“Well,” he said, “she confirms your story.”
“It’s true,” said Kendricks.
“But it only proves that you knew the door would be open — so you could be sure of putting your scheme through.”
“Look, for Christ’s sake. We aren’t dopes. We’ve kicked plots around. If we’d really wanted to frame you, we could have done more than that. We could have put you in a much worse spot. We could have left your trademark drawing on Ufferlitz, if we’d killed him, so you’d really have had something to explain. Now don’t do another of those lawyer tricks and ask how we know there wasn’t a drawing. I’ll bet there wasn’t, or Condor would certainly have had you in the cooler.”
It was true there had been no drawing, and it was a point. Simon took out a cigarette.
“You don’t owe us anything,” Lazaroff said. “We’re screwballs and occasional heels and a few other things, but we’ve never murdered anyone or tried to put anyone in a spot like you’re in. You call Condor if you want to. Tell him the whole story. Bob and I’ll admit it. It won’t be much fun for us, but I guess we’ve got it coming. Anyhow you’ll be in the clear.”
“You’d better do it,” said Kendricks resignedly. “Get yourself out of the mess.”
“And still leave it looking as if it was just a coincidence, and you guys had nothing to do with the murder.”
“By God,” said Lazaroff, “we didn’t kill Ufferlitz! But you don’t have to cover us up. Tell this guy Condor what you think. We can take it.”
His square florid face was screwed up like a baby preparing to cry. All at once he looked ludicrous and defeated and curiously pathetic, and at the same time desperately sincere.