“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It’s dizzy. When we grab our man—or woman—we’re going to find it’s a goof, and Napa will get it instead of the gallows.”

“That,” Owen Fitzstephan said, “is characteristic of you. You’re stumped, bewildered, flabbergasted. Do you admit you’ve met your master, have run into a criminal too wily for you? Not you. He’s outwitted you: therefore he’s an idiot or a lunatic. Now really. Of course there’s a certain unexpected modesty to that attitude.”

“But he’s got to be goofy,” I insisted. “Look: Mayenne marries—”

“Are you,” he asked disgustedly, “going to recite that catalogue again?”

“You’ve got a flighty mind. That’s no good in this business. You don’t catch murderers by amusing yourself with interesting thoughts. You’ve got to sit down to all the facts you can get and turn them over and over till they click.”

“If that’s your technic, you’ll have to put up with it,” he said; “but I’m damned if I see why I should suffer. You recited the Mayenne-Leggett-Collinson history step by step last night at least half a dozen times. You’ve done nothing else since breakfast this morning. I’m getting enough of it. Nobody’s mysteries ought to be as tiresome as you’re making this one.”

“Hell,” I said; “I sat up half the night after you went to bed and recited it to myself. You got to turn them over and over, my boy, till they click.”

“I like the Nick Carter school better. Aren’t you even threatened with any of the conclusions that this turning-them-over-and-over is supposed to lead to?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one. It’s that Vernon and Feeney are wrong in thinking that Cotton was working with Whidden on the kidnapping, and double-crossed him. According to them, Cotton thought up the plan and persuaded Whidden to do the rough stuff while the marshal used his official position to cover him up. Collinson stumbled on the plan and was killed. Then Cotton made his wife write that statement—it’s phony, right enough, was dictated to her—killed her, and led us to Whidden. Cotton was the first man ashore when we got to the hiding-place—to make sure Whidden was killed resisting arrest before he could talk.”

Fitzstephan ran long fingers through his sorrel hair and asked:

“Don’t you think jealousy would have given Cotton motive enough?”

“Yeah. But where’s Whidden’s motive for putting himself in Cotton’s hands? Besides, where does that layout fit in with the Temple racket?”

“Are you sure,” Fitzstephan asked, “that you’re right in thinking there must be a connection?”

“Yeah. Gabrielle’s father, step-mother, physician, and husband have been slaughtered in less than a handful of weeks—all the people closest to her. That’s enough to tie it all together for me. If you want more links, I can point them out to you. Upton and Ruppert were the apparent instigators of the first trouble, and got killed. Haldorn of the second, and got killed. Whidden of the third, and got killed. Mrs. Leggett killed her husband; Cotton apparently killed his wife; and Haldorn would have killed his if I hadn’t blocked him. Gabrielle, as a child, was made to kill her mother; Gabrielle’s maid was made to kill Riese, and nearly me. Leggett left behind him a statement explaining—not altogether satisfactorily—everything, and was killed. So did and was Mrs. Cotton. Call any of these pairs coincidences. Call any couple of pairs coincidences. You’ll still have enough left to point at somebody who’s got a system he likes, and sticks to it.”

Fitzstephan squinted thoughtfully at me, agreeing:

“There may be something in that. It does, as you put it, look like the work of one mind.”

“And a goofy one.”

“Be obstinate about it,” he said. “But even your goof must have a motive.”

“Why?”

“Damn your sort of mind,” he said with good-natured impatience. “If he had no motive connected with Gabrielle, why should his crimes be connected with her?”

“We don’t know that all of them are,” I pointed out. “We only know of the ones that are.”

He grinned and said:

“You’ll go any distance to disagree, won’t you?”

I said:

“Then again, maybe the goof’s crimes are connected with Gabrielle because he is.”

Fitzstephan let his gray eyes go sleepy over that, pursing his mouth, looking at the door closed between my room and Gabrielle’s.

“All right,” he said, looking at me again. “Who’s your maniac close to Gabrielle?”

“The closest and goofiest person to Gabrielle is Gabrielle herself.”

Fitzstephan got up and crossed the hotel room—I was sitting on the edge of the bed—to shake my hand with solemn enthusiasm.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “You amaze me. Ever have night sweats? Put out your tongue and say, ‘Ah.’ ”

“Suppose,” I began, but was interrupted by a feeble tapping on the corridor door.

I went to the door and opened it. A thin man of my own age and height in wrinkled black clothes stood in the corridor. He was breathing heavily through a red-veined nose, and his small brown eyes were timid.

“You know me,” he said apologetically.

“Yeah. Come in.” I introduced him to Fitzstephan: “This is the Tom Fink who was one of Haldorn’s helpers in the Temple of the Holy Grail.”

Fink looked reproachfully at me, then dragged his crumpled hat from his head and crossed the room to shake Fitzstephan’s hand. That done, he returned to me and said, almost whispering:

“I come down to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

He fidgeted, turning his hat around and around in his hands. I winked at Fitzstephan and went out with Fink. In the corridor, I closed the door and stopped, saying: “Let’s have it.”

Fink rubbed his lips with his tongue and then with the back of one scrawny hand. He said, in his half-whisper:

“I come down to tell you something I thought you ought to know.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s about this fellow Whidden that was killed.”

“Yeah?”

“He was—”

The door to my room split open. Floors, walls, and ceiling wriggled under, around, and over us. There was too much noise to be heard—a roar that was felt bodily. Tom Fink was carried away from me, backward. I had sense enough to throw myself down as I was blown in the opposite direction, and got nothing worse out of it than a bruised shoulder when I hit the wall. A door-frame stopped Fink, wickedly, its edge catching the back of his head. He came forward again, folding over to lie face-down on the floor, still except for blood running from his head.

I got up and made for my room. Fitzstephan was a mangled pile of flesh and clothing in the center of the floor. My bed was burning. There was neither glass nor wire netting left in the window. I saw these things mechanically as I staggered toward Gabrielle’s room. The connecting door was open—perhaps blown open.

She was crouching on all fours in bed, facing the foot, her feet on the pillows. Her nightdress was torn at one shoulder. Her green-brown eyes—glittering under brown curls that had tumbled down to hide her forehead—were the eyes of an animal gone trap-crazy. Saliva glistened on her pointed chin. There was nobody else in the room.

“Where’s the nurse?” My voice was choked.

The girl said nothing. Her eyes kept their crazy terror focused on me.

“Get under the covers,” I ordered. “Want to get pneumonia?”

She didn’t move. I walked around to the side of the bed, lifting an end of the covers with one hand, reaching out the other to help her, saying:

“Come on, get inside.”

She made a queer noise deep in her chest, dropped her head, and put her sharp teeth into the back of my hand. It hurt. I put her under the covers, returned to my room, and was pushing my burning mattress through the window when people began to arrive.

“Get a doctor,” I called to the first of them; “and stay out of here.”

I had got rid of the mattress by the time Mickey Linehan pushed through the crowd that was now filling the corridor. Mickey blinked at what was left of Fitzstephan, at me, and asked:

“What the hell?”

His big loose mouth sagged at the ends, looking like a grin turned upside down.

I licked burnt fingers and asked unpleasantly:

“What the hell does it look like?”

“More trouble, sure.” The grin turned right side up on his red face. “Sure—you’re here.”

Ben Rolly came in. “Tch, tch, tch,” he said, looking around. “What do you suppose happened?”

“Pineapple,” I said.

“Tch, tch, tch.”

Doctor George came in and knelt beside the wreck of Fitzstephan. George had been Gabrielle’s physician since her return from the cave the previous day. He was a short, chunky, middle-aged man with a lot of black hair everywhere except on his lips, cheeks, chin, and nose-bridge. His hairy hands moved over Fitzstephan.

“What’s Fink been doing?” I asked Mickey.

“Hardly any. I got on his tail when they sprung him yesterday noon. He went from the hoosegow to a hotel on Kearny Street and got himself a room. He spent most of the afternoon in the Public Library, reading the newspaper files on the girl’s troubles, from beginning to date. He ate after that, and went back to the hotel. He could have back-doored me. If he didn’t, he camped in his room all night. It was dark at midnight when I knocked off so I could be on the job again at six a. m. He showed at seven-something, got breakfast, and grabbed a rattler for Poston, changed to the stage for here, and came straight to the hotel, asking for you. That’s the crop.”

“Damn my soul!” the kneeling doctor exclaimed. “The man’s not dead.”

I didn’t believe him. Fitzstephan’s right arm was gone, and most of his right leg. His body was too twisted to see what was left of it, but there was only one side to his face. I said:

“There’s another one out in the hall, with his head knocked in.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” the doctor muttered without looking up. “But this one—well, damn my soul!”

He scrambled to his feet and began ordering this and that. He was excited. A couple of men came in from the corridor. The woman who had been nursing Gabrielle Collinson—a Mrs. Herman—joined them, and another man with a blanket. They took Fitzstephan away.

“That fellow out in the hall Fink?” Rolly asked.

“Yeah.” I told him what Fink had told me, adding: “He hadn’t finished when the blow-up came.”

“Suppose the bomb was meant for him, meant to keep him from finishing?”

Mickey said: “Nobody followed him down from the city, except me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Better see what they’re doing with him, Mick.”

Mickey went out.

“This window was closed,” I told Rolly. “There was no noise as of something being thrown through the glass just before the explosion; and there’s no broken window-glass inside the room. The screen was over it, too, so we can say the pineapple wasn’t chucked in through the window.”

Rolly nodded vaguely, looking at the door to Gabrielle’s room.

“Fink and I were in the corridor talking,” I went on. “I ran straight back through here to her room. Nobody could have got out of her room after the explosion without my seeing them—or hearing them. There wasn’t finger-snapping time between my losing sight of her corridor-door from the outside, and seeing it again from the inside. The screen over her window is still O K.”

“Mrs. Herman wasn’t in there with her?” Rolly asked.

“She was supposed to be, but wasn’t. We’ll find out about that. There’s no use thinking Mrs. Collinson chucked the bomb. She’s been in bed since we brought her back from Dull Point yesterday. She couldn’t have had the bomb planted there because she had no way of knowing that she was going to occupy the room. Nobody’s been in there since except you, Feeney, Vernon, the doctor, the nurse, and me.”

“I wasn’t going to say she had anything to do with it,” the deputy sheriff mumbled. “What does she say?”

“Nothing yet. We’ll try her now, though I doubt if it’ll get us much.”

It didn’t. Gabrielle lay in the middle of the bed, the covers gathered close to her chin as if she was prepared to duck down under them at the first alarm, and shook her head No to everything we asked, whether the answer fit or didn’t.

The nurse came in, a big-breasted, red-haired woman of forty-something with a face that seemed honest because it was homely, freckled, and blue-eyed. She swore on the Gideon Bible that she had been out of the room for less than five minutes, just going downstairs for some stationery, intending to write a letter to her nephew in Vallejo while her patient was sleeping; and that was the only time she had been out of the room all day. She had met nobody in the corridor, she said.

“You left the door unlocked?” I asked.

“Yes, so I wouldn’t be as likely to wake her when I came back.”

“Where’s the stationery you got?”

“I didn’t get it. I heard the explosion and ran back upstairs.” Fear came into her face, turning the freckles to ghastly spots. “You don’t think—!”

“Better look after Mrs. Collinson,” I said gruffly.