Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to him now, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him.
“This is the one who won’t talk, eh?” Malone said, wondering if he sounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was a standard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows had already confessed.
“That’s him,” Boyd said.
“Mmm,” Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding between the rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
“We didn’t know whether we had to get this one to talk, too,” Boyd said. “What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought to have a look at him.” He sounded very bored. It was obvious from his tone that the FBI didn’t care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch never opened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very short lifetime.
“Well,” Malone said, equally bored, “we might be able to get a few corroborative details.”
Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him.
“Now, just look at him,” Boyd said. “He certainly doesn’t look like the head of a spy ring, does he?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Malone said. “That’s probably why the Russians used him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob like this. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man.”
“I guess you’re right,” Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought was overacting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up to jerk at his collar.