Cramer nodded. “I expected that. The trouble is I’m pretty sure I don’t give a damn what you saw or heard this afternoon. We’ll come back to that. I want to put something to you. As you see, I’m not even wanting to know why you tried to break away before we got here.”
“I merely wanted to phone—”
“Forget it.” Cramer put the remains of his second cigar, not more than a scraggly inch, in the ashtray. “On information received, I think it’s like this. The woman who called herself Cynthia Brown, murdered here today, was not your sister. You met her in Florida six or eight weeks ago. She went in with you on an operation of which Mrs. Orwin was the subject, and you introduced her to Mrs. Orwin as your sister. You two came to New York with Mrs. Orwin a week ago, with the operation well under way. As far as I’m concerned, that is only background. Otherwise I’m not interested in it. My work is homicide, and that’s what I’m working on now.”
Brown was listening politely.
“For me,” Cramer went on, “the point is that for quite a period you have been closely connected with this Miss Brown, associating with her in a confidential operation. You must have had many intimate conversations with her. You were having her with you as your sister, and she wasn’t, and she’s been murdered. We could give you merry hell on that score alone.”
Brown had no use for his tongue. His face said no comment.
“It’ll never be too late to give you hell,” Cramer assured him, “but I wanted to give you a chance first. For two months you’ve been on intimate terms with Cynthia Brown. She certainly must have mentioned an experience she had last October. A friend of hers named Doris Hatten was murdered — strangled. Cynthia Brown had information about the murderer which she kept to herself; if she had come out with it she’d be alive now. She must have mentioned that to you; you can’t tell me she didn’t. She must have told you all about it. Now you can tell me. If you do we can nail him for what he did here today, and it might even make things a little smoother for you. Well?”
Brown had pursed his lips. They straightened out again, and his hand came up for a finger to scratch his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”