“Get out of here,” I snarled back at the Mexican woman.
She put a brown hand into the bosom of her dress and came a step into the room. Mickey Linehan came up behind her, pulled her back into the hall, and shut the door.
Between the high spots, Gabrielle lay on her back, panting, twitching, staring at the ceiling with hopeless suffering eyes. Sometimes her eyes closed, but the jerking of her body didn’t stop.
Rolly came down from Quesada that afternoon with word that Fitzstephan had come sufficiently alive to be questioned by Vernon. Fitzstephan had told the district attorney that he had not seen the bomb, had seen nothing to show when, where, and how it came into the room; but that he had an indistinct memory of hearing a tinkling, as of broken glass falling, and a thud on the floor close to him just after Fink and I had left the room.
I told Rolly to tell Vernon I’d try to get over to see him the next day, and to hang on to Fink. The deputy sheriff promised to deliver the message, and left. Mickey and I were standing on the porch. We didn’t have anything to say to each other, hadn’t all day. I was lighting a cigarette when the girl’s voice came from indoors. Mickey turned away, saying something with the name of God in it.
I scowled at him and asked angrily:
“Well, am I right or wrong?”
He glared back at me, said, “I’d a damned sight rather be wrong,” and walked away.
I cursed him and went inside. Mary Nunez, starting up the front stairs, retreated towards the kitchen when she saw me, walking backwards, her eyes watching me crazily. I cursed her and went upstairs to where I had left MacMan at the girl’s door. He wouldn’t look at me, so I made it unanimous by cursing him.
Gabrielle spent the balance of the afternoon shrieking, begging, and crying for morphine. That evening she made a complete confession:
“I told you I didn’t want to be evil,” she said, wadding the bedclothes in feverish hands. “That was a lie. I did. I’ve always wanted to, always have been. I wanted to do to you what I did to the others; but now I don’t want you: I want morphine. They won’t hang me: I know that. And I don’t care what else they do to me, if I get morphine.”
She laughed viciously and went on:
“You were right when you said I brought out the worst in men because I wanted to. I did want to; and I did–except, I failed with Doctor Riese, and with Eric. I don’t know what was the matter with them. But I failed with both of them, and in failing let them learn too much about me. And that’s why they were killed. Joseph drugged Doctor Riese, and I killed him myself, and then we made Minnie think she had. And I persuaded Joseph to kill Aaronia, and he would have done it–he would have done anything I asked–if you hadn’t interfered. I got Harvey to kill Eric for me. I was tied to Eric–legally–a good man who wanted to make a good woman of me.”
She laughed again, licking her lips.
“Harvey and I had to have money, and I couldn’t–I was too afraid of being suspected–get enough from Andrews; so we pretended I had been kidnapped, to get it that way. It was a shame you killed Harvey: he was a glorious beast. I had that bomb, had had it for months. I took it from father’s laboratory, when he was making some experiments for a moving picture company. It wasn’t very large, and I always carried it with me–just in case. I meant it for you in the hotel room. There was nothing between Owen and me–that was another lie–he didn’t love me. I meant it for you, because you were–because I was afraid you were getting at the truth. I was feverish, and when I heard two men go out, leaving one in your room, I was sure the one was you. I didn’t see that it was Owen till too late–till I had opened the door a little and thrown the bomb in. Now you’ve got what you want. Give me morphine. There’s no reason for your playing with me any longer. Give me morphine. You’ve succeeded. Have what I’ve told you written out: I’ll sign it. You can’t pretend now I’m worth curing, worth saving. Give me morphine.”