Ellen had been standing in the kitchen looking out through the closed window and listening to the fading theme of Gordon Gant's program, when she suddenly realized that with the window closed, where was that pleasant breeze coming from?
There was a shadowed alcove in a rear corner of the room. She went to it and saw the back door, with the pane of glass nearest the knob smashed in and lying in fragments on the floor. She wondered if Dwight knew about it. You'd think he would have swept up the- That was when she heard the shot. It smacked loudly through the house, and as the sound died the ceiling light shivered as if something upstairs had fallen. Then there was silence.
The radio said, 'At the sound of the chimes, ten PM, Central Standard Time,' and a chime toned.
'Dwight?' Ellen said.
There was no answer.
She went into the dining room. She called the name louder: 'Dwight?'
In the living room she moved hesitantly to the staircase. There was no sound from overhead. This time she spoke the name with dry throated apprehension: 'Dwight?'
The silence held for another moment. Then a voice said, 'It's all right, Ellen. Come on up.'
She hurried up the stairs with her heart drumming. 'In here,' the voice said from the right. She pivoted around the newel post and swept to the lighted doorway.
The first thing she saw was Powell lying on his back in the middle of the room, limbs sprawled loosely. His jacket had fallen away from his chest On his white shirt blood was flowering from a black core over his heart.
She steadied herself against the jamb. Then she raised her eyes to the man who stood beyond Powell, the man with the gun in his hand.
Her eyes dilated, her face went rigid with questions that couldn't work their way to her lips.
He shifted the gun from the firing position to a flat appraising weight on his gloved palm. 'I was in the closet,' he said, looking her straight in the eye, answering the unasked questions. 'He opened that suitcase and took out this gun. He was going to kill you, I jumped him. The gun went off.'
'No... Oh God...' She rubbed her forehead dizzily. 'But how... how did you...?'
He put the gun in the pocket of his coat. 'I was in the cocktail lounge,' he said. 'Right behind you. I heard him talking you into coming up here. I left while you were in the phone booth.'
'He told me he...'
'I heard what he told you. He was a good liar.'
'Oh God, I believed him... I believed him...'
'That's just your trouble,' he said with an indulgent smile. 'You believe everybody.'
'Oh God...' she shivered. He came to her, stepping between Powell's spraddled legs.
She said, 'But I still don't understand... How were you there, in the lounge...?'
'I was waiting for you in the lobby. I missed you when you went out with him. Got there too late. I kicked myself for that But I waited around. What else could I do?'
'But how. . . how...?' He stood before her with his arms wide, like a soldier returning home. 'Look, a heroine isn't supposed to question her nick-of-time rescuer. Just be glad you gave me his address. I may have thought you were being a fool, but I wasn't going to take any chances on having you get your head blown off.' She threw herself into his arms, sobbing with relief and retrospective fear. The leather-tight hands patted her back comfortingly. 'It's all right, Ellen,' he said softly. 'Everything's all right now.'
She buried her cheek against his shoulder. 'Oh Bud,' she sobbed, 'thank God for you! Thank God for you, Bud!'
The telephone rang downstairs.
'Don't answer it,' he said as she started to draw away.
There was a lifeless glaze to her voice: 'I know who it is.'
'No, don't answer it. Listen,'-his hands were solid and convincing on her shoulders-'someone is sure to have heard that shot. The police will probably be here in a few minutes. Reporters, too.' He let that sink in. 'You don't want the papers to make a big story out of this, do you? Dragging up everything about Dorothy, pictures of you...'
'There's no way to stop them...'
'There is. I have a car downstairs. I'll take you back to the hotel and then come right back here.' He turned off the light 'If the police haven't shown up yet, I'll call them. Then you won't be here for the reporters to jump on, and I'll refuse to talk until I'm alone with the police. They'll question you later, but the papers won't know you're involved.' He led her out into the hallway. 'By that time you'll have called your father; he's got enough influence to keep the police from letting out anything about you or Dorothy. They can say Powell was drunk and started a fight with me, or something like that.'
The telephone stopped ringing.
'I wouldn't feel right about leaving...' she said as they started down the stairs.
'Why not? I'm the one who did it, not you. It's not as if I'm going to lie about your being here; I'll need you to back up my story. All I want to do is prevent the papers from having a field day with this.' He turned to her as they descended into the living room. 'Trust me, Ellen,' he said, touching her hand.
She sighed deeply, gratefully letting tension and responsibility drop from her shoulders. 'All right,' she said. 'But you don't have to drive me. I can get a cab.'
'Not at this hour, not without phoning. And I think the streetcars stop running at ten.' He picked up her coat and held it for her.
'Where did you get a car?' she asked dully.
'I borrowed it'-he gave her her purse-'From a friend.' Turning off the lights, he opened the door to the porch. 'Come on,' he said, 'we haven't got too much time.'
He had parked the car across the street and some fifty feet down the block. It was a black Buick sedan, two or three years old. He opened the door for Ellen, then went around to the other side and slipped in behind the wheel. He fumbled with the ignition key. Ellen sat silently, hands folded in her lap. 'You feel all right?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said, her voice thin and tired. 'It's just that... he was going to kill me...' She sighed. 'At least I was right about Dorothy. I knew she didn't commit suicide.' She managed a reproachful smile. 'And you tried to talk me out of making this trip...'
He got the motor started. 'Yes,' he said. 'You were right.'
She was silent for a moment. 'Anyway, there's a sort of a silver lining to all this,' she said.
'What's that?' He shifted gears and the car glided forward.
'Well, you saved my life,' she said. 'You really saved my life. That should cut short whatever objections my father might have, when you meet him and we speak to Mm about us.'
After they had been driving down Washington Avenue for a few minutes, she moved closer to him and hesitantly took his arm, hoping it wouldn't interfere with Ms driving. She felt something hard pressing against her Mp and realized that it was the gun in his pocket, but she didn't want to move away.
'Listen, Ellen,' he said. 'This is going to be a lousy business, you know.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I'll be held for manslaughter.'
'But you didn't mean to kill him! You were trying to get the gun away from him.'
'I know, but they'll still have to hold me... all kinds of red tape...' He stole a quick glance at the downcast figure beside him and then returned Ms gaze to the traffic ahead. 'Ellen... when we get to the hotel, you could just pick up your things and check out. We could be back in Caldwell in a couple of hours...'
'Bud!' Her voice was sharp with surprised reproach. 'We couldn't do a thing like that!'
'Why not? He killed your sister, didn't he? He got what was coming to him. Why should we have to get mixed up-'
'We can't do it,' she protested. 'Aside from its being such a-a wrong thing to do, suppose they found out anyway that you... killed him. Then they'd never believe the truth, not if you ran away.'
'I don't see how they could find out it was me,' he said. 'I'm wearing gloves, so there can't be any finger- prints. And nobody saw me there except you and him.'
'But suppose they did find out! Or suppose they blamed someone else for it! How would you feel then?' He
