Kintyre followed Moffat to the police car. It nosed off the shabby-genteel residential street and into southbound traffic. Moffat, at the wheel, pointed to the cigarette lighter.
Kintyre put tobacco smoke into his lungs and insisted: "What happened?"
"He seems to have been murdered." Moffat's eyes flickered sideways along his passenger's wide shoulders, down to the thick wrists and hands. "We'll go to headquarters first, if you don't mind, and you can talk to Inspector Harries."
In the following time, at the office, Kintyre answered many questions. Inspector Harries seemed to have little doubt who his corpse was, but much uncertainty about everything else.
"Bruce Lombardi. Age twenty-four, did you say? Five feet nine, slender build, brown eyes, curly brown hair—m-hm. Did he wear glasses?"
"Yes. He was nearsighted. Horn rims."
"What kind of clothes did he ordinarily pick?"
"Anything he got his hands on. He was a sloppy dresser. I remember—no, never mind."
"Please tell me, Dr. Kintyre. It may have some bearing."
"Hardly. This was about five years ago. I was an assistant bucking for an instructorship, he was a freshman with a major in my department—history, did I tell you? There was some kind of scholastic tea or something—semiformal—you know. He showed up in a secondhand tweed jacket and an old pair of khaki wash pants. He honestly thought they were suitable for—Never mind. It seemed funny at the time."