Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald-headed man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the bar for something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for umbrellas," he said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten umbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people lose so many umbrellas?"
"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.
"I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist—you know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against the fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by—"
Malone said good-bye in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl, the Mexican bar on 46th Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.
"Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you."
"Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?"
"Notesbook?" the bartender said.
"A little black plastic book," Malone said, making motions, "about so big. And it—"
"Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"
"Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean it. Would I be looking for it if I hadn't lost it?"