Good lord, Taber groaned inwardly. This thing is turning into a comic opera—plain slapstick.
"And why am I the man to see?"
"Because they said you knew about a man with a broken leg who got killed or something."
"They said that?"
"Uh-huh, and if you'd just let me see the man, I could tell in a jiffy whether he's Jack or not."
It had been a pretty long speech and Charles Blackwell seemed happy to get it off his chest. He felt he'd earned a cigarette so he lit one.
Brent Taber watched the match go out and then said, "You're the Goddamnedest phony I've met this week."
"They said you'd say that, but all I want is to see the man and then I'll know. I'll tell you in a jiffy if he's my brother."
"All right."
Charles Blackwell gulped a throatful of smoke in disbelief. Evidently they'd told him it wouldn't be as easy as this. They must have told him it would be as hard as hell, because he stared at Brent as though the latter hadn't played fair.