as you're here." "Ray," Malone said with feeling, "you are an eminently reasonable fellow. I accept your solution. Nay, more. I endorse your solution. Wholeheartedly." Ray went off to mix, and Malone stared after him happily. This was really a nice place, he reflected--almost as nice as the City Hall Bar in Chicago where he'd gone long ago with his father. But he tore his mind away from the happy past and concentrated, instead, on the miserable present. He decided for the last time that he was not going to ask Dorothea for the book--not just yet, anyhow. After all, it wasn't as if he needed the book; he knew his own name, and he knew Lynch's name, and he knew the names on the second page. And he didn't see any particular need for a picture of a red Cadillac, no matter how nicely colored it was. So, he asked himself, why embarrass everybody by trying to get it back? Of course, it _was_ technically a crime to pick pockets, and that went double or triple for the pockets of FBI agents. But Malone told himself that he didn't feel like pressing charges, anyhow. And Dorothy probably didn't make a habit of pocket-picking. He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of six. Now, he knew what his next move was going to be. He was going to go back to his hotel and change his clothes.