sometimes do crazy things."

Miss Schmitt's plump little face was silent and reflective. "Bob was an odd one. And, of course, I haven't seen him for years but I got a Christmas card and a little note every single year and he always seemed perfectly sane to me. As for killing himself or anybody else, I'd say he was much too timid a man for that. God forgive me if I'm being cruel to an old friend who's gone now, but he was afraid to step outside the house. I don't know how he got to work. He was always getting sick or getting hurt and staying home for weeks. I think he welcomed sickness just so he could hide at home safe." There were tears of another sort in Miss Schmitt's eyes now. Kessler thought he detected a brightness in his wife's eyes. "No," Miss Schmitt said, "Bob was afraid of life. Just plumb scared." She refused to let the tears flow. "Oh, but I'm being a terrible hostess! I have so few visitors now. How about some more lemonade?"

Margaret flicked a glance at her husband and gave him the floor. "You've been a wonderful hostess," Kessler said, rising, "and I want to thank you for being good enough to talk to us."

"Well, I'm afraid I haven't been much help," she said, rising to flutter over the glasses.

"That's not your fault," Kessler said. "As you know, we haven't come up with an answer on this investigation, but at least they can't say I didn't try."

Miss Schmitt waved to them from the window of her apartment as they got in their car. "She was sweet, you know," Margaret murmured as she waved back gaily. "Sad about them, too."

"Well, investigation's over," Kessler smiled at Margaret as he drove away. "Results, nil. Second honeymoon, anyone? We've got nothing to keep us now. How do we get to the highway from here?"

"Yes, dear," Margaret murmured, still bemused by Miss Schmitt. "But wasn't it a shame they never got married? He was such an unhappy man. She might have brought him out of it."

"I doubt that," Kessler said, adjusting the sun blind against the evening glare of the sun.

"Like she said, he was a hard luck artist. It's a personality type, it doesn't change."

"What?" Kessler asked, maneuvering a corner in heavy traffic.

"Accident prone. You know, everything happened to him. Like those mushrooms he got sick on just before he left home; falling off the porch. No wonder he didn't want to leave home."

They drove in silence for some time, Kessler intent on the evening flood of traffic, Margaret almost drowsing in the evening sunlight and the cool of the breeze in her hair. When Kessler pulled up at a drug store she said, "What?" sleepily.

"Phone call I have to make. You wait here," he said. She nodded.

Kessler got through to Senator Brogan's office quickly. "Hello, Miss Persons? I'm glad you're still there. This is Bob Kessler. Do you have any idea where the senator is now? Good, would you put me through to him?"

Brogan sounded anything but sleepy. "Yes Bob? Finally wind it up?"

"I think maybe I have," Kessler said. "I've seen Miss Schmitt."

"Ah, Spencer's old flame? And what did you learn?"

When Kessler was finished telling him there was a long pause. "Are you still there, George?" he asked.

Brogan's voice was heavy. "Yes, Bob, I'm still here. Where are you calling from? A public phone? Well, I think maybe you'd better come up here. We have more to say than you have dimes and it won't hurt to keep this to ourselves if we can—or till we're sure. Better bring your complete files. Good. One point, though! Did anything I said this afternoon help? I wondered. I couldn't really believe it myself. If you'd said something, I wouldn't have felt I was going crazy. I've been sitting here wondering if I should see a head doctor."

Margaret smiled philosophically when Kessler told her he had to go back to see Brogan. "Some second honeymoon," she complained. "Well, anyway, what about that drink and a steak dinner. I'll get us a hotel room. Maybe tomorrow, like I always say."

It was nearly ten o'clock when Kessler and Brogan met Margaret at the hotel dining room. "It's about time!" she declared. "I'm starving. Hello there, George. What are you doing to my husband? Or vice versa? We were going to go on a second honeymoon and now he has that fiend-for-work look in his eye!"

"My dear Margaret," Brogan said, holding her hand and smiling gallantly, "I must deeply apologize for keeping Bob. And I'm almost frightened to say that it looks as though it will be for some time longer. We will have to go back after dinner and it may be some days before either of us has much free time."

Margaret looked at them suspiciously, with the brightness in her eye that came from her first martini. "What are you two up to now? Some of this top secret stuff? I might know! I can't get away from it! Never mind, I'll worm it out of Bob when I get him alone. If that ever happens!"

They carefully avoided any further reference to the investigation until they were halfway through dinner in the nearly deserted dining room. Margaret, mellowed by a second martini and all of her steak which she ate, sighed. "Poor Miss Schmitt," she said. "I've been feeling sorry for her all evening when I haven't been feeling sorry for myself."

"Why Miss Schmitt?" Kessler asked, chewing.

"Oh, I shouldn't, I know. Bob Spencer would probably have been a worse husband than you are. But at least I'm glad I went along with you to visit her. I settled something that's been bothering me."

"What was that, dear?" Kessler asked, raising a juicy morsel of steak to his lips.

"Why, that he was accident prone."

Kessler lowered his fork. "Yes, you mentioned that before," he said carefully. "I was telling George about it. But why did you think he might be?"

Margaret looked at their startled faces. She fluttered her hands. "Well, everyone else on the plane was."

The three of them stared at each other. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked nervously. "Well, they were, you know! The stewardesses both had broken their legs. And the flight engineer got a black eye walking into a door. You remember, Bob, you couldn't be sure how it happened, but that must have been it. Even the pilot had cut himself shaving. That very morning!"

Kessler and Brogan had stopped eating and were watching her intently. "Stop staring," she said indignantly. "You're making me nervous. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dear," Kessler said quietly. "It's very interesting. Go on."

She looked at him suspiciously. "Well, when it comes to the passengers! What do you mean? You know all this!"

"Go on," Brogan said.

"Well, one man was even in another plane crash before. I forget his name."

"Pearlow," Kessler murmured.

"Pearlow, yes. And Dr. Pollitt who was blinded in an accident. I don't really know about your friend Miss Bennett, senator."

Brogan nodded. "She qualifies."

"And the little girl, Barbara? Who had the automobile accident? The veteran? Prewitt, who accidentally killed his brother? At least two of those people were going to psychiatrists. Well, Mr. Spencer had me worried because I didn't know if the mushrooms qualified him as accident prone. Then, of course, when I found out about him definitely I figured the Valentes qualified, too, with the mumps. The man who broke his fingernail! Oh, just about everybody I think."

Kessler and Brogan glanced at each other. Brogan nodded. "Just about everybody," he said. "And all on the same plane. It's something that would happen once in ten thousand times. Like being dealt a solid suit in bridge. But it can happen. It seems to have happened this time. And I think maybe it's happened before. Maybe one person who was not accident prone could make the difference. But when I think about a plane taking off with those particular seventy-three people aboard it really scares me."

Margaret looked from Brogan to Kessler, confused. Kessler put his hand over hers on the table cloth and gripped it