Silently, Hawes walked to her.
"You're a pretty smart bastard, aren't you?" she said.
"I
The gun in her hand moved upwards blurringly, came down again in a violent sweeping motion of wrist and arm. He felt the fixed sight at the barrel's end ripping into his cheek. He covered his face with his hands because he expected more. But more did not come. He looked at his fingers.
They were covered with fresh blood.
"No more stunts, redhead," she said coldly.
"Understand?"
"I understand."
"Now get out of my way. Over there on the other side of the room. You!" She turned to Brown.
"Inside. Hurry up!"
Brown moved deeper into the room. The puzzlement on his face was slowly giving way to awareness. And fast on the heels of this came a look of shrewd calculation.
Virginia picked up the bottle of nitroglycerin, and then began walking toward the coat rack, the bottle in one hand, the gun in the other. Her walk was a jerky nervous movement of shoulders, hips, and legs, devoid of all fernirlinity, a sharp, quick perambulation that propelled her across the room. And watching her erratic walk, Hawes was certain that the liquid in her hand was not the high explosive she claimed it was. And yet, nitro was funny.
Sometimes it went if you breathed on it.
And other times He wondered.
Nitro? Or water?
Step into the isolation booth, sir, and answer the question.
Quickly, Virginia removed Byrnes' pistol from her coat. She walked back to the desk, put the bottle of nitro down on its top, unlocked the desk drawer, and tossed the revolver in with the others.
"All right, you," she said to Brown.
"Give me your gun.
Brown hesitated.
"The bottle here is full of nitroglycerin," Virginia said calmly.
"Give me your gun."
Brown looked to Byrnes.
"Give it to her, Artie," Byrnes said.
"She's calling all the shots."
"What's her game?" Brown wanted to know.
"Never mind my game," Virginia said heatedly.
"Just shut your mouth and bring me your gun."
"You sure are a tough lady," Brown said.
He walked to the desk, watching her. He watched her while he unclipped his gun and holster. He was trying, in his own mind, to determine whether or not Virginia Dodge was a hater. He could usually spot hatred at a thousand paces, could know with instant certainty that the person he was looking at or talking to would allow the color of Brown's skin to determine the course of their relationship. Arthur Brown was a Negro. He was also a very impatient man.
He had learned early in the game that the chance similarity of his pigmentation and his name-was it chance, or had some long-ago slave owner chosen the name for simplicity?-only added to his black man's burden. Patiently, he waited for the inevitable slur, the thoughtless, comment.
Usually, it came-though not always. Now, as he put his gun and holster on the desk, his impatience reached unprecedented heights. He could read nothing on the face of Virginia Dodge. And, too, though he had newly entered the situation in the squad room he was impatiently itchy to have it done and over with.
Virginia pushed Brown's gun into the top drawer.
"Now get over there," she said.
"The other side of the room.~~ "Is it okay to report to the lieutenant first?" he asked.
"Lieutenant!" she called. Come here."
Byrnes walked over.
"He's got a report for you. Give it here, mister, where I can hear it all."
"How'd it go?" Byrnes said.
"No dice. And it isn't going to work either, Pete."
"Why not?"
"I stopped off in a candy store when I left the tailor shop. To get a pack of cigarettes."
"Yeah?"
"I got to talking with the owner. He told me there's been a lot of holdups in the neighborhood. Tailor shops mostly."
"Yeah?"
"But he told me the holdups would be stopping soon. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because-and this is just what he told me-there's a bull sitting in the back room of the tailor shop right up the street, just waiting for the crook to show up. That's what the guy in the candy store told me."
"I see."
"So if he knows, every other merchant on the street knows. And if they know, their customers know. And you can bet your ass the thief knows, too. So it won't work, Pete.
We'll have to dope out something else."
"Mmm," Byrnes said.
"You finished?"
Virginia asked.
"I'm finished."
"All right, get over on the other side of the room."
Byrnes walked away from the desk.
Brown hesitated.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you."
"Then move!"
"I mean, what do you want here? What's your purpose?"
"I'm here to kill Steve Carella."
"With a bottle of soup?"
"With a gun. The nitro is my insurance."
Brown nodded.
"Is it real?"
"It's real."
"How do I know?"
"You don't. Would you like to try belling the cat?" Virginia smiled.
Brown returned the smile.
"No, thank you, lady. I was just asking. Gonna kill Steve, huh?
Why, what'd he do to you? Give you a traffic ticket?"
"This isn't funny," Virginia said, the smile leaving her mouth.
"I didn't think it was, Who's the floozy?
Your partner?"
"I have no partner," Virginia said, and Brown thought her eyes clouded for a moment.
"She's a prisoner."
"Aren't we all?" Brown said, and again he smiled, and Virginia did not return the smile.
Hal Willis walked over to the desk.
"Listen," he said, "Miscolo's in a bad way. Will you let us get a doctor in here?"
"No," Virginia said.
"For Christ's sake, he may be dying! Look, you want Carella, don't you?
What's the sense in letting an innocent guy .
"No doctor," Virginia said.
"Why not?" Byrnes asked, walking over.
"You can keep him here after he treats Miscolo. Same as all of us. What the hell difference will it make?"
"No doctor," she said again.
Hawes drifted over to the desk.
Unconsciously, the four men assumed the position they would ordinarily use in interrogating a suspect. Hawes, Byrnes, and Brown were in front of the desk. Willis was standing to the right of it. Virginia sat in her chair, the bottle of nitro within easy reach of her left hand, the38 in her right hand.