The basement was a reeking mass of rotting crates and cartons. There was a furnace in the middle with hot-air ducts spreading up to the low ceiling like square octopus arms. Fink located a hanging light bulb and switched it on. He walked to the street end of the basement, crouching under the ducts. "We'll try the coal bins first," he said. "That's the usual." "Bob! What is this?" "She was lying," Fink explained. "You have to be good to make all of you lie at the same time. Part of you always gives the truth away. That finger gave her away. Dugan's down here." He picked up a long-handled shovel and began turning over coke in the wooden bunkers. "Dugan's down here?" "Uh-huh. Didn't you see his war picture? The wives hate to give up the pension when the husbands die, so sometimes they don't report the death. But they have to hide the body...." Fink shoveled vigorously, then grunted: "Look." A hand and arm were thrust out of the coke. It was a left hand, rotting, swarming with maggots. Lennox let out a hoarse cry and backed away. He turned and ran crouching under the ducts to the basement stairs. "Hey! Lennox!" Fink called in surprise. Lennox gasped out an apology and raced up the steps. He held his breath. In the hall he came face to face with Mrs. Dugan just coming out of her apartment. He averted his head and ran out into the street. He found a saloon, went in and had two quick shots of brandy, trying to forget that hideous left hand. The brandy took hold in his stomach and he was able to relax. Presently he nodded emphatically. "By God!" he muttered. "He'll find out who's writing those letters. He'll save us. I wouldn't have believed it. A bank clerk." He was still nodding and muttering to himself when he met me in Sabatini's. I took him to the coat room, showed him the burberry and handed him the check. I took out his gimmick book and gave it to him. He patted it fondly, the way you pat a faithful dog, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he flexed his right arm against his chest and grinned at me. "Like getting my heart back, Kit," he said. "Thanks. I had one hell of a fantastic experience this morning. What are you drinking?" We went to the bar and gave Romo our orders and Lennox told me about his guided tour through a nightmare and the corpse in the coke. "If you didn't come up with anything in the library," he said, "I'll make you a gift of the story." "I can't use the story, Jake. Continuity would never pass it. But I could use the gimmick." "It's yours." "You mean that? Thanks." I really was grateful. Lennox knew how to pay for a favor. "It's solid, Man. That finger pointing down when she's swearing the husband's up on the roof. Great sight gimmick. It's the most." I began to drift off into a plot. "Write it down, Kitten." "What? Oh, I don't have to. Gimmicks like this you never forget." "Locate anything this morning?" "Something real odd. Poison-eaters." "Poison-eaters? You're putting me on."