At the waterfront we changed from the cars to a green and white motor boat run by a pink-cheeked, tow-headed youngster called Tim. Tim said he didn't know anything about any bootleggers' hiding places below Dull Point, but if there was one there he could find it. In his hands the boat produced a lot of speed, but not enough for Feeney and Cotton. They stood together in the bow, guns in their fists, dividing their time between straining forward and yelling back for more speed.
Half an hour from the dock, we rounded a blunt promontory that the others called Dull Point, and Tim cut down our speed, putting the boat in closer to the rocks that jumped up high and sharp at the water's edge. We were now all eyes-eyes that soon ached from staring under the noon sun but kept on staring. Twice we saw clefts in the rock-walled shore, pushed hopefully in to them, saw that they were blind, leading nowhere, opening into no hiding-places.
The third cleft was even more hopeless-looking at first sight, but, now that Dull Point was some distance behind us, we couldn't pass up anything. We slid in to the cleft, got close enough to decide that it was another blind one, gave it up, and told Tim to go on. We were washed another couple of feet nearer before the tow-headed boy could bring the boat around.
Cotton, in the bow, bent forward from the waist and yelled:
"Here it is."
He pointed his gun at one side of the cleft. Tim let the boat drift in another foot or so. Craning our necks, we could see that what we had taken for the shore-line on that side was actually a high, thin, saw-toothed ledge of rock, separated from the cliff at this end by twenty feet of water.
"Put her in," Feeney ordered.
Tim frowned at the water, hesitated, said: "She can't make it."
The boat backed him up by shuddering suddenly under our feet, with an unpleasant rasping noise.
"That be damned!" the sheriff bawled. "Put her in."
Tim took a look at the sheriff's wild face, and put her in.
The boat shuddered under our feet again, more violently, and now there was a tearing sound in with the rasping, but we went through the opening and turned down behind the saw-tooth ledge.
We were in a v-shaped pocket, twenty feet wide where we had come in, say eighty feet long, high-walled, inaccessible by land, accessible by sea only as we had come. The water that floated us-and was coming in rapidly to sink us-ran a third of the way down the pocket. White sand paved the other two thirds. A small boat was resting its nose on the edge of the sand. It was empty. Nobody was in sight. There didn't seem to be anywhere for anybody to hide. There were footprints, large and small, in the sand, empty tin cans, and the remains of a fire.
"Harve's," Rolly said, nodding at the boat.
Our boat grounded beside it. We jumped, splashed, ashore-Cotton ahead, the others spread out behind him.
As suddenly as if he had sprung out of the air, Harvey Whidden appeared in the far end of the v, standing in the sand, a rifle in his hands. Anger and utter astonishment were mixed in his heavy face, and in his voice when he yelled:
"You God-damned double-crossing-" The noise his rifle made blotted out the rest of his words.
Cotton had thrown himself down sideways. The rifle bullet missed him by inches, sang between Fitzstephan and me, nicking his hat-brim, and splattered on the rocks behind. Four of our guns went off together, some more than once.
Whidden went over backwards, his feet flying in the air. He was dead when we got to him-three bullets in his chest, one in his head.
We found Gabrielle Collinson cowering back in the corner of a narrow-mouthed hole in the rock wall-a long triangular cave whose mouth had been hidden from our view by the slant at which it was set. There were blankets in there, spread over a pile of dried seaweed, some canned goods, a lantern, and another rifle.
The girl's small face was flushed and feverish, and her voice was hoarse: she had a cold in her chest. She was too frightened at first to tell us anything coherent, and apparently recognized neither Fitzstephan nor me.
The boat we had come in was out of commission. Whidden's boat couldn't be trusted to carry more than three with safety through the surf. Tim and Rolly set off for Quesada in it, to get us a larger vessel. It was an hour-and-a-half's round trip. While they were gone we worked on the girl, soothing her, assuring her that she was among friends, that there was nothing to be afraid of now. Her eyes gradually became less scary, her breathing easier, and her nails less tightly pressed into her palms. At the end of an hour she was answering our questions.
She said she knew nothing of Whidden's attempt to kidnap her Thursday night, nothing of the telegram Eric had sent me. She sat up all Friday night waiting for him to return from his walk, and at daylight, frantic at his failure to return, had gone to look for him. She found him-as I had. Then she went back to the house and tried to commit suicide-to put an end to the curse by shooting herself.
"I tried twice," she whispered; "but I couldn't. I couldn't. I was too much a coward. I couldn't keep the pistol pointing at myself while I did it. I tried the first time to shoot myself in the temple, and then in the breast; but I hadn't the courage. Each time I jerked it away just before I fired. And after the second time I couldn't even get courage to try again."
She changed her clothes then-evening clothes, now muddy and torn from her search-and drove away from the house. She didn't say where she had intended going. She didn't seem to know. Probably she hadn't had any destination-was simply going away from the place where the curse had settled on her husband.
She hadn't driven far when she had seen a machine coming towards her, driven by the man who had brought her here. He had turned his car across the road in front of her, blocking the road. Trying to avoid hitting his car, she had run into a tree-and hadn't known anything else until she had awakened in the cave. She had been here since then. The man had left her here alone most of the time. She had neither strength nor courage to escape by swimming, and there was no other way out.
The man had told her nothing, had asked her nothing, had addressed no words to her except to say, "Here's some food," or, "Till I bring you some water, you'll have to get along on canned tomatoes when you're thirsty," or other things of that sort. She never remembered having seen him before. She didn't know his name. He was the only man she had seen since her husband's death.
"What did he call you?" I asked. "Mrs. Carter? Or Mrs. Collinson?"
She frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head, saying:
"I don't think he ever called me by name. He never spoke unless he had to, and he wasn't here very much. I was usually alone."
"How long had he been here this time?"
"Since before daylight. The noise of his boat woke me up."
"Sure? This is important. Are you sure he's been here since daylight?"
"Yes."
I was sitting on my heels in front of her. Cotton was standing on my left, beside the sheriff. I looked up at the marshal and said:
"That puts it up to you, Cotton. Your wife was still warm when we saw her-after eleven."
He goggled at me, stammering: "Wh-what's that you say?"
On the other side of me I heard Vernon's teeth click together sharply.
I said:
"Your wife was afraid Whidden would kill her, and wrote that statement. But he didn't kill her. He's been here since daylight. You found the statement, learned from it that they had been too friendly. Well, what did you do then?"
"That's a lie," he cried. "There ain't a word of truth in it. She was dead there when I found her. I never-"
"You killed her," Vernon barked at him over my head. "You choked her, counting on that statement to throw suspicion on Whidden."
"That's a lie," the marshal cried again, and made the mistake of trying to get his gun out.
Feeney slugged him, dropping him, and had handcuffs on his wrists before he could get up again.
XVIII.The Pineapple
"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.