He took a step nearer. Harry followed and closed the door. “Open it,” she said.
It was the first time he had heard her speak. Her voice was taut with fear, but she was full of courage. Harry didn’t respond. Roger took another step towards her. This was a long room, she seemed a vast distance away from him—ten or twelve yards.
“Don’t come nearer. Open the door.” Her voice was icy cold, now.
Roger said: “Put the gun down if you don’t want to get hurt, and come away from the telephone.” He whispered, although there was no danger of being heard outside the room. He went another step forward, and the gun was trained on his stomach, held so steadily that he knew she wouldn’t miss. He couldn’t watch both her eyes and her hand, and he had to watch her hand. He would see the sudden spasmodic movement if she were going to squeeze the trigger. So he watched her hand, not her eyes, and took another step forward. He felt prickly sweat over his face and neck, and he shivered.
He said: “I don’t want to hurt you. I——”
He jumped to one side as she fired. The bullet spat out with a bright flash. He felt it tear through his coat— and he heard Marry cry out. The bark of the report seemed like a thunderclap.
Roger leapt at her.
She was staring at Harry with horror in her eyes. That was for a split second. She jerked the gun up again as Roger sprang, but she had lost her composure; she fired again, but the bullet smacked into the floor. He reached her, hand thrust out, swung it and pushed her to one side. She struck the side of the bed and toppled on to it, still holding the gun. He grabbed her wrist, and twisted; the gun fell. He snatched it from the bed and backed away.
Harry gasped: “She—she got me.” His voice had a strained, wondering note in it.
Roger glanced at him. He was kneeling, with his right hand pressed into his side, and blood already seeped slowly through his fingers. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He had his mouth open, and gulped as if he were in pain.
Kennedy’s wife stood tiny and erect by the side of the bed, as if trying to defy Roger by her strength of will. The humming sound still came from the telephone, but he wasn’t worried about that, only about the door. Had the servants heard those shots? Only seconds had passed, but it seemed an age before he moved. She shrank back. He grabbed her shoulder and span her round, then reversed the gun in his hand. Her hair was short, a cluster of curls. He struck her at the back of the neck, and it was like striking a Dresden figure. She groaned and pitched forward.
She lay still, against the bed.
Roger put the telephone back on its cradle.
Harry said: “I’m—done for.”
There was no sound outside on the landing, but whoever came would come stealthily.
“Nonsense.” Roger stepped past him. Gun in hand, he I, opened the door cautiously, then drew back and switched off the lights. The landing light glowed faintly. He peered towards the stairs, saw no one and heard nothing except . . . the thunderous beating of his heart. He waited; there was no creaking of approach, no visible shadowy shape. Nothing.
The study door was ajar. He turned, passed Harry again and said: “You’ll be all right, Harry.” Harry still pressed his hand to his side, and the blood smeared the back of his hand, his face was ghastly. He reached the woman, lifted her and carried her across the landing to the study. She was as light as a child. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and turned and went back for Harry, who knelt in the same awkward position, and licked his lips.
“I’m going to take you into the other room. Take it easy. Just hold your side.”
Harry didn’t speak.
How did a lean man come to weigh so heavy?
Roger grunted with the strain as he lifted him and took him across the landing. He laid him on the floor, stretched out. He went back into the bedroom, dragged a sheet and two pillows off the bed, and hurried out, closing the door. He closed the study door firmly.
Neither Harry nor the woman moved. He pushed her chair away from a table, so that there was nothing she could pick up stealthily, while he was looking away from her; she would soon come round and might try to fox him. Then he put a pillow under Harry’s head. I “Let me have a look.”
“I’m—done for,” gasped Harry.
“Not yet—not by a long way. A doctor——”
“Don’t you—send for one.” There was pain instead of fear in Harry’s eyes. “You finish the job.” He licked his lips again.
Roger said: “Let me have a look at you.” He forced Harry’s hand away, and the blood dripped on to the carpet. The wound seemed to be on the left side, not dead centre. He unfastened Harry’s waistcoat and trousers and pulled up the sodden shirt. Blood oozed out of a wound. He folded a handkerchief into a wad and pressed it on the wound to staunch the flow. “Hold it there, Harry.” He put Harry’s hand on the pad, and then turned to the sheet. He started a tear with his knife, then ripped off strips. With one, he made a second pad, with another he began to bind Harry’s waist. It wasn’t easy to pass the bandage beneath the man.
Harry clenched his teeth now, fighting against the pain.
The bandage was in position at last, with a thick wedge over the wound.
Get Harry into hospital now, and he’d have a chance; leave him for an hour, and he’d probably die. Roger glanced at the woman. She seemed to be as he had left her, unconscious.
The safe gaped open, the tools and case stood on the floor near it. Roger went across. The edge of the metal was still warm to the touch. The safe was much larger than the opening seemed to suggest. There were rolls of paper— thick rolls. Jewel-cases, money, a dozen oddments. He pulled out several of the rolls, which were
