"He got what he asked for. It's pure luck the man in the other car
wasn't killed."
"I suppose so." Hardness grew along her jawline. "And if he murdered my
brother--how does the saying go? God may forgive him, but I never can."
"Good. However, _secundus_: He was not involved in Bruce's death."
"What makes you so certain?" she demanded, almost belligerently.
"Let me tell you what happened last night." _Was it only last night?_
He related it in a few words. She looked at him so strangely that he
was puzzled, until it came to him that not many college professors
enter waterfront tenements and throw people around.
"I hope you don't think I asked for the brawl," he finished. "I'm
ashamed of it. But it gave me the proof I needed."
Her hand stole out, toward the plaster on his forehead. "Is that how
you got hurt?" she asked softly.
"No." He continued hastily: "A strong possibility is that Bruce was
killed by professionals. Imported murderers are likeliest, since the
police will be seining all local toughs."
"Gene lived in Chicago," she murmured through tightened lips.
"Gene and his father are stonkering poor. Even if Gene has a murderer
friend, such a job would not be done just as a favor."
"Then they could have done it themselves, father and son."
"Look, we had a minor scrap, the three of us. Those walls are like
paper. Half the building heard it and came pounding on the door. Bruce
could not have been--hurt, as he was--in that place. It would have to
be somewhere else. Consider all the practical difficulties, finding an
abandoned warehouse or whatever. Getting an automobile, for heaven's
sake! Where would paupers like those two find the money to rent a car,
even for a day?
"Oh, well, if we stretch our reasoning all out of shape, we can say
they _might_ have done all that. But one thing they could never have
managed, and that was to capture Bruce in the first place. He would
have tied them in bowknots."
"Bruce?" She was openly bewildered.
"Yes. Stop thinking of him as a mere bookworm. Bruce and I were going
to pack into Kings Canyon, which is still pretty wild. And he was
taking up judo, and doing quite well. A gun could have taken him
prisoner, of course, but the Michaelises don't have a gun; they'd have
gone for it last night if one were on the premises. So Bruce would have
had to be slugged from behind. But there was no mark of a club on his
body, no anesthetic--I have that from the police. Weaponless, neither
Gene nor his father could have held Bruce for ten seconds. They're
both strong, but they fall over themselves. I threw them with baby
techniques."
"That's right," she said, "you do go in for judo, don't you? But Bruce
said you were an expert."
"I only wear a brown belt so far. Bruce, of course, was a white.
He could not have coped with one or two men who knew how to handle
themselves--not necessarily judo men, just experienced fighters."
_Consider Terry Larkin._ "However, he could certainly have thrown two
unarmed Michaelises. Take my word for it. I know."
"Oh."
She studied her hands for a while.
"They'll be released in a few days at the outside," said Kintyre. "The
most elementary procedures will show they're innocent. I can think of a
dozen lines of proof myself. To be sure, you may be subjected to some
publicity before that happens, but it will never get as far as a grand
jury. Believe me."
"Thank you." When she smiled, he could see no other thing in all that
dingy building. "I always seem to be thanking you."
"Which I find pleasant enough," he bowed.
"Why don't we go down to the station and explain it right now?" she
asked hesitantly. "You're not afraid of being arrested for the fight,
are you? That wasn't your fault."
"Oh, no. But my testimony and my reasoning aren't legally conclusive,"
he evaded.
"It would help a lot. It might get them out, tip the scales. I feel so
sorry for them now. That poor old man!"
Kintyre looked straight into the green eyes. "Will you trust me a
little bit?" he said. "Will you take my word that we can't do it
immediately?"
_Because the police would inquire further. Did I indeed hurt my arm and
my head in that fracas? No, say the Michaelises. Where, then? I do not
think their search would end short of Guido, your brother._
She bit her lip. "I hate to think of them locked up for something they
haven't done."
"At the present time," he said, "my story would compromise someone else
whom I also know to be innocent."
_Like hell I do._
She sighed. "All right. That's good enough for me." And then, with the
morning of her smile upon him again: "You've done enough for one day's
knight errantry. Let's go eat."
13
The restaurant was small and quiet. Corinna and Kintyre had a corner
table, where the light fell gently.
"By rights we should have a Genever apéritif," he said, "but I'm
convinced Dutch gin is distilled from frogs. On the other hand, Dutch
beer compares to Hof, Rothausbräu, or Kronenbourg."
"You've traveled a lot, haven't you?" she said. "I envy you that. Never
got farther than the Sierras myself."
A little embarrassed--he had not been trying to play the
cosmopolite--he fell silent while she glanced at her menu. "Will you
order for me?" she asked finally. "You know your way around these
dishes."
He made his selections, pleased by the compliment. When the beer came,
in conical half-liter glasses, he raised his: "_Prosit._"
"_Salute._" She drank slowly. "Wonderful. But this may not be wise on
top of two whiskies."
"It's all right if you go easy. Take the word of a hardened bowser." He
searched out an inward weariness on the strong broad face. "You could
use a little anesthesia."
"Well--" She set her glass down. "Bear with me. I promise not to
blubber, but I may get sentimental. Or maybe even hilarious, I don't
know. I've never lost anyone close to me before now."
"I understand," said Kintyre.
"And please help me steer clear of myself," she added. "I would like
to talk about Bruce, and otherwise about wholly neutral things." She
managed a smile. "I've been meaning to ask you something. You're the
Machiavelli specialist. Our theater did _Mandragola_ last year. Tell
me, how could the same man write that and _Il Principe_?"
"Actually," said Kintyre, "I would be surprised if the author of _The
Prince_--or, rather, the _Discourses on Livy_, since _The Prince_ is
really just a pamphlet--I'd be surprised if he had not done sheer
amusement equally well. One of the more damnable heresies of this
era is its notion that a man can only be good at one thing. That
versatility is not the inborn human norm."
"I've often thought the same," she said. "I suppose you know Bruce
changed his major to history because of you. He took one of your
classes as a freshman. Now I see why."
"Well," he stalled, and hoisted his beer.
She shifted the conversation with a tact he appreciated: "But how did
you happen to get interested in it, in the Italian Renaissance yet,
with a name like yours?"
"I served time in one of those private schools back East," he said.
"The Romance languages master got me enthusiastic."
He paused, then continued slowly: "I entered Harvard, but Pearl
Harbor happened in my sophomore year. I was in the Navy the whole
war, the Pacific; fell in love with the Bay Area on my shore leaves,
which is why I came here to live afterward. But during the war I
had a lot of time to read and try to think where this world was
going. To the wolves, I decided--like Machiavelli's world--I suppose
that's why I feel so close to him. He was also studying the problem
of how the decent man can survive. He spoke the truth as he saw it,
because he didn't think that civilization should be encumbered with
nice-nellyisms that the barbarians had already discarded. Wherefore he
became the original Old Nick, and the very people--us, the free people,
whom he could warn--won't listen, because we think he speaks for the
enemy!"