"I only know what the police told me," said Kintyre.
Maria crossed herself. She closed her eyes, and he did not watch her moving lips; that conversation didn't concern him.
"My son he was murdered," said Lombardi in an uncomprehending voice. "Why did they murder him?"
"I don't know," insisted Kintyre. "The police will find out."
Corinna left her chair and came around to stand before the men. It was a long stride, made longer by wrath. She put her hands on her hips and said coldly:
"Dr. Kintyre, you're not naïve. You must know murder is one of the safest crimes there is to commit. What's the actual probability that they'll ever learn who did it, when they claim they haven't even a motive to guide them?"
Kintyre couldn't help bristling a trifle. She was tired and filled with grief, but he had done nothing to rate such a tone. He clipped off his words: "If you think you have a clue, Miss Lombardi, you should take it to the authorities, not to me."
"I did," she said harshly. "They were polite to the hysterical female. They'll look into it, sure. And when they see he has an alibi—as he will!—they won't look any further."
Maria stood up. "Corinna!" she exclaimed. "Basta, figliolaccia!"
The girl wrenched free of her mother's hand. "Oh, yes," she said, "that's how it was with the policeman too. With everybody. Don't pick on the poor cripple. Haven't you been enough of a jinx to him? Don't you see, that's exactly what he thinks! That's why he killed Bruce!"