“Monk Thurman did not kill them,” announced the same voice.
Genara looked about him, to see if any of the other diners had heard the words.
Those at the nearest table were engaged in conversation. They could not have heard the voice. Genara raised his eyebrows as he looked at Anelmo.
Both the Sicilians were searching in their gaze. They were sure that no one had spoken from the next table. The only person near them was a waiter, who had been placing dishes on a tray.
Now the man approached, and calmly cleared the plates from the table where the Homicide Twins were seated. He came under the close scrutiny of both men. Neither had seen him before.
He was a man of middle age, who walked with a limp. His dull, expressionless face showed no signs of intelligence.
The waiter moved away unmolested. The Sicilians had not considered him for more than an instant. They still sought the source of the mysterious voice. The waiter picked up the tray and walked by the table.
Then came something stranger than the voice itself; a low, whispered laugh, that seemed to emanate from a spot above the table where the killers sat. It was a laugh such as neither Genara nor Anelmo had ever heard — a laugh that reminded them of the sinister words that they had heard; a laugh that mocked their inability to discover its author.
ANELMO half rose from his chair. He stared at the figure of the departing waiter. The man was lame, and stoop-shouldered — an innocent-appearing person in every respect.
Genara gripped his companion’s arm.