Rowena sank back as far as she could even while she tried to make out the figure in the doorway; she pressed against the side of the armoire as if to be absorbed by its mass into just another shadow in her dark room. She watched, acutely sensitive to every nuance of movement he revealed. The man was tall and slender, in dark clothing with an alpine mask over his face. He held a pistol in his gloved hand, and he very slowly advanced on the bed, his slow progress supremely confident; Rowena could almost smell malice emanating from him, and it frightened her. Suddenly her protected niche felt more like a trap than a haven.
The tall man bent over the bed, bringing the gun up toward the pillow.
How much Rowena wanted to scream! It was all she could do to remain quiet She tightened her grip on the shotgun as the thin man started to draw back the covers, uttering an oath as he did. Rowena lifted the upper barrel of the shotgun and fired, the blast deafening in the small room. She staggered and almost fell back against the wall.
Cenere slewed about, aiming his pistol while hissing a string of obscenities in a language that sounded not-quite-Italian. He fired twice.
Now Rowena let out a high-pitched shriek and fired the lower barrel; she had the satisfaction of seeing the thin man lurch while clapping his arm against his side. She pushed out of her hiding-place and struck at him, knocking him backward onto the bed; he let go of his pistol and clapped his hand to the wound in a more concentrated effort to stop the bleeding.
“What—? Buckshot?” he gasped.
“Yes,” she said, panting, astonished that she had gained the advantage. She grabbed his pistol and let go of the shotgun. “Now you lie back there. Do you understand me?” Her words were rapid and breathless, but her hands did not shake as she aimed his pistol directly at his head. “I don’t suppose I’ll miss at this range.”
Cenere had a low opinion of women’s ability to handle firearms, but he was unwilling to put this to the test, not while he lay there bleeding and she held his own pistol aimed at him. “I’m wounded.”
“Good Lord, I should hope so,” Rowena exclaimed. “I’m only sorry it wasn’t worse.”
“Well, help me,” he ordered.
“Why should I?” she countered. “Lie there, mister. I’m going to tie you up.”
“With what?” He did his best to laugh and ended coughing, each jolt sending pain through his body.
“Silk scarves, if I must,” she said grimly, and, still aiming the pistol at him, went to rummage with one hand in her chest-of-drawers. At last she pulled out three lengths of silk and stuffed them into the neckline of her peignoir, all the while watching him.
From his place on the bed, Cenere could tell that his wounds, while painful, were not truly serious; he was in more danger from blood-loss. He studied the middle-aged woman who held his pistol and decided he had been mistaken to try to reach Ragoczy through her. She was not the kind of female who would be frightened into giving up any and all information he wanted, and as much as he might enjoy forcing her to talk at another time, he could not risk killing her; she was just the sort who would lie to him and expire. He promised himself another time with Miss Rowena Saxon—once Ragoczy was out of the way, he would reward himself with slowly killing her.
“Hold out your arm,” she said as she came nearer to the bed.
“I’m bleeding,” he complained.
“Whose fault is that? Put out your arm.” She lifted the pistol a little higher. She was feeling light-headed and knew that it was distress that caused her giddiness.
“I’m hurt, don’t you understand, you cow?” He hoped to goad her into doing something rash.
“I can shoot you again and tie you up at my leisure,” she said at her most measured.
Sighing, he flung out his right arm. “Very well. There you are.”
She approached him carefully, pulling out a scarf and making a loop in it. “Lift your hand.”
“For God’s sake—!” he protested. “Do you use them on that degenerate you sleep with?”
She fired again, and saw a portion of her upholstered headboard spray splinters and bits of fabric and stuffing. “Next time I’ll hit you. I’ll aim for your shoulder, but I might get your jaw or your neck.”
Cenere lifted his hand, wanting to seem defeated; he would have to move quickly, and the way he was bleeding, he might not be able to overwhelm her. “There. Is this what you wanted?”
She slipped the loop over his wrist and drew it tight. In that moment, he rolled and fell into her, knocking her backward. “Damn!” she yelled, and fired.
This time the bullet clipped his shoulder, just a flesh wound, but enough to make it impossible for him to attack her beyond one emphatic blow with his fist that glanced off her cheek but was still strong enough to knock her over. Instead of continuing his assault, he lunged for the door and struggled to get out of the bedroom. He tugged the door closed behind him as he heard her trying to get to her feet. Rushing as much as he could, he stumbled down the corridor to the stairs. He had to grip the bannister with both hands in order to descend without falling, and he tottered four times, losing precious time to hold himself erect. His blood was leaving a trail anyone could follow, and he knew he would have to get away quickly or he would have every policeman on duty looking for him. As he caught sight of the telephone, he took a few precious seconds to tug its wire from the wall, hoping this would slow her reporting of this incident. Banging his way through the kitchen, he made for the back porch as if seeking deliverance. He reached the rear door and bumbled out into the tiny yard. There was still the fence to climb, which had not been more than a minor obstacle when he had come here forty minutes ago; it now loomed high as the towers of the unfinished Golden Gate Bridge. He struggled over it, grunting and sweating, and dropped into the other yard on rubbery legs. This was not good, he knew, as he made himself keep going toward the street where his motorcycle waited. If he could manage to ride it for an hour he could reach help beyond San Francisco, where he would not be found. This conviction drove him on even as his vision began to waver as shock started to take its toll.
Rowena pulled herself to her feet using the bed-stead. Her head rang from being hit, and she could feel a patch of blood on her face. She was mildly disoriented, and made an effort to keep standing, and finally managed to get her feet squarely under her. She knew the man was gone, for she had heard him slam out the back door. She would have liked to sit down and cry, but she was aware that would only help the criminal, so she marshaled her resolve, turned on the lights—the mess was appalling: blood everywhere, and gouges from buckshot and bullets marring her walls and furniture—and went out into the hall. Following the trail of blood down to the first floor, she went to the telephone stand at the foot of the stairs. She picked up the receiver and heard only silence; she dialed the operator with the same result For an instant she felt tears well, but she strove to contain her rocky emotions; her ordeal was not over yet. As she took a step back, she saw that the telephone was not connected to its box, and she stifled a sob. She turned on more lights and tried not to step in any of the blood on her floors and carpets. With a sigh, she took her raincoat from the coat-closet across from the front door, picked up her purse, checked it for keys and her change-purse, then went to her garage, raised the door, and got into her Chancellor Miller Speedster. As she drove out in search of a pay telephone, she kept alert for a tall, lean man in dark clothes who would probably be limping now, or at least moving slowly.
On Hyde Street she found what she sought, and made a call to the police, giving her name and address and a brief summary of what had happened. She also told the duty officer that she was afraid to return to the house until the police arrived. He promised they would come soon, and hung up. She waited almost a full minute before she called Saint-Germain.
“Ferenc Ragoczy speaking,” he said as if he were used to telephone calls in the middle of the night.
“Oh, Good Lord,” Rowena said, and to her intense chagrin, burst into tears, unable to say any of th
e prudent, cordial things she had intended.
“Rowena,” he said, suddenly very worried. “What’s happened? Are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m in a telephone booth at Hyde and California just now,” she said, trying to regain some composure.
“Why on earth?” he asked, such anguish in his voice that it almost took her breath away.
“Someone broke into my house,” she said, and began to sob once more.
“When did this happen?” There was no hint of blame in his question, which somehow made it harder for her to bear.
“This evening. Not quite an hour ago. He had a pistol. I just called the police. I have to get back.” She was about to hang up. “I think he was after you.”
“Do you want me to come?” He paused. “Whatever you want, I will do.”
“Oh, yes, please,” she said, and dropped the receiver back into the cradle before she started to weep in earnest. There was some relief in tears, but she was unwilling to indulge herself for more than a couple minutes. She leaned on the telephone booth door, shaking so violently she wondered if she could trust herself to drive back to her house. Telling herself it had to be done, she got back into her car and returned the way she came. As she reached the corner of Taylor Street, she thought her neighbors must surely have noticed something, and that slowed her down; she wanted their help, not to make a spectacle of herself. As she parked in the space just in front of her door, she finally let go of the steering wheel, not realizing until then how tightly she had been holding on to it. She sat for several minutes, unable to make herself get out of the car, let alone enter her home. Finally she saw a police car pulling in across the street, and she stared in relief. A moment later two uniformed officers came across the street, one of them pausing by her car window.
“You the lady who called?” the man asked.
“Miss Saxon. Yes, I called. I wanted to report a break-in. Of an occupied house. This one.” She began trembling again. “I told your Sergeant Brady what happened.” It amazed her that she remembered the man’s name.
“Yes, ma’am. He passed it on to us.” He opened the car door. “What say you let us in so we can take a look around? Just to see how things are?”
She found his tone more condescending than reassuring, but she did as he recommended, only then aware that under her raincoat her peignoir was bloody. “The man had a pistol. I think it’s still in my bedroom somewhere; he’s gone,” she said, and saw the two policemen exchange glances.
“A pistol. Are you sure?” the second cop asked.
“Yes; of course I am. I can’t tell you what make it was. I hardly had any time to examine it But it isn’t a revolver, if that is what you’re wondering,” she said, glad to be angry instead of weepy. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “The telephone cord is pulled out of the wall. I would have called from here if he hadn’t done that.”
“Sounds pretty bad, all right,” said the first policeman, his manner patronizing. “We’ll check it out for—” He went silent as he saw the spatters of blood on the stairs and floor. “Jesus,” he exclaimed softly.
Rowena removed her raincoat deliberately and hung it up, then turned around, certain she would command their attention now. “The bedroom is much worse.”
“I couldn’t see your face, out there; you really got hit. That’s one hell of a bruise,” said the first officer. “And your … your bathrobe. God.”
This sympathy almost unnerved her. “How do you want to manage this?” she demanded in her most imposing manner.
“We’ve got to make sure this place is safe, and then we’ll radio in for help,” said the first policeman. “I can’t let you go upstairs, not yet. In case the criminal’s still here.”
“He left,” said Rowena, hugging her elbows with her bloody hands.
“He might have come back. He’s been hurt Unless you’re cut up.” The second policeman came up to her.
“Just this, on my face,” she said brusquely. “I think the man has buckshot in him, and a crease in his shoulder.”
“Your doing?” the second officer asked.
“No one else was here,” she said, and was shocked at how shaken she sounded.
“You let us do our job, ma’am,” said the first officer. “You go sit down, try to calm yourself. You have anyone who can come help you?” He had one foot on the stairs, but hesitated, his hand on his revolver.
“I called a friend. He should be here shortly.” She could hardly admit to herself how much she wanted to see Saint-Germain.
“Okay,” said the officer, and began to climb, taking care not to step in the splotches of blood. “You, Snyder, you stay down here. Just in case.”
“Okay, Baxter,” said Snyder, taking up a stance at the foot of the stairs.
“I tell you, he’s gone,” Rowena said, increasingly shaky and tired.
“We got to make sure, ma’am. Then we’ll get back-up over here, and someone will take your statement.” Snyder looked around. “Nice house.”
“You’re not seeing it at its best,” she said as cuttingly as she could.
“I can tell,” said Snyder, keeping his attention on the stairs. “The guy must be hurt. He sure is bleeding, since you say you aren’t.”
“I do hope so; I hope he bleeds until he’s dry,” said Rowena in hushed fury, and clasped her hands together to prevent them shaking. Strange, she thought in a remote part of her mind, my hands weren’t shaking earlier; you’d think, with what was going on, I would have been nervous then, not now.
A bell sounded two-thirty; Snyder cleared his throat. “Saint Anselm’s.”
“Probably.” Rowena sighed. Her face was starting to hurt in that stubborn, throbbing way that meant deep bruising, and she had a headache.
The sound of the knocker made Rowena jump. She hoped she had not yelped; she glanced at Snyder. “I think it’s my friend,” she said.
“I’ll open the door,” said Snyder, and called up to his partner. “Hey, Baxter. Someone’s here. What do you want me to do?”
“Answer the door,” came Baxter’s reply. He sounded depleted, and from the echo, he was in the bathroom. As if in confirmation, the toilet flushed.
Snyder went cautiously to the door, drew his revolver, and eased the door open, ready to shoot. “Who are you?”
“Ferenc Ragoczy; Miss Saxon called me from the telephone booth at California and Hyde. I came over as quickly as I could,” said the newcomer, keeping his manner cool and his voice level. “Inspector John Smith can identify me, if you require this.” He remained on the porch, letting the policeman make up his mind.
Rowena ended it for him: she rushed out of the living room and threw open the front door. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she clamored, flinging herself into his arms and letting herself cry; her sobs were deep, wrenched from the heart, and much as she felt abashed, she realized that comfort was more important than decorum. “Let him in!” She hung on to him, relieved he had arrived and distressed by the ferocity of her need for him.
“You can come in,” said Snyder, moving aside to admit him.
Saint-Germain supported Rowena with his arm and got her back inside, taking her into her studio and sinking her down onto her rolled-arm chair. “Don’t give yourself trouble, Rowena. You’re safe now. Do you need a wrap for your shoulders? Would you like to change clothes?”
“No,” she said, taking hold of his hands. “Just stay close, will you?”
“If that’s what you want,” he promised, and sat on the arm of her chair. “Are you cold?”
“Yes; inside, not outside,” she said.
“Let me pour you a brandy,” he offered.
“Sorry, sir,” said Snyder. “No brandy. You don’t want her forgetting anything. She hasn’t made a statement to an investigating officer yet.”
“I don’t think a little brandy will blot the night out of her memory, much as she might wish it would,” said Saint-Germain. “It will steady her, and that will help her to
give her statement. Or don’t you want her to relax?” He opened the cabinet where she kept her liquor, and brought out the brandy and a snifter.
Snyder was troubled. “I don’t know. You know how it looks, a woman drinking. They won’t put much stock in what she says.”
Baxter appeared on the stairs; he was pale and dismayed. “Oh, let her have a drink. And get me one, too.”
“You’re on duty,” said Snyder.
“You go upstairs and tell me that afterward,” said Baxter, and sat down heavily on a bench under the front window, fanning his brow with his hand. “God, it’s awful up there. You can’t imagine.”
Snyder watched while Saint-Germain prepared two snifters of brandy and handed the first to Rowena, then gave the other to Baxter. “You might as well make the most of this. The other policemen will be here soon.”
“And welcome,” said Baxter, and drank down half the brandy in his snifter. “That room is a shambles—literally.”
“What happened up there?” Snyder asked. He glanced up the stairs again. “How bad is it? Why can’t I check it out?”
“Because it has to be gone over by the inspectors, and I have to make sure the scene isn’t contaminated. I can tell you: someone tried to kill Miss Saxon, no doubt about it. It’s real plain.” He blew out a lungful of air as if he had run up a steep hill. “She was cool-headed enough to stop him, though Jesus knows how. That bed is ruined, and so is the rug. And there’s blood all over the place. They’ll need the rug and bed, and photos, in case there’s a trial, to show how the room looked, and match the blood type of the man who attacked you with what’s on the bedspread. You’ll have to do something about the walls; not paint, but paint and then paper. You’ll need a strong cleaner to get rid of the smell.” Baxter took another drink and finished his brandy. Setting the snifter aside, he shook his head. “I don’t want to upchuck again.”
“If you think you’re going to,” said Rowena, “the kitchen is that way. Just try not to make a mess. Things are bad enough already. My housekeeper will be here at ten. She has a dentist appointment at eight.” She had a second sip of brandy, and was glad of the fiery track it drew down her throat to her stomach.
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