“Well, then tell me what you don’t know. That fire now, here in the garage, the night of the murder, did you ever find out how it started?”
Fulton’s face took on a perplexed look and he said: “No, we didn’t—and it’s a queer thing. It must have been started by some one purposely, for there’s no way it could have come about by accident.”
“Spontaneous combustion?”
“Whatever made you think of that? And it couldn’t have been from old paint rags, or such, for there’s nothing like that about. But—well, here’s what I found.”
Fulton produced a small bottle. It was empty and had no label or stopper, and Fibsy looked at it blankly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Never see one like it?”
“No; have you?”
“Yes, I have. I was in the war, and bottles like that contained acid which, when combined with another acid, caused spontaneous combustion.”
“Combined—how?”