‘You wouldn’t be kidding?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘Not this time, baby. I’m past kidding You haven’t a lot to worry about. With your looks you’ll probably only get fifteen years.’
‘If that’s the way you feel about it,’ she said, and lifted her elegant shoulders. ‘Then I’d better change.’ She picked up her coffee-cup. ‘Could I have a little whisky in this? You may not believe it but I feel a little sick.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
‘Help yourself,’ I said.
She threw the cup at me. I was half-expecting it, but she moved a shade faster than I thought it possible for anyone to move. By the time I had dashed the coffee out of my eyes she had the .45.
‘I asked for that,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘I should have remembered you once did this kind of thing for a living.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes lit up so they looked like emeralds. ‘Get in there, and don’t ‘try anything funny. I’m as good a shot as ever Lee was, and I couldn’t miss you if I tried.’
I backed into her bedroom.
‘Over there by the wall and face the wall,’ she ordered. ‘One move out of you and you’ll get it. I’m going to change.’
She had picked the wrong spot for there was a dressing table close by and I could see her in the mirror. But that didn’t help me much. I was about six yards from her and the bed was between us. She had wiped out four people already; one more couldn’t make much difference to her dreams; if she had dreams, and I was beginning to doubt she had.
‘This scene has gone a little sour,’ I said, for something to say. ‘The detective always gets his girl. If you shoot me the story will have an immoral ending.’
She laughed.
‘I like immoral stories. Did you leave your car outside?’
‘Sure. Shall I give you the ignition key?’
She sat on a chair and pulled on stockings. The gun lay on the window ledge within easy reach. If it hadn’t been for the bed I would have taken a chance, but the bed made it very difficult.
‘I’ll get it later,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’
She got up and began hunting through the drawers of her wardrobe. She held the gun in one hand now.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I asked her.
‘New York. Thanks to you the police will never even suspect me. I hope to make a new start in New York. A girl with my looks doesn’t have to worry a great deal. I think I told you that before.’
‘So you did.’ I was aware that I was beginning to sweat. Maybe it was turning warmer or I was turning yellow. It was not the kind of thing I cared to analyse in a situation like this.
She found a green silk vest, stepped into it and pulled it up over her hips under her nightdress. The time for act on would be when she pulled the nightdress over her head. I screwed up my nerves and tensed my muscles. She didn’t pull the nightdress over her head, but let it slip off her shoulders and stepped out of it. It was suicide, but better than being shot down in cold blood.
As she was on one leg, stepping out of the nightdress, I swung round, flung myself across the bed towards her, my heart in my mouth, and scared as stiff as a board.
She never blinked an eyelid, and stood still, a lovely little half-naked figure, her neatly made-up lips curved in a smile. The barrel of the .45, looking as big as the top of a beer tankard, shifted to cover me. I saw her finger turn white on the trigger. I scrambled madly towards her, throwing out my hands, but I was miles and miles away from her and hours and hours too late. The automatic burst into one continuous roar: the gunflash scorched my face. The first slug missed me, so did the second and third. By that time I had reached her and smashed the gun out of her hand. Then I came to an abrupt stop. She was down on the floor, a look of terror fixed on her face, her eyes open and blank, her mouth twisted out of shape and the front of her chest smashed in. Blood welled out of the hole in the centre of her chest, big enough to hold a baseball. I stood staring stupidly, not understanding, seeing her eyes roll back and set, and her hand flop heavily on the carpet.
Slowly I turned to look at the gun lying by her side. Smoke curled out of the telescopic sight. It took me a few moments to understand what that meant: it was a trick gun: a gun that killed the killer; a gun that fired backwards. Thayler’s last little joke. His gift to me, and the joke had turned sour.
I drew away from the stream of blood that filtered through the complicated pattern of the rug. The place was sound proof, and it was unlikely anyone had heard the shots, but I couldn’t afford to take any chances. I stepped into the sitting room, picked up my coffee-cup and saucer and the empty whisky glass and my hat. There were a couple of my cigarette-stubs to collect too. I looked around the room, trying to remember if I had touched anything. I wiped the surface of the table over with my handkerchief just to be on the safe side. Then I turned out the light, opened the casement door and looked into the half-light of the dawn. There was no one in sight. Rain fell steadily.
I went towards my car at a steady run.