“Haven’t I tried to sweat it out of him? Haven’t I grilled him trying to make him tell where he hid the body? What do I get? A stuck-out chin, and a scowl, and him telling me he’s not a squealer. That’s gangster talk.”
The blind man’s head rested against the back of the chair; his sightless eyes seemed to stare unblinkingly at some object on the ceiling; the pale face had the calmness of graven stone. Joe, highly excited by all this talk of murder and a hidden body, pulled at a thought that had occurred to him more than once in the past. Could anything happen that would shake his uncle out of that unruffled tranquillity?
“How old did you say he was, Captain?”
“Twenty.”
The doctor sat up and knocked the ashes of his pipe into the fireplace, “No boy is hard at twenty, Captain. He only thinks he’s hard. Mind if I talk to him?”
Captain Tucker sighed. “I was hoping you would.”
Dr. Stone reached for the dog’s harness. “More work for us, old girl,” he said, and the dog looked at him steadily. Joe wondered if she understood. They went out to the small police car, the tawny shepherd anxiously leading the blind man through the snow to the running-board. Crowded into the car, Joe and the dog in the rear seat, they rode toward the village.
“How long is it since Jud Cory left here?” Dr. Stone asked.
“Seven years. That’s what I can’t understand. Why should he come back after seven years to do a murder? He used to live with Boothy; did chores for his keep. We’ve sent for his brother.”
“Jud’s?”