‘I think you’re swell,’ I said.
‘Donald, I don’t usually do this. I have been feeling so lonesome and all alone — and from the first time I met you—’
I kissed her again. After that, I gently slid the blouse away from her neck and looked at the bruised marks. She stood perfectly still. I could feel her even, regular breathing, but a pulse in her neck was throbbing rapidly.
‘How big was this man who tried to choke you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I tell you it was dark.’
‘Was he big and fat, or small and thin?’
‘He wasn’t fat.’
‘His hands must have been small.’
‘Well — I don’t know—’
‘Look here,’ I said, ‘there are little scratches on the skin which could have been made by fingernails. Now, are you certain it wasn’t a woman?’
She caught her breath at that. ‘Scratches?’ she asked.
‘Yes, scratches, nail scratches. The person who choked you must have had long, pointed fingernails. Now why couldn’t it have been a woman as well as a man?’
‘Because I don’t think — no, I think it was a man.’
‘But you couldn’t see anything at all?’
‘No.’
‘It was pitch dark?’
‘Yes.’
‘And whoever it was made no sound?’
‘No.’
‘Simply started to choke you and you fought free?’
‘Yes, I pushed him away.’
‘And you have absolutely no idea who it was?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘There’s nothing whatever to give you a clue?’
‘No.’
I patted her shoulder. ‘All right, dear. I just wanted to find out. That’s all.’
‘I— I think I’ll sit down,’ she said. ‘I get nervous every time I talk about it.’
She went over to the overstuffed chair and sat down.
‘I think you’d better tell me about your boy friend,’ I said.
‘He’s in Kansas City.’
‘But you don’t think he’s going to stay there?’
‘If he finds out where I am, he may come here.’
‘Don’t you think he’s found out already?’
‘No. He couldn’t have found out.’
‘And yet in the back of your mind there’s the thought that he may have—’
‘Don’t, Donald, please,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to. Better button up your blouse. Sandra and Bleatie may be here any minute.’
She raised her hands to her blouse. I saw the fingers quiver as she fitted the loops over the buttons.
Afternoon sun streamed into the room, made it hot and close. There was no breeze, and the open windows seemed merely to attract the hot air which radiated up from the side of the building.
The bell captain knocked at the door, pushed a brown paper package into my hands. ‘Listen, buddy,’ he said, ‘don’t get into any trouble with this rod. It’s a good one, but I had to lie like hell to get old Mose to let loose of it.’
I said, ‘Thanks,’ kicked the door shut, ripped off the brown wrappings, and brought to light a thirty-two blue-steel automatic. The blue was worn off the steel in places; but the barrel was in good condition. I opened the box of shells, pushed the magazine full, and said to Alma Hunter, ‘You know how to work this?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Here’s a safety catch that you work with your thumb,’ I explained. ‘Here’s another safety catch on the back of the handle which you automatically release when you squeeze your hand about the grip. All you have to do is to hold it in your right hand, pull this little lever down with your thumb, and pull the trigger. Do you understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Let’s see if you do.’ I removed the magazine, jerked the mechanism back and forth, snapped the safety catch into position, handed it to her, and said, ‘Shoot me.’
She took the gun and said, ‘Donald, don’t say that.’
‘Point it at me,’ I said. ‘Shoot me. You’ve got to. I’m going to choke you. Come on, Alma, snap out of it. Let’s see if you can point the gun and pull the trigger.’
She pointed the gun and tried to pull the trigger. The skin grew white across her knuckles, but nothing happened.
‘The safety catch,’ I said.
She jerked the catch down with her thumb. I heard the click of the firing pin against the chamber, and then she sat down on the bed as though her knees had lost all their strength. The gun dropped from her limp fingers to the carpet.
I picked up the gun, shoved the magazine back into position, jacked a shell up into the chamber, saw that the safety catch was on, removed the magazine, and shoved in a shell to take the place of the one that had gone up into the firing chamber. I put the gun in her purse.
She watched me with frightened, fascinated eyes.
I wrapped the extra box of shells in the brown paper and dropped it into the bureau drawer. Then I went over and sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Listen, Alma,’ I said, ‘that gun’s loaded. Don’t shoot anyone unless you have to, but if anyone starts playing with your neck again, you start making noises with that gun. You don’t need to hit him. Just cut loose with the gun. That will bring help.’
She stretched out on the bed, and twisted her lithe, supple body around to mine with a gesture that reminded me of a kitten twisting around in play. Her arms came around my neck, drew me to her. I felt the tip of her tongue searching my lips.
It was perhaps an hour later that a quick succession of knocks announced the arrival of Sandra Birks and her brother.
I opened the door.
‘Where’s Alma?’ Sandra Birks asked.
‘In the bathroom,’ I said, ‘washing her eyes. She’s nervous and upset. She’s been crying.’
‘And I presume,’ Sandra said, looking at the rumpled bed, ‘you were comforting her.’
Bleatie stared down at the pillow and said, ‘Hell, they’re all the same.’
Sandra turned on him. ‘You shut up, Bleatie,’ she said. ‘You have a dirty mind. You don’t think any woman’s decent.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what were you thinking?’
I said, ‘Did you see anything of Morgan Birks?’
Sandra seemed anxious to change the subject. ‘No, we came in the back way, bribed the porter to take us up in the freight elevator.’
Alma came out of the bathroom.
‘She hasn’t been crying,’ Bleatie said.
Sandra ignored him. ‘What’s going on in the next room?’ she asked.
‘Miss Sally Durke has become Mrs. B. F. Morgan,’ I said. ‘She’s waiting for Mr. Morgan to join her. Doubtless it’ll be before dinner. They may have dinner served in their room.’
‘We can prop this door open and listen,’ Sandra Birks said.
‘You don’t give your husband credit for very much intelligence, do you?’ I asked.
‘Why?’
‘He’d spot that open door before he was halfway down the corridor. No, we’ll have to take turns listening at the bathroom door. We can hear him when he comes in.’
Bleatie said, ‘I’ve got a scheme that beats that all to pieces.’ He took a pocket drill from his pocket, tiptoed into the bathroom, listened a minute, and said, ‘The place to bore holes in a door is right in the corner of the panel.’
‘Put that thing away,’ I said. ‘You’ll just spill wood particles all over the floor and put her wise.’
‘Have you any plans?’ he asked me.