Some food had just been brought in for him; there was coffee, but no spoon, and Judd eased the atmosphere at once by borrowing a pencil from Richard Lyman with which to stir his coffee. “I hope you have another one for your notes,” he said. And recognizing me, he said “Hello” with a smile that admitted social acquaintance, but made it clear that this would not give me an edge in the interview.

We joked a bit about his few hours in jail, and Judd declared that in Mr. Horn’s place he would do the same – it was the State’s Attorney’s duty to make an absolutely thorough investigation.

Lyman took the lead, and asked about the glasses.

“It’s queer,” Judd said. “All along when I read in the papers about the glasses, I had a feeling they might be mine.”

“Why didn’t you check on it?” Mike Prager cut in.

“Well, I suppose there are things we don’t really want to find out. Wouldn’t that be the psychology of it?”

The questioning got to his alibi. “I certainly hope those girls come forward,” Judd declared. “It may be a bit embarrassing, but it is more embarrassing for me if they don’t.”

We all laughed, and made the point about their honour being safe since they walked home. Peg Sweet said archly, “That is, if they did walk home?”

Judd smiled amiably. Somebody behind me asked, “What would you do with ten thousand dollars?”

Eagerly Judd replied, “Why on earth should anyone imagine I would kidnap someone for ransom? I get all the money I want from my father, and besides, I teach three classes in bird lore, and get paid for it.” He seemed to be speaking directly to me. And in that moment I was sure he was innocent. What indeed had I been blaming him for? An interest in sixteenth-century Italian pornography? Did that make him a pervert and a murderer? Confronting him, I found the whole idea impossible to believe, and from that moment, I suppose, there had to grow for me the mistrust of human confrontation that is so deep a mark upon our time. What could you truly know of anyone by looking into his face, his eyes?

Tom’s stock phrase – “What do you know for sure?” – reverberated in my mind as I walked from the police station. For besides Judd’s story, there was Artie’s. If you believed one, you couldn’t believe the other. Yet both were polite, smiling, and eager to help solve the dreadful crime.

Artie had been brought back to the State’s Attorney’s headquarters. Through the glass door to the corner office I could see him talking to Padua. Artie waved to me, and presently Padua came out.

“Listen, Sid, maybe you can help us.” Wasn’t I the one who had been with Artie that day, finding the drugstore? And wasn’t I a fraternity brother of Artie’s?

I nodded, but said that didn’t mean an awful lot.

Still, he said, maybe I could talk to Artie. The other fellow, Judd, had at least told some kind of a story. But Artie wouldn’t remember anything. “You know how it is. We don’t want to keep these fellows any longer than we have to. Ask him for God’s sake just to tell the truth. Maybe they were up to some kind of shenanigans-”

I didn’t believe Artie would tell me anything, but I couldn’t refuse to try.

“Just one thing,” he said. “Don’t tell him Judd’s story.”

I went in. “Hail the boy reporter!” Artie said. “Hey, have you got me in the papers?”

“You’re famous.”

“Am I a suspect? Hey, this is the nuts!”

I grinned. “Well, you know this is a hell of a case, Artie, and the glasses were all they had to go by.”

“Oh, I don’t blame them,” he said. “But my mother is kind of upset, otherwise this would be fun.” He threw away a half-smoked cigarette and almost instantly lighted another.

“Artie, look,” I said. “Why don’t you tell the truth, whatever it is, and get it over with? Whatever you and Judd may have been up to, it isn’t worth being suspected of the crime.”

“You think I was up to something with Judd?” he asked.

“Oh, hell, you’re always together,” I said.

“That what he said?” He smiled back at my smile. “Yah, you’ve been busy making time with my girl!” he kidded. “I’ve got my spies in operation. Hey, what does Myra think? She think Judd could have done a thing like that?”

“Well, those glasses were pretty embarrassing,” I said. “And the fact that you don’t remember anything specific about Wednesday makes it look worse for him.”

“It looks bad for him?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that exactly. But I guess the question has to be cleared up.”

“Listen, you don’t think they’re going to make him confess, or any crap like that?” he demanded. “If they start pushing him around…”

I said I didn’t think there was any pushing around. “But, Artie, if you know anything, if you can help him out of it – you know him better than anybody.”

“He says I was with him?”

“Well-”

“Aw, can it, Why would the cops pick me up if it wasn’t to check on his story? I didn’t lose any glasses anywhere.”

“Well, if you were with him, no matter what you were up to,” I repeated, “it can’t be as bad as this. Otherwise, they can’t let him go. There’s nothing to prove his story.”

Artie stared at me. Again he flung away his cigarette. “Okay, kid.” He walked around, then perched on the desk. He cracked, “If you see Myra, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he said, “Stick around out there. I may give you another scoop.”

Padua looked inquiringly at me as I came out. I smiled but shrugged. He hurried back into that office. Now Artie began to remember a few details about Wednesday. He had been all ginned up all that day and evening, he said, but some of it was beginning to come clear.

I suppose Artie feared that with his story uncorroborated, Judd might break down. If Judd confessed, would he not in his bitterness involve his partner? Then the only hope for both of them now was for him to help Judd get released.

So Artie now recalled that there had been a couple of broads involved – he could even think of their names: his was Edna, kind of redheaded. They had picked up the girls on 63rd Street… And so, point by point, he told the same story.

Why had he waited so long to tell it? “My mother doesn’t like me to run with these cheap broads,” he said.

Yet, even his waiting could be interpreted favourably, For if it were simply an alibi that the boys had agreed upon, wouldn’t Artie have come out with it at once, the way Judd had?

And so, that morning, the suspicion was lifting. Judd Steiner, cheerful and candid. And Artie Straus finally corroborating the story of Mae and Edna.

Probably, because of their wealth, I thought, I had been resentfully ready to believe anything of them.

As I entered the newsroom, Reese tilted his chin, a signal for me to step to his desk. “I think they’re clean,” I said. “Artie Straus just told exactly the same story as Judd Steiner, about the two girls.”

He shoved the early edition of the American toward me, with part of their lead story circled in red pencil. It was a beat on us. A letter, a carbon found in Judd Steiner’s room. “Dear Artie,” it began. It seemed to deal with some bygone incident between Judd and Artie and Willie Weiss, and at first glance I could not see its importance. There was some quarrel about whether Judd had betrayed to Willie Weiss a secret that Artie had confided to Judd. This letter was Judd’s denial of betrayal. It had been written after a big scene between them. A passage, printed in bold type read: “When you came to my house this afternoon I expected either to break friendship with you or attempt to kill you unless you told me why you acted yesterday as you did.” This was Judd, to Artie.

The letter continued: “You did, however, tell me… Now, I apprehend, though here I am not quite sure, that you said that you did not think me treacherous in intent, nor ever have, but that you considered me in the wrong and expected such a statement from me. This statement I unconditionally refused to make until such time as I may become convinced of its truth…”