I was waiting for that moment. I sprang at him, my right hand grabbing at his gun arm, my
left at his throat.
The gun went off with a crash that rattled the windows. Hame staggered back, then went
down with me on top of him. I fastened on to his wrist and smashed his gun hand down on
the floor. The gun went off again, but it fell from his hand.
For a minute or so we fought like a couple of animals. He was as strong as a bull, and knew
every dirty trick in the box. We rolled to and fro, upsetting the furniture, while we punched,
kneed and butted each other. It was like getting tangled up with a buzz-saw, trying to hold
him.
He got his hands on my throat and began to squeeze. He had a grip like a monkey-wrench,
and the air was cut off from my lungs. I clubbed him on the bridge of his nose and flattened
it, crashing the back of his head on the floor. For a second or so he was dazed and the
strength went out of his hands. I tore his fingers from my throat, twisted clear, crawled up on
hands and knees. He was up on his feet a shade after I had straightened up. His face was a
snarling mask of blood which poured from his broken nose.
At long range I knew I could take him, but hugged in those iron muscles he could lick me. I
had to keep clear of him.
Maybe he had forgotten I was a boxer. He didn’t act as if he thought I knew how to fight.
He rushed at me, his arms reaching out for my waist, to bring me down into another
murderous clawing wrestle on the floor. But I had had enough of that. I slipped to one side
and jolted my right in his face. That hurt him, but it didn’t stop him. He was tough. It’d take
more than a slam in the face to put him down.
He came at me again, and this time I went in at him. We met like two charging bulls, I felt
his hands grab my coat front. I grinned into his savage, blood-soaked face, then I brought
over the left hook: the same punch that had broken MacCready’s jaw, that had floored
Waller, that had put paid to the Miami Kid. It landed flush on the side of his jaw3 and I felt
the jar run up my arm. I didn’t care. He was out long before he hit the floor.
203
Gasping for breath I turned to look for Ginny, but she wasn’t there.
“Ginny!”
I rushed into the passage. The front door stood open. Turning, I ran back into the sitting-room and to the window.
I saw her running down the long drive towards the gates. She was staggering as she ran,
and she was holding her hands in her face. I leaned out of the window.
“Ginny! Wait for me!”
But she didn’t look round, although she must have heard me. She kept running, and beyond
her, at the gates I saw two prowl cars swing to the kerb. Two cops tumbled out of the first car
and started up the drive. She ran slap into them She was falling as she reached then, and one
of them caught her and lowered her to the ground. Two more prowl boys spilled out of the
second car and came pounding up the drive.
They looked up and saw me. I was looking at Ginny. There was a tightness in my throat
and a sick, empty feeling inside me. I had a premonition I was looking at her for the last time.
Then I turned and ran into the kitchen.
Benno lay stiff in death, his fat, vicious face seemed to snarl at me. I jumped over him,
climbed into the box elevator and loosened the brake.
Seconds later I was running down the weed-covered path to the back gate. No one fired at
me. I jerked open the gate and scrambled into the waiting Packard. I was shooting down the
narrow alley that led to the boulevard when I heard police whistles. At least I had a car under
me, and a fast car at that.
Where was I to go? The general alarm would be out in a few minutes, and every patrol car
