The fingers of his left hand hooked themselves inside of the girl’s green gown where it was cut low over the swell of her breasts. His gun never wavered from me. He jerked his left hand, ripping her gown down to the waistline.
“He did that, Cara,” Tennant said.
She nodded.
His fingers slid inside of the flesh-colored undergarment that was now exposed, and he tore that as he had torn the gown.
“He did that.”
She nodded again.
His bloodshot eyes darted little measuring glances at her face—swift glances that never kept his eyes from me for the flash of time I would have needed to tie into him.
Then—eyes and gun on me—he smashed his left fist into the girl’s blank white face.
One whimper—low and not drawn out—came from her as she went down in a huddle against the wall. Her face—well, there wasn’t much change in it. She looked dumbly up at Tennant from where she had fallen.
“He did that,” Tennant was saying.
She nodded, got up from the floor, and returned to her chair.
“Here’s our story.” The man talked rapidly, his eyes alert on me. “Gilmore was never in my rooms in his life, Cara, and neither were you. The night he was killed you were home shortly after one o’clock, and stayed there. You were sick—probably from the wine you had been drinking—and called a doctor. His name is Howard. I’ll see that he’s fixed. He got here at 2:30 and stayed until 3:30.
“Today, this gumshoe, learning that you had been intimate with Gilmore, came here to question you. He knew you hadn’t killed Gilmore, but he made certain suggestions to you—you can play them up as strong as you like; maybe say that he’s been annoying you for months—and when you turned him down he threatened to frame you.
“You refused to have anything to do with him, and he grabbed you, tearing your clothes, and bruising your face when you resisted. I happened to come along then, having an engagement with you, and heard you scream. Your front door was unlocked, so I rushed in, pulled this fellow away, and disarmed him. Then we held him until the police—whom we will phone for—came. Got that?”
“Yes, Stan.”
“Good! Now listen: When the police get here this fellow will spill all he knows, of course, and the chances are that all three of us will be taken in. That’s why I want you to know what’s what right now. I ought to have enough pull to get you and me out on bail tonight, or, if worst comes to worst, to see that my lawyer gets to me tonight—so I can arrange for the witnesses we’ll need. Also I ought to be able to fix it so our little fat friend will be held for a day or two, and not allowed to see anybody until late tomorrow—which will give us a good start on him. I don’t know how much he knows, but between your story and the stories of a couple of other smart ladies I have in mind, I’ll fix him up with a rep that will keep any jury in the world from ever believing him about anything.”
“How do you like that?” he asked me, triumphantly.
“You big clown,” I laughed at him, “I think it’s funny!”
But I didn’t really think so. In spite of what I thought I knew about Gilmore’s murder—in spite of my simple, satisfactory solution—something was crawling up my back, my knees felt jerky, and my hands were wet with sweat. I had had people try to frame me before—no detective stays in the business long without having it happen—but I had never got used to it. There’s a peculiar deadliness about the thing—especially if you know how erratic juries can be—that makes your flesh crawl, no matter how safe your judgment tells you you are.
“Phone the police,” Tennant told the girl; “and for God’s sake keep your story straight!” As he tried to impress that necessity on the girl his eyes left me.
I was perhaps five feet from him and his level gun.
A jump—not straight at him—off to one side—put me close.
The gun roared under my arm. I was surprised not to feel the bullet. It seemed that he must have hit me.
There wasn’t a second shot.
I looped my right fist over as I jumped. It landed when I landed. It took him too high—up on the cheekbone—but it rocked him back a couple of steps.
I didn’t know what had happened to his gun.
It wasn’t in his hand any more. I didn’t stop to look for it. I was busy, crowding him back—not letting him set himself—staying close to him—driving at him with both hands.
He was a head taller than I, and had longer arms, but he wasn’t any heavier or stronger. I suppose he hit me now and then as I hammered him across the room. He must have. But I didn’t feel anything.
I worked him into a corner. Jammed him back little in a corner with his legs cramped under him—which didn’t give him much leverage to hit from. I got my left arm around his body, holding him where I wanted him. And I began to throw my right fist into him.
I liked that. His belly was flabby, and it got softer every time I hit it. I hit it often.
He was chopping at my face, but by digging my nose into his chest and holding it there I kept my beauty from being altogether ruined. Meanwhile I threw my right fist into him.
Then I became aware that Cara Kenbrook was moving around behind me; and I remembered the revolver that had fallen somewhere when I had charged Tennant. I didn’t like that; but there was nothing I could do about it—except put more weight in my punches. My own gun, I thought, was in one of his pockets. But neither of us had
