"I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately remembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain had softened to agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting pretty tired of sitting around waiting for something to break on this case," he said, "and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I ended up in Greenwich Village—which is no place for a self-respecting man to end up."
"I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, they call themselves. Crazy people."
"Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost." Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the world to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused in Washington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He could find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.
It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon. The Village had tracks, all right—thousands of tracks. Only none of them led anywhere in particular.
"Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."
The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill started to say: "But there isn't any—"
"I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."
"You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.
"For all I 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."