"If I knew why," he said, holding his voice utterly planar, "I think the how would follow. Why was Bruce killed? Because of something he knew. It could only be that. He was tortured to get out of him the precise extent of his knowledge, and who else might share it. That other person is the next victim. But what was in Bruce's background? A knowledge of history—the Book of Witches—correspondence with—" His throat seemed to swell, it would not let the words out for a moment—"with an uncle in Italy, who told him something—"
"Something about the Mafia?" snorted Yamamura. "Come, now!"
"Bruce didn't realize the significance of what he knew," said Kintyre. Iron bands lay across his chest. "He couldn't have kept a secret like that. He went to X, I suppose—with—a warning? Or mere gossip, as he thought? What about? Surely not Cousin Giovanni, or the Albigensians. What else was there? Some information on crime in the Mediterranean countries. And—God help us!"
The table went over with a crash as Kintyre stood up. It was not himself who screamed: "Margery! She's next in line!" Himself stood among breakers and heard the mainmast split.
Yamamura looked at him, cursed, and reached for the telephone.
"I'm going over there," rattled Kintyre. "I might get there first. I might, it might not be too late."
"They had all night," said Yamamura. His finger stabbed the dial.
Kintyre blundered into the door. He thought vaguely that he ought to open it. Someone stood at his elbow. He shoved. "Take it slow," said Guido. "Let me help you."
Yamamura said in the phone: "Tim? This is Trig. Never mind formalities. Get a car to the apartment of Margery Towne. She may still be alive.... No, I don't remember the damned address! What's the directory for?"
"You're in no shape to steer a car," said Guido. "Where are your keys? Come on and guide me."