“Who’d ever think,” Malone said, “that he plotted those killings in Redstone—all three of them?”
“It is surprising,” Boyd said.
“But, then,” Malone said, “we know he did. There isn’t any doubt of that.”
Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinating color, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it with interest.
“Oh, sure,” Boyd said. “We’ve got enough evidence from the other two to send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to.”
“More than enough,” Malone agreed.
Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently.
“Tell me,” Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man. “Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermind it all by yourself?”
Brubitsch’s eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they’d been pulled by a string. “Me?” he said in a hoarse bass voice. “I know nothing about this murder. What murder? I know nothing about it.”
There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to let Brubitsch know anything about that. “Oh, the ones you shot in Redstone,” he said in an offhand way.