“It was kind of you to let us in,” said the detective mildly.
“A pleasure,” said Harry. “But I wish I knew how that kid got in.”
“Well, he did—somehow,” Cowder said. “What happened after he came out of the closet?”
“He made me let the girl in. They were goin’ to open up the rear completely and take my stuff out that way. They’d ha’ done it, too, if Mr. Gabriel hadn’t come along.”
Detective Sergeant Cowder looked at Mike the Angel. “About what time was that, Mr. Gabriel?”
“About six thirty-five,” Mike told him. “The kids probably hadn’t been here more than a few minutes.”
Harry MacDougal nodded in silent corroboration.
“Then what happened?” asked the detective.
Mike told him a carefully edited version of what had occurred, leaving out the existence of the little gadget he was carrying in his pocket. The sergeant listened patiently and unbelievingly through the whole recital. Mike the Angel grinned to himself; he knew what part of the story seemed queer to the cop.
He was right. Cowder said: “Now, wait a minute. What caused those vibroblades to burn up that way?”