The prisoner looked up apprehensively as Malone shut the door. Malone paid no attention to him, and the prisoner unclasped his hands, rubbed them on his coveralls and then reclasped them in his lap. His eyes fell again. Boyd looked up too. “Hello, Ken,” he said. He tapped a sheaf of papers on the single table in the room. Malone went over and picked them up. They were the abbreviated condensations of three dossiers. All three of the men covered in the dossiers were naturalized citizens, but all had come in as “political refugees” from Hungary, from Czechoslovakia, and from East Germany. Further checking had turned up the fact that all three were actually Russians. They had been using false names during their stay in the United States, but their real ones were appended to the dossiers. The fat one in the interrogation room was named Alexis Brubitsch. The other two, who were presumably waiting separately in other rooms, were Ivan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. The collection sounded, to Malone, like a seedy musical-comedy firm of lawyers: Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch. He could picture them dancing gaily across a stage while the strains of music followed them, waving legal forms and telephones and singing away. Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to him now, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him. “This is the one who won’t talk, eh?” Malone said, wondering if he sounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was a standard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows had already confessed. “That’s him,” Boyd said. “Mmm,” Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding between the rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. “We didn’t know whether we had to get this one to talk, too,” Boyd said. “What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought to have a look at him.” He sounded very bored. It was obvious from his tone that the FBI didn’t care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch never opened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very short lifetime. “Well,” Malone said, equally bored, “we might be able to get a few corroborative details.” Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him. “Now, just look at him,” Boyd said. “He certainly doesn’t _look_ like the head of a spy ring, does he?” “Of course he doesn’t,” Malone said. “That’s probably why the Russians used him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob like this. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man.” “I guess you’re right,” Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought was overacting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up to jerk at his collar. “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.”