As I had anticipated, the door was located in the area under the stairs, where Tony had been attacked. I didn’t let the door close; I had locked my own door from the inside, so I would have to return by the secret passage.

I examined the outside of the door. There was no latch or hinge visible. The panel fitted so closely against the others that only someone who knew it was there could have found it. Finally I found a carved flower that yielded to pressure and then turned on a pivot. As it moved, so did the inner handle. I played with the flower till I was sure I knew how to operate it, and then turned reluctantly back into the hot, airless passageway.

My tablemates were all in their places when I went down for breakfast next morning. Blankenhagen looked as if he hadn’t slept.

“How is Herr Schmidt?” I asked.

“Still critical.” The doctor looked from me to George to Tony, and it was obvious he wouldn’t have given ten Pfennige for the lot of us. “There will be no visitors. None.”

“Then you ought to take yourself off the case,” said George, answering the implication rather than the words.

Blankenhagen thought it over.

“You are right. It is correct. I will give orders that I may not be admitted.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Cut it out,” I said. “I’m sure Schmidt is safe from you.”

Blankenhagen eyed me with moderate approval. Apparently he took my comment as a personal compliment, which was not how I meant it. I meant he was too smart to harm Schmidt under such carefully guarded conditions when he was already under suspicion. However, seeing the doctor’s rare and attractive smile, I decided not to explain myself.

“He hasn’t said anything?” George asked carelessly.

“He cannot be questioned. The criminal—if there is a criminal—is safe for the time being.”

“Aren’t you being rather melodramatic?” I asked. “With an attack so severe, Schmidt must have experienced great pain. He might well scream, or cry out. Everything indicates he was alone in the room.”

My reasoning did not convince anyone. George laughed and Tony shook his head. Blankenhagen’s face assumed its normal scowl.

“I would accept that idea willingly were it not for the other strange events which have happened here. Have you heard of what transpired at the church last night? It is all over the town this morning.”

“No, what?” I asked, spilling coffee into Tony’s lap. It was still fairly hot; anguish replaced the guilt written on Tony’s ingenuous countenance. I handed him my napkin and said to Blankenhagen, “Something happened at the church?”

“Hurrumph,” said Blankenhagen, eyeing Tony suspiciously. “In the churchyard, to be precise. Desecration of graves.”

“Graves?” said Tony.

I was out of coffee, so I interrupted him before he could go on to explain that he thought only one grave had been damaged.

“What do you mean, desecrated? Dirty words written on the tombstones?”