"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."