"Alibis are easily purchased." The fat man's heavy lips curled up at the corners and his hog-like eyes became slitted puffs of flesh. "But do sit down," he smiled. "We have much to talk about."
Ricker found his way around the chair, sank down slowly with his eyes upon the man. Dorothy Adison was right! The phrase roared in his mind. Trexel did have something to do with the murder. Had he hired Molly Borden to do it? Was he a member of this Neptune gang? Was he the leader?
"What will you have to drink?"
Ricker looked at the man as he would a Black Widow spider. "I don't drink with murderers—and traitors," he said carefully.
With an amazing swiftness for a man of his bulk, Trexel left his chair, stepped over and struck him smartly across the mouth with the flat of his palm.
"You will be careful of your words!" he breathed. "Another remark like that and you die where you sit!"
He returned to his chair, his composure regained as quickly as it left him. He took a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket, struck a match.
"Now talk, telenewsman," he said. "Who knows where you are? How did you suspect Molly Borden?" The light of the match made his face a white wax mask. He lit the cigarette, blew out the match with a puff of his pasty cheeks.
Ricker refused to open his bruised lips, stared at the man and kept silent.
"There are ways," said Trexel, "of making you talk." Vanger, behind Ricker's chair, coughed in agreement.