“That is true—as far as we know,” said Barjan calmly. “But there's a little record that goes back beyond those fifteen years, Nicolo, that keeps us a little chummy with you—and you've been valuable at times, Nicolo.”
“Bah!” Nicolo Capriano spat the exclamation viciously at the other.
“About last night,” suggested Barjan patiently. “It's rather in your line. I thought perhaps you might be able to give us a little help that would put us on the right track.”
“I don't know what you're talking about!” snapped Nicolo Capriano.
“I'm talking about the man that was blown to pieces by a bomb.” Barjan was still patient.
Nicolo Capriano's eyes showed the first gleam of interest.
“I didn't know there was any man blown up.” His tone appeared to mingle the rage and antagonism that he had first exhibited with a new and suddenly awakened curiosity. “I didn't know there was any man blown up,” he repeated.
“That's too bad!” said Barjan with mock resignation—and settled himself deliberately in a chair at the bedside. “I guess, then, you're the only man in San Francisco who doesn't.”
“You fool!” Nicolo Capriano rasped in rage again. “I've been bed-ridden for three years—and I wish to God you had been, too!” He choked and coughed a little. He eyed Barjan malevolently. “I tell you this is the first I've heard of it. I don't hang about the street corners picking up the news! Don't sit there with your silly, smirking police face, trying to see how smart you can be! What information do you expect to get out of me like that? When I know nothing, I can tell nothing, can I? Who was the man?”
“That's what we want to know,” said Barjan pleasantly. “And, look here, Nicolo, I'm not here to rile you. All that was left was a few fragments of park bench, man, arc-light standard, and a piece or two of what was evidently a bomb.”