"I suppose so." Hardness grew along her jawline. "And if he murdered my brother—how does the saying go? God may forgive him, but I never can."
"Good. However, secundus: He was not involved in Bruce's death."
"What makes you so certain?" she demanded, almost belligerently.
"Let me tell you what happened last night." Was it only last night?
He related it in a few words. She looked at him so strangely that he was puzzled, until it came to him that not many college professors enter waterfront tenements and throw people around.
"I hope you don't think I asked for the brawl," he finished. "I'm ashamed of it. But it gave me the proof I needed."
Her hand stole out, toward the plaster on his forehead. "Is that how you got hurt?" she asked softly.
"No." He continued hastily: "A strong possibility is that Bruce was killed by professionals. Imported murderers are likeliest, since the police will be seining all local toughs."
"Gene lived in Chicago," she murmured through tightened lips.
"Gene and his father are stonkering poor. Even if Gene has a murderer friend, such a job would not be done just as a favor."