"Then they would be right. That's exactly what we're gonna talk about."
"No, sir! I ain't got a word to say—not a word!" The big man showed signs of panic.
"Then I'll say it." The dancing light died out of Kirby's eyes. They became hard and steady as agates. "Who killed Cunningham, Hull?"
The fishy eyes of the man dodged. A startled oath escaped him. "How do I know?"
"Didn't you kill him?"
"Goddlemighty, no!" Hull dragged out the red bandanna and gave his apoplectic face first aid. He mopped perspiration from the overlapping roll of fat above his collar. "I dunno a thing about it. Honest, I don't. You got no right to talk to me thataway."
"You're a tub of iniquity, Hull. Also, you're a right poor liar. You know a lot about it. You were in my uncle's rooms just before I saw you on the night of his death. You were seen there."
"W-w-who says so?" quavered the wretched man.
"You'll know who at the proper time. I'll tell you one thing. It won't look good for you that you held out all you know till it was a showdown."
"I ain't holdin' out, I tell you. What business you got to come here devilin' me, I'd like for to know?"