"Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater long enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water spaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking about impossibilities. Hell of a strange-looking beast. And then there was the time—"
"About the notebook," Malone said.
"Notebook?" the old man said.
"I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that—"
"Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again.
Malone heaved a great sigh. "Black plastic," he said. "About so big."
He made motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the
first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter
Lynch."
"Who's he?" the old man said.
"He's a cop," Malone said.
"My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it and all. You a cop, youngster?"
Malone shook his head.