"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 cafй 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, Cabrielle 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: