Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinating color, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it with interest. “Oh, sure,” Boyd said. “We’ve got enough evidence from the other two to send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to.” “More than enough,” Malone agreed. Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently. “Tell me,” Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man. “Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermind it all by yourself?” Brubitsch’s eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they’d been pulled by a string. “Me?” he said in a hoarse bass voice. “I know nothing about this murder. What murder? I know nothing about it.” There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to let Brubitsch know anything about that. “Oh, the ones you shot in Redstone,” he said in an offhand way. “The what?” Brubitsch said. “I shot people? Never.” “Oh, sure you did,” Boyd said. “The others say you did.” Brubitsch’s head seemed to sink into his neck. “Borbitsch and Garbitsch, they tell you about a murder? It is not true. Is a lie.” “Really?” Malone said. “We think it’s true.” “Is a lie,” Brubitsch said, his little eyes peering anxiously from side to side. “Is not true,” he went on hopefully. “I have alibi.” “You do?” Boyd said. “For what time?” “For time when murder happened,” Brubitsch said. “I was someplace else.” “Well, then,” Malone said, “how do you know when the murders were done? They were kept out of the newspapers.” That, he reflected, was quite true, since the murders had never happened. But he watched Brubitsch with a wary eye. “I know nothing about time,” Brubitsch said, jerking at his collar. “I don’t know when they happened.” “Then how can you have an alibi?” Boyd snapped. “Because I didn’t do them!” Brubitsch said tearfully. “If I didn’t, then I _must_ have alibi!” “You’d be surprised,” Malone said. “Now, about these murders—” “Was no murder, not by me,” Brubitsch said firmly. “Was never any killing of anybody, not even by accident.” “But your two friends say—” Boyd began. “My two friends are not my friends,” Brubitsch said firmly. “If they tell you about murder and say it was me, they are no friends. I did not murder anybody, I have alibi. I did not even murder anybody a little bit. They are no friends. This is terrible.” “There,” Malone said reflectively, “I agree with you. It’s positively awful. And I think we might as well give it up. After all, we don’t need your testimony. The other two are enough; they’ll get maybe ten years apiece, but you’re going to get the chair.” “I will not sit down,” Brubitsch said firmly. “I am innocent. I am innocent like a small child. Does a small child commit a murder? It is ridiculous.” Boyd picked up his cue with ease. “You might as well give us your side of the story, then,” he said easily. “If you didn’t commit any murders—”