‘What is it?’ she demanded, moving away from him. She picked up a comb from the dressing-table and ran it through her hair. ‘What is it?’
‘I tried to get you last night,’ he snarled, ‘but you were so drunk you didn’t hear me knocking.’
‘What is it?’ she repeated. She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the shadows under her eyes and the gaunt tightness of her skin. She grimaced and looked away.
‘Trouble.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Have you a typewriter?’
She stared at him, startled. Her head was beginning to ache.
‘A typewriter? Yes… why?’
‘Where is it?’
She motioned to where a battered portable stood against the wall. He picked it up, rested it on the bed and lifted the lid. It was an old Smith Corona.
‘Does it work?’
‘Yes… What is all this?’
‘I wrote that damned letter to Alice on the bank’s typewriter. The police have found out it was written on a standard Remington with faulty letters. If they find the machine, we’re in a hell of a jam.’
She stiffened, her eyes growing large.
‘You and your fool-proof plan!’ she said, her voice going shrill. ‘Now what are you going to do?’
‘Keep your voice down! I’ll get rid of the Remington and use this.’ He nodded to the portable. ‘If they ask, I’ll tell them I found the machine in the bank. Lamb’s dying and can’t be questioned. Alice can’t answer questions either.’
‘How will you get rid of the Remington?’
‘I’ll hide it in the vault.’
She relaxed a little.
‘Then take the portable and get out!’
‘I haven’t finished yet. That letter you’ve sent to your attorney. You’ve got to get it back. You don’t seem to realise if anything happens to you, the spot I’ll be in,’ Calvin said, trying to make his voice sound casual. ‘At the rate you’re drinking, you could drop dead any time, then where would I be?’
She smiled jeeringly at him.
‘You tried to murder me last night… remember? Why should I care what happens to you? Get out!’
‘I want that letter!’
‘You’re not getting it!’
They stared at each other, their hate white hot, then Calvin, realising there was nothing he could do to force her to give him the letter, suddenly shrugged. He would have to bring pressure on her somehow, but now wasn’t the time to worry about that. He had more vital things to cope with.
‘You know Iris is working for me?’ he said. ‘You were so drunk last night I don’t know if you remember.’
‘I remember,’ Kit said, looking at him strangely. ‘I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t. I’m warning you. If you try any of your tricks with her, I’ll kill you. I’m not warning you again.’
The cold baleful expression in her eyes made him uneasy. He remembered the gun.
‘Where did you get the gun from?’ he asked, watching her.
‘It was my husband’s,’ she said. ‘He taught me how to use it. I’m a good shot, Dave… remember that.’
He dismissed this with an impatient wave of his hand.
‘Give me the gun. In your condition, you’re not safe to own a gun. Come on… give it to me.’
She sneered at him.
‘It’s where you’ll never find it. Get out!’
‘I must have been crazy to have picked on you,’ he said, having to control the urge to take her by her throat and strangle her.
‘Think so?’ She laughed. ‘Well, you’re stuck with me. When are we getting married? What a couple we’ll make! I want to get out of this hole and start spending some money!’
