“So you figure there’s a connection between Kirby’s death and the thefts?”
“Don’t you?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” Branislaus said dryly. “Could be the thief slipped back onto the grounds tonight, something happened before he had a chance to steal something, and he did for Kirby — I’ll admit the possibility. But what were the two of them doing in the Lion House? Doesn’t add up that Kirby caught the guy in there. Why would the thief enter it in the first place? Not because he was trying to steal a lion or a tiger, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe Kirby stumbled on him somewhere else, somewhere nearby. Maybe there was a struggle; the thief got the drop on Kirby, then forced him to let both of them into the Lion House with his key.”
“Why?”
“To get rid of him where it was private.”
“I don’t buy it,” Branny said. “Why wouldn’t he just knock Kirby over the head and run for it?”
“Well, it could be he’s somebody Kirby knew.”
“Okay. But the Lion House angle is still too much trouble for him to go through. It would’ve been much easier to shove the gun into Kirby’s belly and shoot him on the spot. Kirby’s clothing would have muffled the sound of the shot; it wouldn’t have been audible more than fifty feet away.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said.
“But even supposing it happened the way you suggest, it still doesn’t add up. You and Dettlinger were inside the Lion House thirty seconds after the shot, by your own testimony. You checked the side entrance doors almost immediately and they were locked; you looked around behind the cages and nobody was there. So how did the alleged killer get out of the building?”
“The only way he could have got out was through one of the grottos in back.
“Only he couldn’t have, according to what both Dettlinger and Hammond say.”
I paced over to one of the windows — nervous energy — and looked out at the fog-wrapped construction site for the new monkey exhibit. Then I turned and said, “I don’t suppose your men found anything in the way of evidence inside the Lion House?”
“Not so you could tell it with the naked eye.”
“Or anywhere else in the vicinity?”
“No.”
“Any sign of tampering on any of the doors?”
“None. Kirby used his key to get in, evidently.”
I came back to where Branislaus was leaning hipshot against somebody’s desk. “Listen, Branny,” I said, “this whole thing is too screwball. You know that as well as I do. Somebody’s playing games here, trying to muddle our thinking — and that means murder.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Hell, probably. But how was it done? I can’t come up with an answer, not even one that’s believably farfetched. Can you?”
“Not yet.”
“Does that mean you’ve got an idea?”
“Not an idea; just a bunch of little pieces looking for a pattern.”
He sighed. “Well, if they find it, let me know.”
When I went back into the other room I told Dettlinger that he was next on the grill. Factor wanted to talk some more, but I put him off. Hammond was still polluting the air with his damned cigarettes, and I needed another shot of fresh air; I also needed to be alone for a while. I could almost feel those little random fragments bobbing around in there like flotsam on a heavy sea.
I put my overcoat on and went out and wandered past the cages where the smaller cats were kept, past the big open fields that the giraffes and rhinos called home. The wind was stronger and colder than it had been earlier; heavy gusts swept dust and twigs along the ground, broke the fog up into scudding wisps. I pulled my cap down over my ears to keep them from numbing.
The path led along to the concourse at the rear of the Lion House, where the open cat-grottos were. Big, portable electric lights had been set up there and around the front so the police could search the area. A couple of patrolmen glanced at me as I approached, but they must have recognized me because neither of them came over to ask what I was doing there.
I went to the low, shrubberied wall that edged the middle cat-grotto. Whatever was in there, lions or tigers, had no doubt been aroused by all the activity; but they were hidden inside the dens at the rear. These grottos had been newly renovated — lawns, jungly vegetation, small trees, everything to give the cats the illusion of their native habitat. The side walls separating this grotto from the other two were man-made rocks, high and unscalable. The moat below was fifty feet wide, too far for either a big cat or a man to jump; and the near moat wall was sheer and also unscalable from below, just as Hammond and Dettlinger had said.
No way anybody could have got out of the Lion House through the grottos, I thought. Just no way.
No way it could have been murder then. Unless—
I stood there for a couple of minutes, with my mind beginning, finally, to open up. Then I hurried around to the front of the Lion House and looked at the main entrance for a time, remembering things.
And then I knew.
Branislaus was in the zoo office, saying something to Factor, when I came back inside. He glanced over at me as I shut the door.
“Branny,” I said, “those little pieces I told you about a while ago finally found their pattern.”
He straightened. “Oh? Some of it or all of it?”
“All of it, I think.”
Factor said, “What’s this about?”
“I figured out what happened at the Lion House tonight,” I said. “Al Kirby didn’t commit suicide: he was murdered. And I can name the man who killed him.”
I expected a reaction, but I didn’t get one beyond some widened eyes and opened mouths. Nobody said anything and nobody moved much. But you could feel the sudden tension in the room, as thick in its own intangible way as the layers of smoke from Hammond’s cigarettes.
“Name him,” Branislaus said.
But I didn’t, not just yet. A good portion of what I was going to say was guesswork — built on deduction and logic, but still guesswork — and I wanted to choose my words carefully. I took off my cap, unbuttoned my coat, and moved away from the door, over near where Branny was standing.
He said, “Well? Who do you say killed Kirby?”
“The same person who stole the birds and other specimens. And I don’t mean a professional animal thief, as Mr. Factor suggested when he hired me. He isn’t an outsider at all; and he didn’t climb the fence to get onto the grounds.”
“No?”
“No. He was already in here on those nights and on this one, because he works here as a night watchman. The man I’m talking about is Sam Dettlinger.”
That got some reaction. Hammond said, “I don’t believe it,” and Factor said, “My God!” Branislaus looked at me, looked at Dettlinger, looked at me again — moving his head like a spectator at a tennis match.
The only one who didn’t move was Dettlinger. He sat still at one of the desks, his hands resting easily on its blotter; his face betrayed nothing.
He said, “You’re a liar,” in a thin, hard voice.
“Am I? You’ve been working here for some time; you know the animals and which ones are both endangered and valuable. It was easy for you to get into the buildings during your round: just use your key and walk right in. When you had the specimens you took them to some prearranged spot along the outside fence and passed them over to an accomplice.”
“What accomplice?” Branislaus asked.
“I don’t know. You’ll get it out of him, Branny; or you’ll find out some other way. But that’s how he had to have worked it.”
“What about the scratches on the locks?” Hammond asked. “The police told us the locks were picked—”