George and I escorted Tony to his room and put him to bed. The doctor’s diagnosis was correct; once I had mopped off the blood I could see the cut was nothing to worry about. I slapped some Mercurochrome and a couple of Band-Aids on it.

George had settled himself in a chair with a cigarette and Tony’s bottle of bourbon. When I had finished being Florence Nightingale he offered me a drink, which I was glad to accept. Tony demanded his share, pointing out that it was his bottle.

George shook his head.

“Can’t risk it. Concussion and alcohol—very dangerous, old man. That was quite a crack on the head.”

He helped himself to a second drink and smiled cheerfully at Tony.

“If it wasn’t Schmidt in the armor, who was it?” I asked, sensing that the conversation was about to deteriorate into an exchange of pejorative comments.

“Who says it wasn’t Schmidt?” Tony grumbled.

“If it was, what did he do with the armor? It wasn’t under the bed or in the closet. I looked.”

“Who else could have squeezed into that hardware?”

“It wasn’t me, old son. I’d stick out both ends.”

“Blankenhagen?” I suggested. “He’s muscular, but not tall. How big was the armor, anyhow?”

“I don’t remember. I’d have noticed if it had been unusually outsized, but a few inches more or less…How long does it take to get out of a suit of armor? I never tried.”

“More to the point, how long does it take to get into a suit of armor? I don’t suppose our mysterious comedian stands on a pedestal fully accoutered every night….”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did,” Tony grumbled. “Maybe he likes dressing up in armor. Some people think they are Napoleon or Jesus Christ. Some people think they are pineapples.”

“Pineapples?” I repeated. “That’s a weird one. I never heard of that. Where did you—”

“Will you stick to the subject?” Tony shouted. “I gather that in your incoherent fashion you are trying to ascertain whether the comedian had time to climb into his armor after I left my room. I don’t think he did. So he was down there waiting for me—or for somebody….”

“You,” I said hastily. “I’d rather have him waiting for you…. When you went creeping off to bed at ten o’clock, I knew you were planning to prowl tonight.”

“He could safely assume one or the other of us would be along.” Tony said, eyeing me malevolently. “We haven’t missed a night so far.”

“You’ve gotten him into the armor,” remarked George, who had been following this exchange with a broad grin. “What about getting him out of it? Would Schmidt have time—”

“Forget about time,” I said wearily. “I lost track completely. Nobody has a respectable alibi.”

“I can’t understand why you’re so vague,” Tony said critically. “You must have been on the gallery, if you were following me. Why didn’t you pay attention? Wasn’t the action exciting enough to hold your interest?”