"Yes, sir." It came out a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, sir."
"You don't have to be frightened, Judy," said the man. "You aren't going to be accused of anything. My name is Marshall, Stephen Marshall. This gentleman on my right is Stewart Lang. We're with the FBI. That gentleman there is Mr. Stevenson, and he's a detective from Brooklyn. And that there is Mr. Roberts, and he's a reporter. And we all simply want to ask you one or two questions. All right?"
The man was obviously trying to calm her down, make her relax. And he succeeded to some extent. Judy said, "Yes, sir," in a small voice and nodded, no longer quite so frightened.
None of the four men were particularly frightening in appearance. The two FBI men were long and lean, with bleak bony faces like cowboys. The detective was a short worried-looking man with a paunch and thinning black hair. And the reporter was a cheerful round-faced man in a loud sport coat and a bow tie.
"Now," said Marshall, "you were present at the time of the gang fight on Hallowe'en, is that right?"
"Yes, sir. Well, no, sir. Not exactly. I was down at the corner."
Mister Marshall smiled briefly. "On lookout?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I see. And do you remember seeing anyone present at all aside from the boys in the two gangs and the police?"