“I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Do you expect me to believe that during all those weeks she never mentioned the murder of her friend Doris Hatten?”
“I’m sorry I can’t help.”
Cramer got out another cigar and rolled it between his palms, which was wasted energy since he didn’t intend to draw smoke through it. Having seen him do it before, I knew what it meant. He still thought he might get something from this customer and was taking time out to control himself.
“I’m sorry too,” he said, trying not to make it a growl. “But she must have told you something of her previous career, didn’t she?”
“I’m sorry.” Brown’s tone was firm and final.
“Okay. We’ll move on to this afternoon. On that you said you’d answer fully and freely. Do you remember a moment when something about Cynthia Brown’s appearance — some movement she made or the expression on her face — caused Mrs. Orwin to ask her what was the matter with her?”
A crease was showing on Brown’s forehead. “I don’t believe I do,” he stated.
“I’m asking you to try. Try hard.”
Silence. Brown pursed his lips and the crease in his forehead deepened. Finally he said, “I may not have been right there at the moment. In those aisles — in a crowd like that — we weren’t rubbing elbows continuously.”