Rolly and I went back to my room, closing the connecting door. He said:

“Tch, tch, tch. I’d of thought Mrs. Herman was the last person in the world to—”

“You ought to’ve,” I grumbled. “You recommended her. Who is she?”

“She’s Tod Herman’s wife. He’s got the garage. She used to be a trained nurse before she married Tod. I thought she was all right.”

“She got a nephew in Vallejo?”

“Uh-huh; that would be the Schultz kid that works at Mare Island. How do you suppose she come to get mixed up in—?”

“Probably didn’t, or she would have had the writing paper she went after. Put somebody here to keep people out till we can borrow a San Francisco bomb-expert to look it over.”

The deputy called one of the men in from the corridor, and we left him looking important in the room. Mickey Linehan was in the lobby when we got there.

“Fink’s got a cracked skull. He’s on his way to the county hospital with the other wreck.”

“Fitzstephan dead yet?” I asked.

“Nope, and the doc thinks if they get him over where they got the right kind of implements they can keep him from dying. God knows what for—the shape he’s in! But that’s just the kind of stuff a croaker thinks is a lot of fun.”

“Was Aaronia Haldorn sprung with Fink?” I asked.

“Yes. Al Mason’s tailing her.”

“Call up the Old Man and see if Al’s reported anything on her. Tell the Old Man what’s happened here, and see if they’ve found Andrews.”

“Andrews?” Rolly asked as Mickey headed for the phone. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Nothing that I know of; only we haven’t been able to find him to tell him Mrs. Collinson has been rescued. His office hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning, and nobody will say they know where he is.”

“Tch, tch, tch. Is there any special reason for wanting him?”

“I don’t want her on my hands the rest of my life,” I said. “He’s in charge of her affairs, he’s responsible for her, and I want to turn her over to him.”

Rolly nodded vaguely.

We went outside and asked all the people we could find all the questions we could think of. None of the answers led anywhere, except to repeated assurance that the bomb hadn’t been chucked through the window. We found six people who had been in sight of that side of the hotel immediately before, and at the time of, the explosion; and none of them had seen anything that could be twisted into bearing on the bomb-throwing.

Mickey came away from the phone with the information that Aaronia Haldorn, when released from the city prison, had gone to the home of a family named Jeffries in San Mateo, and had been there ever since; and that Dick Foley, hunting for Andrews, had hopes of locating him in Sausalito.

District attorney Vernon and sheriff Feeney, with a horde of reporters and photographers close behind them, arrived from the county seat. They went through a lot of detecting motions that got them nowhere except on the front pages of all the San Francisco and Los Angeles papers—the place they liked best.

I had Gabrielle Collinson moved into another room in the hotel, and posted Mickey Linehan next door, with the connecting door unlocked. Gabrielle talked now, to Vernon, Feeney, Rolly, and me. What she said didn’t help us much. She had been asleep, she said; had been awakened by a terrible noise and a terrible jarring of her bed; and then I had come in. That was all she knew.

Late in the afternoon McCracken, a San Francisco police department bomb-expert, arrived. After examining all the fragments of this and that which he could sweep up, he gave us a preliminary verdict that the bomb had been a small one, of aluminum, charged with a low-grade nitroglycerine, and exploded by a crude friction device.

“Amateur or professional job?” I asked.

McCracken spit out loose shreds of tobacco—he was one of the men who chew their cigarettes—and said:

“I’d say it was made by a guy that knew his stuff, but had to work with what he could get his hands on. I’ll tell you more when I’ve worked this junk over in the lab.”

“No timer on it?” I asked.

“No signs of one.”

Doctor George returned from the county seat with the news that what was left of Fitzstephan still breathed. The doctor was tickled pink. I had to yell at him to make him hear my questions about Fink and Gabrielle. Then he told me Fink’s life wasn’t in danger, and the girl’s cold was enough better that she might get out of bed if she wished. I asked about her nerves, but he was in too much of a hurry to get back to Fitzstephan to pay much attention to anything else.

“Hm-m-m, yes, certainly,” he muttered, edging past me towards his car. “Quiet, rest, freedom from anxiety,” and he was gone.

I ate dinner with Vernon and Feeney in the hotel café that evening. They didn’t think I had told them all I knew about the bombing, and kept me on the witness stand throughout the meal, though neither of them accused me pointblank of holding out.

After dinner I went up to my new room. Mickey was sprawled on the bed reading a newspaper.

“Go feed yourself,” I said. “How’s our baby?”

“She’s up. How do you figure her—only fifty cards to her deck?”

“Why?” I asked. “What’s she been doing?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

“That’s from having an empty stomach. Better go eat.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. Continental,” he said and went out.

The next room was quiet. I listened at the door and then tapped it. Mrs. Herman’s voice said: “Come in.”

She was sitting beside the bed making gaudy butterflies on a piece of yellowish cloth stretched on hoops. Gabrielle Collinson sat in a rocking chair on the other side of the room, frowning at hands clasped in her lap—clasped hard enough to whiten the knuckles and spread the finger-ends. She had on the tweed clothes in which she had been kidnapped. They were still rumpled, but had been brushed clean of mud. She didn’t look up when I came in. The nurse did, pushing her freckles together in an uneasy smile.

“Good evening,” I said, trying to make a cheerful entrance. “Looks like we’re running out of invalids.”

That brought no response from the girl, too much from the nurse.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Herman exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm. “We can’t call Mrs. Collinson an invalid now—now that she’s up and about—and I’m almost sorry that she is—he-he-he—because I certainly never did have such a nice patient in every way; but that’s what we girls used to say at the hospital when we were in training: the nicer the patient was, the shorter the time we’d have him, while you take a disagreeable one and she’d live—I mean, be there—forever and a day, it seems like. I remember once when—”

I made a face at her and wagged my head at the door. She let the rest of her words die inside her open mouth. Her face turned red, then white. She dropped her embroidery and got up, saying idiotically: “Yes, yes, that’s the way it always is. Well, I’ve got to go see about those—you know—what do you call them. Pardon me for a few minutes, please.” She went out quickly, sidewise, as if afraid I’d sneak up behind her and kick her.

When the door had closed, Gabrielle looked up from her hands and said:

“Owen is dead.”

She didn’t ask, she said it; but there was no way of treating it except as a question.

“No.” I sat down in the nurse’s chair and fished out cigarettes. “He’s alive.”

“Will he live?” Her voice was still husky from her cold.

“The doctors think so,” I exaggerated.

“If he lives, will he—?” She left the question unfinished, but her husky voice seemed impersonal enough.

“He’ll be pretty badly maimed.”

She spoke more to herself than to me:

“That should be even more satisfactory.”

I grinned. If I was as good an actor as I thought, there was nothing in the grin but good-humored amusement.

“Laugh,” she said gravely. “I wish you could laugh it away. But you can’t. It’s there. It will always be there.” She looked down at her hands and whispered: “Cursed.”

Spoken in any other tone, that last word would have been melodramatic, ridiculously stagey. But she said it automatically, without any feeling, as if saying it had become a habit. I could see her lying in bed in the dark, whispering it to herself hour after hour, whispering it to her body when she put on her clothes, to her face reflected in mirrors, day after day.

I squirmed in my chair and growled:

“Stop it. Just because a bad-tempered woman works off her hatred and rage in a ten-twenty-thirty speech about—”

“No, no; my step-mother merely put in words what I have always known. I hadn’t known it was in the Dain blood, but I knew it was in mine. How could I help knowing? Hadn’t I the physical marks of degeneracy?” She crossed the room to stand in front of me, turning her head sidewise, holding back her curls with both hands. “Look at my ears—without lobes, pointed tops. People don’t have ears like that. Animals do.” She turned her face to me again, still holding back her hair. “Look at my forehead—its smallness, its shape—animal. My teeth.” She bared them—white, small, pointed. “The shape of my face.” Her hands left her hair and slid down her cheeks, coming together under her oddly pointed small chin.

“Is that all?” I asked. “Haven’t you got cloven hoofs? All right. Say these things are as peculiar as you seem to think they are. What of it? Your step-mother was a Dain, and she was poison, but where were her physical marks of degeneracy? Wasn’t she as normal, as wholesome-looking as any woman you’re likely to find?”

“But that’s no answer.” She shook her head impatiently. “She didn’t have the physical marks perhaps. I have, and the mental ones too. I—” She sat down on the side of the bed close to me, elbows on knees, tortured white face between hands. “I’ve not ever been able to think clearly, as other people do, even the simplest thoughts. Everything is always so confused in my mind. No matter what I try to think about, there’s a fog that gets between me and it, and other thoughts get between us, so I barely catch a glimpse of the thought I want before I lose it again, and have to hunt through the fog, and at last find it, only to have the same thing happen again and again and again. Can you understand how horrible that can become: going through life like that—year after year—knowing you will always be like that—or worse?”

“I can’t,” I said. “It sounds normal as hell to me. Nobody thinks clearly, no matter what they pretend. Thinking’s a dizzy business, a matter of catching as many of those foggy glimpses as you can and fitting them together the best you can. That’s why people hang on so tight to their beliefs and opinions; because, compared to the haphazard way in which they’re arrived at, even the goofiest opinion seems wonderfully clear, sane, and self-evident. And if you let it get away from you, then you’ve got to dive back into that foggy muddle to wangle yourself out another to take its place.”

She took her face out of her hands and smiled shyly at me, saying:

“It’s funny I didn’t like you before.” Her face became serious again. “But—”

“But nothing,” I said. “You’re old enough to know that everybody except very crazy people and very stupid people suspect themselves now and then—or whenever they happen to think about it—of not being exactly sane. Evidence of goofiness is easily found: the more you dig into yourself, the more you turn up. Nobody’s mind could stand the sort of examination you’ve been giving yours. Going around trying to prove yourself cuckoo! It’s a wonder you haven’t driven yourself nuts.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“No. Take my word for it, you’re sane. Or don’t take my word for it. Look. You got a hell of a start in life. You got into bad hands at the very beginning. Your step-mother was plain poison, and did her best to ruin you, and in the end succeeded in convincing you that you were smeared with a very special family curse. In the past couple of months—the time I’ve known you—all the calamities known to man have been piled up on you, and your belief in your curse has made you hold yourself responsible for every item in the pile. All right. How’s it affected you? You’ve been dazed a lot of the time, hysterical part of the time, and when your husband was killed you tried to kill yourself, but weren’t unbalanced enough to face the shock of the bullet tearing through your flesh.

“Well, good God, sister! I’m only a hired man with only a hired man’s interest in your troubles, and some of them have had me groggy. Didn’t I try to bite a ghost back in that Temple? And I’m supposed to be old and toughened to crime. This morning—after all you’d been through—somebody touches off a package of nitroglycerine almost beside your bed. Here you are this evening, up and dressed, arguing with me about your sanity.

“If you aren’t normal, it’s because you’re tougher, saner, cooler than normal. Stop thinking about your Dain blood and think about the Mayenne blood in you. Where do you suppose you got your toughness, except from him? It’s the same toughness that carried him through Devil’s Island, Central America, and Mexico, and kept him standing up till the end. You’re more like him than like the one Dain I saw. Physically, you take after your father, and if you’ve got any physical marks of degeneracy—whatever that means—you got them from him.”

She seemed to like that. Her eyes were almost happy. But I had talked myself out of words for the moment, and while I was hunting for more behind a cigarette the shine went out of her eyes.

“I’m glad—I’m grateful to you for what you’ve said, if you’ve meant it.” Hopelessness was in her tone again, and her face was back between her hands. “But, whatever I am, she was right. You can’t say she wasn’t. You can’t deny that my life has been cursed, blackened, and the lives of everyone who’s touched me.”

“I’m one answer to that,” I said. “I’ve been around you a lot recently, and I’ve mixed into your affairs enough, and nothing’s happened to me that a night’s sleep wouldn’t fix up.”

“But in a different way,” she protested slowly, wrinkling her forehead. “There’s no personal relationship with you. It’s professional with you—your work. That makes a difference.”

I laughed and said:

“That won’t do. There’s Fitzstephan. He knew your family, of course, but he was here through me, on my account, and was actually, then, a step further removed from you than I. Why shouldn’t I have gone down first? Maybe the bomb was meant for me? Maybe. But that brings us to a human mind behind it—one that can bungle—and not your infallible curse.”

“You are mistaken,” she said, staring at her knees. “Owen loved me.”

I decided not to appear surprised. I asked:

“Had you—?”

“No, please! Please don’t ask me to talk about it. Not now—after what happened this morning.” She jerked her shoulders up high and straight, said crisply: “You said something about an infallible curse. I don’t know whether you misunderstand me, or are pretending to, to make me seem foolish. But I don’t believe in an infallible curse, one coming from the devil or God, like Job’s, say.” She was earnest now, no longer talking to change the conversation. “But can’t there be—aren’t there people who are so thoroughly—fundamentally—evil that they poison—bring out the worst in—everybody they touch? And can’t that—?”

“There are people who can,” I half-agreed, “when they want to.”

“No, no! Whether they want to or not. When they desperately don’t want to. It is so. It is. I loved Eric because he was clean and fine. You know he was. You knew him well enough, and you know men well enough, to know he was. I loved him that way, wanted him that way. And then, when we were married—”

She shuddered and gave me both of her hands. The palms were dry and hot, the ends of her fingers cold. I had to hold them tight to keep the nails out of my flesh. I asked:

“You were a virgin when you married him?”

“Yes, I was. I am. I—”

“It’s nothing to get excited about,” I said. “You are, and have the usual silly notions. And you use dope, don’t you?”

She nodded. I went on:

“That would cut your own interest in sex to below normal, so that a perfectly natural interest in it on somebody else’s part would seem abnormal. Eric was too young, too much in love with you, maybe too inexperienced, to keep from being clumsy. You can’t make anything horrible out of that.”

“But it wasn’t only Eric,” she explained. “Every man I’ve known. Don’t think me conceited. I know I’m not beautiful. But I don’t want to be evil. I don’t. Why do men—? Why have all the men I’ve—?”

“Are you,” I asked, “talking about me?”

“No—you know I’m not. Don’t make fun of me, please.”

“Then there are exceptions? Any others? Madison Andrews, for instance?”

“If you know him at all well, or have heard much about him, you don’t have to ask that.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you can’t blame the curse with him—it’s habit. Was he very bad?”

“He was very funny,” she said bitterly.

“How long ago was it?”

“Oh, possibly a year and a half. I didn’t say anything to my father and step-mother. I was—I was ashamed that men were like that to me, and that—”

“How do you know,” I grumbled, “that most men aren’t like that to most women? What makes you think your case is so damned unique? If your ears were sharp enough, you could listen now and hear a thousand women in San Francisco making the same complaint, and—God knows—maybe half of them would be thinking themselves sincere.”

She took her hands away from me and sat up straight on the bed. Some pink came into her face.

“Now you have made me feel silly,” she said.

“Not much sillier than I do. I’m supposed to be a detective. Since this job began, I’ve been riding around on a merry-go-round, staying the same distance behind your curse, suspecting what it’d look like if I could get face to face with it, but never getting there. I will now. Can you stand another week or two?”

“You mean—?”

“I’m going to show you that your curse is a lot of hooey, but it’ll take a few days, maybe a couple of weeks.”

She was round-eyed and trembling, wanting to believe me, afraid to. I said:

“That’s settled. What are you going to do now?”

“I—I don’t know. Do you mean what you’ve said? That this can be ended? That I’ll have no more—? That you can—?”

“Yeah. Could you go back to the house in the cove for a while? It might help things along, and you’ll be safe enough there. We could take Mrs. Herman with us, and maybe an op or two.”

“I’ll go,” she said.

I looked at my watch and stood up saying:

“Better go back to bed. We’ll move down tomorrow. Good night.”

She chewed her lower lip, wanting to say something, not wanting to say it, finally blurting it out:

“I’ll have to have morphine down there.”

“Sure. What’s your day’s ration?”

“Five—ten grains.”

“That’s mild enough,” I said, and then, casually: “Do you like using the stuff?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for my liking or not liking it to matter.”

“You’ve been reading the Hearst papers,” I said. “If you want to break off, and we’ve a few days to spare down there, we’ll use them weaning you. It’s not so tough.”

She laughed shakily, with a queer twitching of her mouth.

“Go away,” she cried. “Don’t give me any more assurances, any more of your promises, please. I can’t stand any more tonight. I’m drunk on them now. Please go away.”

“All right. Night.”

“Good night—and thanks.”

I went into my room, closing the door. Mickey was unscrewing the top of a flask. His knees were dusty. He turned his half-wit’s grin on me and said:

“What a swell dish you are. What are you trying to do? Win yourself a home?”

“Sh-h-h. Anything new?”

“The master minds have gone back to the county seat. The red-head nurse was getting a load at the keyhole when I came back from feeding. I chased her.”

“And took her place?” I asked, nodding at his dusty knees.

You couldn’t embarrass Mickey. He said:

“Hell, no. She was at the other door, in the hall.”