“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.”