He had no chance to fire a third time. Opaka crashed into him and sent them both tumbling across the fissured surface of the ledge.
The blowhole spewed a roaring fountain of water just then, drenching them both in its downpour. They rolled over in a clinch, the luna coming up on top as foamy water swirled and tugged around them. But he was one-armed now; the bullet must have shattered bone in the other arm and rendered it useless. Even so, he was bull-strong and fending him off no easy task.
A thump to the side of the head rendered Quincannon briefly cockeyed. It also added fuel to his rage. He swore, bucked, heaved Opaka off him. Blinked his eyes clear. The Navy was still clutched tight in his hand; he cracked the luna on the cheek with the barrel, a blow that sent him reeling.
When Opaka stumbled upright he was close to the blowhole. In the tube below, the surf snarled and hissed and let loose another jet of foaming water. The boil of it coming out of the mouth-like opening churned up around the luna’s feet, caused him to lose his balance. He toppled over, sliding and splashing in the swirling backflow, clawing at the rock as he was pulled backward.
There was nothing Quincannon could do. An instant later, in a wild churning of arms and legs, Sam Opaka vanished into the blowhole.
21
Sabina
The subconscious mind was a problem-solving marvel. It kept right on functioning independently while the conscious mind was asleep, sorting through memory and supplying elusive answers to troubling questions. When Sabina awakened on Thursday morning, she knew what it was she had overlooked, or rather failed to recognize, in Gordon Pettibone’s study, and therefore the probable meaning of his dying words and the significance of RL462618359. Combined, they explained why the shooting had taken place in the study in the dead of night, and part of the motive for the crime.
But she needed to verify her suppositions before she acted on them, which meant another visit to the Pettibone house. She consulted the cameo watch she wore pinned at her bosom when dressed; it was not yet eight o’clock, early enough that Philip Oakes should not have left for Great Orient Import-Export, if in fact that was his intention today.
She dressed hurriedly, pocketed the two pieces of driftwood and the envelope containing the sliver of wood and line of letters and numbers, and left the guesthouse. Once again she took the shortcut across the Pettibone property, went around to the front of the house and rang the bell. She had to ring it twice more before Cheng opened the door.
“It’s urgent that I speak to Mr. Oakes,” she told him. “Is he here?”
Yes, he was. Apparently he hadn’t arisen yet. When she repeated the urgent need to speak with him, Cheng allowed her to enter the foyer and climbed the staircase to deliver the message.
She had to wait several minutes before Philip Oakes appeared, clad in a wine-red robe, his usually slicked-down sandy hair hastily combed. Eye bags and other sleep marks made him look even more dissipated. “What is it, Mrs. Quincannon? What is so urgent?”
“It’s imperative that I have another look inside the study.”
“Imperative? Imperative? Why?” His expression brightened. “Have you thought of something to prove my uncle’s death was accidental?”
Sabina said evasively, “We’ll discuss that at a later time. May I have that look?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He led her down the hallway to the study door. “Alone again, please,” she said then. “I won’t be more than a few minutes.”
“Very well. As you wish. I’ll be in the parlor.”
She spent no more than fifteen minutes inside the study. Suppositions verified.
In the parlor she said to Philip Oakes, “Now the police need to be summoned.”
“The police? The police?”
“Yes. Captain Jacobsen, if he is available.”
“... Ah! Then you do have proof!”
“I believe I do, but not of an accident. Your uncle, Mr. Oakes, was murdered.”
Captain Jacobsen was available, fortunately, and soon arrived in a police van with two uniformed officers, who waited for him outside. He wore the same clothing as the day before, the only difference being that his bow tie today was magenta, but his manner was more brusque than it had been in the Pritchards’ living room.
“I must say I am surprised that you involved yourself in this matter, Mrs. Quincannon.”
“I did so at Mr. Oakes’s request. And not because I expected to reach a conclusion other than yours.”
“But you did reach a different conclusion. According to the telephone call from Mr. Oakes, you contend his uncle’s death was neither suicide nor accident but a case of homicide.”
“With just cause.”
“Do you suspect who committed the crime and how it was done?”
“I do, and I believe I can prove it to your satisfaction.”
“If so,” he said, “I will bow to your superior detective skills.” There was no irony in the words. He seemed not at all resentful of the possibility of having made an incorrect diagnosis, or of being proven wrong by a woman. A rare breed of police officer, Captain Emil Jacobsen.
Philip Oakes and Earlene Thurmond were called for and the four of them gathered in the study. Oakes, dressed now in one of his dapper suits, was excited and eager, if still somewhat skeptical; he had tried unsuccessfully to talk Sabina into explaining while they waited. Miss Thurmond had not been told why the police were summoned — she had remained in her room until Captain Jacobsen’s arrival — but she had to have some idea. Though her demeanor was as phlegmatic as it had been the previous afternoon, there was tension in her movements, her rigid stance.
“You have the floor, Mrs. Quincannon,” the captain said. “Tell us why you believe Gordon Pettibone was murdered.”
“Murdered? Is that what this is all about?” Miss Thurmond’s exclamation was scornful. “The notion is preposterous. He was alone in here with the door and windows bolted.”
“One of the windows was not bolted,” Sabina said.
“That isn’t so, they both were. I told you yesterday that Mr. Oakes and I both checked them.”
Sabina went to the shutter-free window, the others at her heels. “Checked them how? By turning this bolt knob” — she put her fingers on it — “or simply giving the handles a tug? That was Mr. Pettibone’s method of checking the windows in the evenings, wasn’t it?”
“I never paid any attention. But I tell you the bolt on that window was in place when I tested it.”
“It was not in place when he was shot. The two halves were unbolted then, and had been for some time before and after the shooting.”
“That is impossible—”
“No, it isn’t. Unbolted, but held tightly shut by another means from outside.”
“What means?” Philip Oakes demanded. “What means?”
John, in Sabina’s place, would have seized the opportunity to indulge his flair for the dramatic and drawn out the explanation, but she had not been born with a theatrical “ham bone.” She believed in being direct and concise. She released the bolt, opened the two halves, and pointed out the mark on the sill. Then she told of the sliver of wood caught atop the one frame, took from her pocket the two wedge-shaped pieces of driftwood, held them up in the palm of her hand.
“The sliver came from this one,” she said, indicating the mark in the larger, blackened piece, “when it was inserted at the top joining of the two halves. The other piece was inserted at the bottom joining, and both were hidden from view in here by the width of the frames. Together they provided a tight temporary seal, one that passed the handle-tugging test.”