“It wasn’t Scofield that tossed Maggie overboard,” John said. “It couldn’t have been. He was already in the river. Someone threw
“But she smelled his pipe tobacco,” Phil pointed out.
“Maybe she smelled someone else’s pipe tobacco,” John said. “Or maybe she imagined it. She imagined she heard scuffling, didn’t she? No, Arden was gone. Dead.”
“And you know this, how?” asked Gideon.
“Well, I don’t
“Probably zonked out of his mind,” amended Phil.
“Probably, which would have made it even easier for someone to throw him off.”
“But why?” Gideon asked.
“And who?” said Phil.
John shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. I’m not there yet.”
“And what then? Then he, whoever it was and for whatever reason, went downstairs and Maggie heard him, and he threw
“Yeah, that’s what I’m assuming. Unless more than one person was involved, which is something to keep in mind.”
“But how did he get back on the ship?” Gideon asked. “When we got Maggie out of the water, everybody was standing there, perfectly dry. Everybody except Scofield.”
John shrugged. “Hey, look, all I can tell you is what I can tell you.”
“Why get rid of the chair?” Phil asked.
“Ah, see, that’s a crucial part of it. Scofield must have been cracked on the head, or knifed, or something that involved blood, and naturally it got on the chair. So it had to go too, or somebody was sure to realize what happened. Now, then— What?” he said in response to the dubious looks being directed at him. “You don’t buy it?”
“It’s not that I don’t buy it,” Phil said gingerly. “It’s plausible. That is, it’s not
“John, I think what Phil is getting at is that we could use a little verifiable supposition at this point,” Gideon said. “What are we supposed to be witnesses to? What are we going to be deposed on? A chair that wasn’t there?”
“If you guys would let me finish, you’d find out.” He cleared his throat. “Now, gentlemen, may I direct your attention to the, what do you call it, the stanchion . . . no, not the one you got caught on, Phil. The other one.”
They looked at it. Like its companion six feet away, it was a foot-long piece of angle iron attached at its bottom end to a metal plate,
which was then solidly bolted to the floor—that is, to the top of the roof. Two parallel holes had been drilled in its upper end, and through them one of the two guy wires that stabilized the smokestack had been pulled, knotted, and snipped off.
“Not the stanchion itself,” John said, when there was no response, “the floor near it. Over here.”
“These spots, you mean?” Phil asked. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Damn right, that’s what I’m talking about. Doc, what do they look like to you?”
Gideon shrugged. “Could be anything.”
“Pretend you’re a famous forensic anthropologist. Pretend you’re looking for clues.”
“Well, I know what I’m supposed to think. I’m supposed to think that’s blood, right? And it could be blood, I guess.” Hands on his knees, he leaned closer. “Could also be old tomato juice or ketchup or—”
“What would ketchup be doing up here?” Phil asked. “They don’t even use ketchup in Peru.”
“That’s not the point,” John said petulantly. “The thing is, I’m betting it is blood, and I’m betting it’s Scofield’s. See, there’s some more spatter over here, right on the very edge. It was nighttime. Whoever did this wouldn’t have seen them and wouldn’t have worried about them anyway, because who’s going to notice a few spots on the floor?”
“But you did,” said Gideon.
“Damn right I did. I already took pictures, and I wanted you to witness the spots before I collected the blood. I’d be real surprised if a DNA test doesn’t show it’s Scofield’s.”
Gideon nodded doubtfully. “Well, a DNA test would settle it, all right. That’ll be a long time coming, though.”
“The blood’s all dry,” Phil said. “How do you collect dried blood?”
“Not a problem,” John said. “Watch and learn.”
From the manila envelope he took some things he had gotten from Vargas: a single-edged razor blade, several
