“No. Blisters, yes. Scared, yes. And mad as hell. But he’ll get along.
It’s too bad. We’ve pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but
we couldn’t make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy
stop playin’ with matches–only this wasn’t matches.”

“I’m glad he’s only a little bit scorched,” said Brink. He considered.
“Did he say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don’t
suppose he would.”

The detective stared.

“He didn’t. Say aren’t you curious about how he came to catch on fire?
Or what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected
burnin’ to start instead of his pants?”

Brink thought it over. Then he shook his head.

“No. I don’t think I’m curious.”

The detective looked at him long and hard.

“O.K.,” he said dourly. “But there’s something else. Day before
yesterday there was a car accident opposite here. Remember?”

“I wasn’t here at the time,” said Brink.

“There’s a car rolling along the street outside,” said the detective.
“There’s some hoods in it–guys who do dirty work for Big Jake Connors.
I can’t prove a thing, but it looks like they had ideas about this
place. About thirty yards up the street a sawed-off shotgun goes off.
Very peculiar. It sends a load of buckshot through a side window of your
place.”

Brink said with an air of surprise: “Oh! That must have been what broke
the window!”

“Yeah,” said Fitzgerald. “But the interesting thing is that the flash of
the shotgun burned all the hair off the head of the guy that was doin’
the drivin’. It didn’t scratch him, just scorched his hair off. It
scared him silly.”

Brink grinned faintly, but he said pleasantly: “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

“He jams down the accelerator and rams a telephone pole,” pursued
Fitzgerald. “There’s four hoods in that car, remember, and every one of
’em’s got a police record you could paper a house with. And they’ve got
four sawed-off shotguns and a tommy-gun in the back seat. They’re all
laid out cold when the cops arrive.”

“I was wondering about the window,” said Brink, pensively.

“It puzzles you, eh?” demanded the detective ironically. “Could you’ve
figured it out that they were goin’ to shoot up your plant to scare the
people who work for you so they’ll quit? Did you make a guess they
intended to drive you outta business like they did the guy that had this
place before you?”

“That’s an interesting theory,” said Brink encouragingly.

Detective Fitzgerald nodded.

“There’s one thing more,” he said formidably. “You got a delivery truck.
You keep it in a garage back yonder. Yesterday you sent it to a garage
for inspection of brakes an’ lights an’ such.”

“Yes,” said Brink. “I did. It’s not back yet. They were busy. They’ll
call me when it’s ready.”

Fitzgerald snorted.

“They’ll call you when the bomb squad gets through checkin’ it! When the
guys at the garage lifted the hood they started runnin’. Then they
hollered copper. There was a bomb in there!”

Brink seemed to try to look surprised. He only looked interested.

“Two sticks of dynamite,” the detective told him grimly, “wired up to go
off when your driver turned on the ignition. He did but it didn’t. But
we got a police force in this town! We know there’s racketeerin’ bein’
practiced. We know there’s crooked stuff goin’ on. We even got mighty
good ideas who’s doin’ it. But we ain’t been able to get anything on
anybody. Not yet. Nobody’s been willin’ to talk, so far. But you–“

The telephone rang stridently. Brink looked at the instrument and
shrugged. He answered.

“Hello…. No, Mr. Jacaro isn’t in today. He didn’t come to work. On the
way downtown his pants caught on fire–“

Fitzgerald guessed that the voice at the other end of the line said
“_What?_” in, an explosive manner.

Brink said matter-of-factly: “I said his pants caught on fire. It was
probably something he was bringing here to burn the plant down with–a
fire bomb. I don’t think he’s to blame that it went off early. He
probably started out with the worst possible intentions, but something
happened….” He listened and said: “But he didn’t chicken! He couldn’t
come to work and plant a fire bomb to set fire to the place!… I know
it must be upsetting to have things like that automobile accident and my
truck not blowing up and now Jacaro’s pants instead of my business going
up in flames. But I told you–“

He stopped and listened. Once he grinned.

“Wait!” he said after a moment. He covered the transmitter and turned to
Fitzgerald. “What hospital is Jacaro in?”

Fitzgerald said sourly: “He wasn’t burned bad. Just blistered. They lent
him some pants and he went home cussing.”

“Thanks,” said Brink. He uncovered the transmitter. “He went home,” he
told the instrument. “You can ask him about it. In a way I’m sure it
wasn’t his fault. I’m quite sure his eyelids twitched when he started
out. I think the men who drove the car the other day had twitching
eyelids, too. You should ask–“

The detective heard muted noises, as it a man shouted into a transmitter
somewhere.

Brink said briskly: “No, I don’t see any reason to change my
mind…. No…. I know it was luck, if you want to put it that way,
but…. No. I wouldn’t advise that! Please take my advice about when
your eyelid twitches–“

Fitzgerald heard the crash of the receiver hung up at some distant
place. Brink rubbed his ear. He turned back.

“Hm-m-m,” he said. “Your pipe’s gone out.”

It was. Sergeant Fitzgerald puffed ineffectually. Brink reached out his
finger and tapped the bowl of the detective’s pipe. Instantly fragrant
smoke filled the detective’s mouth. He sputtered.

“Now…. where were we?” asked Brink.

“Who was that?” demanded Fitzgerald ferociously. “That was Big Jake
Connors!”

“You may be right.” Brink told him. “He’s never exactly given me his
name. He just calls up every so often and talks nonsense.”

“What sort of nonsense?”