alone went over to him
now, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him.

"This is the one who won't talk, eh?" Malone said, wondering if he
sounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was a
standard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows had
already confessed.

"That's him," Boyd said.

"Mmm," Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding between the
rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but he didn't
say anything.

"We didn't know whether we had to get this one to talk, too," Boyd
said. "What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought to
have a look at him." He sounded very bored. It was obvious from his
tone that the FBI didn't care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch never
opened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very short
lifetime.

"Well," Malone said, equally bored, "we might be able to get a few
corroborative details."

Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him.

"Now, just look at him," Boyd said. "He certainly doesn't _look_ like
the head of a spy ring, does he?"

"Of course he doesn't," Malone said. "That's probably why the Russians
used him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob like
this. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man."

"I guess you're right," Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought was
overacting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up to
jerk at his collar.

"Who'd ever think," Malone said, "that he plotted those killings in
Redstone--all three of them?"

"It is surprising," Boyd said.

"But, then," Malone said, "we know he did. There isn't any doubt of
that."

Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinating
color, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it with
interest.

"Oh, sure," Boyd said. "We've got enough evidence from the other two
to send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to."

"More than enough," Malone agreed.

Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. His
lips moved silently.

"Tell me," Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man.
"Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermind
it all by yourself?"

Brubitsch's eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they'd been pulled
by a string. "Me?" he said in a hoarse bass voice. "I know nothing
about this murder. What murder? I know nothing about it."

There were no such murders, of cours