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.