A slow flush crept up her throat.
That was something.
She could blush.
A glint of white showed under the clogged gray irises.
She chewed hard on her thumb.
"You — were the one?" she breathed.
"Me.
How much of it stays with you?"
She said vaguely: "Are you the police?"
"No.
I'm a friend of your father's."
"You're not the police?"
"No."
She let out a thin sigh.
"Wha — what do you want?"
"Who killed him?"
Her shoulders jerked, but nothing more moved in her face.
"Who else — knows?"
"About Geiger?
I don't know.
Not the police, or they'd be camping here.
Maybe Joe Brody."
It was a stab in the dark but it got a yelp out of her.
"Joe Brody!
Him!"
Then we were both silent.
I dragged at my cigarette and she ate her thumb.
"Don't get clever, for God's sake," I urged her. "This is a spot for a little old-fashioned simplicity.
Did Brody kill him?"
"Kill who?"
"Oh, Christ," I said.
She looked hurt.
Her chin came down an inch.
"Yes," she said solemnly. "Joe did it."
"Why?"
"I don't know." She shook her head, persuading herself that she didn't know.
"Seen much of him lately?"
Her hands went down and made small white knots.
"Just once or twice.
I hate him."
"Then you know where he lives."
"Yes."
"And you don't like him any more?"
"I hate him!"
"Then you'd like him for the spot."
A little blank again.
I was going too fast for her.
It was hard not to.
"Are you willing to tell the police it was Joe Brody?" I probed.
Sudden panic flamed all over her face.