“Are you trying to scare me?” she said, her eyes level and unwavering.
He said, “You don’t think I’ll shoot, do you?”
“Yes, I think you might.” Without letting her eyes leave his face, she moved her hand to indicate the marble head, glistening white, on the table beside her, and added slowly, “Why don’t you shoot Battling Bill? You hate him so.”
He moved his eyes to look at it, and then, without replying, but with a senseless vast relief surging through him, he deliberately pointed the revolver at the thing and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report; the statue faintly tilted and came to rest again with its nose splintered off; the revolver fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. Like a flash Millicent stooped and then was erect on her feet beside him, the revolver in her hand. She looked at him and chuckled; and hearing her chuckle and seeing the gun in her hand he suddenly smashed his fist hard into her face; she staggered against the chair with a little cry, and he hit her again, and she fell to the floor; and then, with a swift and terrible precision, he reached over and seized the heavy statue as if it had been made of cork and, lifting it high above him, hurled it upon her head as she lay there at his feet. There was a cracking sound like the breaking of a brittle board; and the statue, spattered with blood, rolled gently onto the rug and came to rest there with its broken nose pointing to the ceiling.
He stooped and picked up the revolver from the floor and stood there an instant with it in his hand, then suddenly darted for the door; and as he opened it, he heard Mrs. Jordan’s clumsy steps starting rapidly up the stairs, and her voice: “Mr. Lewis, was that you? What is it?” He stepped back and stood there two paces from the open door, the revolver still in his hand, unable to speak or move; he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Jordan’s face in the dim stairway, heard her scream, and heard her clattering downstairs again and yelling, “Police! Help, police!”
He slowly lifted his hand and looked at the revolver — inquiringly, as if it could tell him something he wanted to know; then with a violent convulsive shudder he relaxed his fingers and it fell. He rushed to the hall, to the head of the stairs, but hearing voices below returned to the room; and, not looking at what lay beside the statue on the floor, went to the window and raised it and leaned out. He heard shouts and, in the dim light from the street lamps, saw forms of people moving swiftly. He closed the window and deliberately and precisely pulled down the shade; then he turned and walked rapidly to the little table in the corner where the telephone stood, and lifted the instrument and took off the receiver and put it to his ear.
The sound of voices, and of heavy and hurried footsteps on the stairs, came through the open door as he said into the mouthpiece:
“Chelsea four three four three.”