"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!"