Malone stared. "All the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.
"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of the time the extra stock's gone, too, from the basement or wherever they happen to keep it."
"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.
"Quite a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not being insured against the losses."
The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor—millions of bottles—went through Malone's mind like an icepick. He could almost see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a dog."
"What did you say, Malone?"
"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars were robbed? Nothing else?"
"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you asking me to tell you this?"
"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.
"I still think—" Fernack began, and then said: "Never mind. But it hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring shops. Jewelers. Malone, you name it, and it's been hit."