Holding on to the dagger, I took my right hand from his arm and spread it over the back of his head, grinding his face into the carpet, taking it easy, waiting for more of the strength that was coming back into me with each breath. A minute or two more and I would be ready to pick him up and get words out of him.
But I wasn’t allowed to wait that long. Something hard pounded my right shoulder, then my back, and then struck the carpet close to our heads. Somebody was swinging a club at me.
I rolled off the skinny man. The club-swinger’s feet stopped my rolling. I looped my right arm above the feet, took another rap on the back, missed the legs with my circling arm, and felt skirts against my hand. Surprised, I pulled my hand back. Another chop of the club–on my side this time–reminded me that this was no place for gallantry. I made a fist of my hand and struck back at the skirt. It folded around my fist: a meaty shin stopped my fist. The shin’s owner snarled above me and backed off before I could hit out again.
Scrambling up on hands and knees, I bumped my head into wood–a door. A hand on the knob helped me up. Somewhere inches away in the dark the club swished again. The knob turned in my hand. I went in with the door, into the room, and made as little noise as I could, practically none, shutting the door.
Behind me in the room a voice said, very softly, but also very earnestly:
“Go right out of here or I’ll shoot you.”
It was the plump blonde maid’s voice, frightened. I turned, bending low in case she did shoot. Enough of the dull gray of approaching daylight came into this room to outline a shadow sitting up in bed, holding something small and dark in one outstretched hand.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
“Oh, you!” She didn’t lower the thing in her hand.
“You in on the racket?” I asked, risking a slow step towards the bed.
“I do what I’m told and I keep my mouth shut, but I’m not going in for strong-arm work, not for the money they’re paying me.”
“Swell,” I said, taking more and quicker steps towards the bed. “Could I get down through this window to the floor below if I tied a couple of sheets together?”
“I don’t know– Ouch! Stop!”
I had her gun–a .32 automatic–in my right hand, her wrist in my left, and was twisting them. “Let go,” I ordered, and she did. Releasing her hand, I stepped back, picking up the dagger I had dropped on the foot of the bed.
I tiptoed to the door and listened. I couldn’t hear anything. I opened the door slowly, and couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything in the dim grayness that went through the door. Minnie Hershey’s door was open, as I had left it when I tumbled out. The thing I had fought wasn’t there. I went into Minnie’s room, switching on the lights. She was lying as she had lain before, sleeping heavily. I pocketed my gun, pulled down the covers, picked Minnie up, and carried her over to the maid’s room.
“See if you can bring her to life,” I told the maid, dumping the mulatto on the bed beside her.
“She’ll come around all right in a little while: they always do.”
I said, “Yeah?” and went out, down to the fifth floor, to Gabrielle Leggett’s room.
Gabrielle’s room was empty. Collinson’s hat and overcoat were gone; so were the clothes she had taken into the bathroom; and so was the bloody nightgown.
I cursed the pair of them, trying to show no favoritism, but probably concentrating most on Collinson; snapped off the lights; and ran down the front stairs, feeling as violent as I must have looked, battered and torn and bruised, with a red dagger in one hand, a gun in the other. For four flights of down-going I heard nothing, but when I reached the second floor a noise like small thunder was audible below me. Dashing down the remaining flight, I identified it as somebody’s knocking on the front door. I hoped the somebody wore a uniform. I went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.