I looked him over. He was somewhere in the late twenties, or perhaps had just turned thirty. He was an earnest, sincere-looking chap, with a pallid face, high cheekbones, smoldering black eyes, and dark, wavy hair. I said, “Would you mind stepping out to the taxicab with me? I’d like to have you explain to Mrs. Cool that you’re not the Dr. Holoman she’s looking for.”

I could see he was suspicious. He glanced over at the nurse, then out to where the taxicab was standing at the curb. Then he looked me over, evidently figured he could handle me if he had to, said curtly, “Very well,” and accompanied me out to the door of the taxicab. I said, “Mrs. Cool, this is Dr. Holoman, Dr. Archie Holoman.”

She looked him over and said, “The hell it is!”

After a moment, he said lamely, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cool. Was there something I could do?”

“Not a damn thing,” she said. “Hop in, Donald.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor,” I told him.

He looked at me then with the growing conviction that we were both crazy. I hopped into the car. Mrs. Cool gave the driver Sandra’s address, and the cab jerked into motion, leaving Dr. Holoman standing there at the curb looking at us with the expression of a man who has reached for a purse on April First, only to find it jerked out from under his fingers.

“Well,” I said, “the plot thickens.”

“Thickens, hell,” she said. “It’s like gravy that’s had too much flour dumped in it. It’s full of lumps. Are you sure that was Dr. Holoman?”

“He said he was, and the hospital said he was.”

She fumbled around in her purse, and said, “Donald, I’m out of cigarettes.”

I gave her one out of my fast-diminishing store, and took one myself.

We shared the same match. She said, “Damned clever, Donald, my boy, damned clever. They needed an authentic background. They couldn’t get a real doctor to do the dirty work, so they stole an interne’s identity and background. If we’d ever wanted to check back on Dr. Holoman, we’d have found his record, date, graduation, present location, and all of that. There wasn’t one chance in fifty we’d have gone to Dr. Holoman at the hospital.”

“That,” I said, “brings up the question: Who was the chap masquerading as Dr. Holoman?”

“Her boy friend, probably,” she said. “Where there’s so much smoke, there’s apt to be some fire.”

We rode for a while in silence. She turned to me, and said, “Now listen, Donald. Don’t be a damn fool about this.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“You’re just about half in love with that Hunter woman.”

“Make it two-thirds,” I said, “if you’re going in for fractions.”