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Ah； yes； you needed that when you were going to kill a man。
She went looking for the gun。 She tried the table…drawers first； and it was not in there。 Only papers and things； in the way。 But he'd said there was one in here； that night； and there must be； somewhere in this room。 They never told you anything that was untrue； even lightly； he； nor Mother； nor…nor Bill either for that matter。 That was the big difference between them and her。 That was why they had peace…and she had none。
She tried Father Hazzard's desk next。 The number of drawers and cubicles was greater； but she sought them all out one by one。 Something glinted； as she moved a heavy business…ledger aside； in the bottommost under…drawer； and there it lay； thrust in at the back。
She took it out。 It's inoffensive look； at first； was almost a disappointment。 So small； to do so great a thing。 To take away a life。 Burnished nickel； and bone。 And that fluted bulge in the middle； she supposed； was where its hidden powers of death lay。 In her unfamiliarity； she pounded at its back with the heel of her hand； and strained at it； trying to get it open； risking a premature discharge； hoping only that if she kept fingers clear of the trigger she would avert one。 Suddenly； with astonishing ease at the accidental right touch； it had broken downward； it slanted open。 Round black chambers； empty。
She rummaged in the drawer some more。 She found the same small cardboard box； half…noted in her previous search； that she had hastily cast aside。 Inside； cotton…wool； as if to hold some very perishable medicinal capsule。 But instead； steel…jacketed； snub…nosed； the cartridges。 Only five of them。
She pressed them home； one by one； into the pits they were meant for。 One chamber remained empty。
She closed the gun。
She wondered if it would fit into her handbag。 She tried it spadewise； the flat side up； and it went in。
She closed the handbag； and took it with her； and went out of the room； went out to the back of the hall。
She took out the classified directory； looked under 〃Garages。〃
He might leave it out in the streets overnight。 But she didn't think he would。 He was the kind who prized his cars and his hats and his watches。 He was the kind of man prized everything but his women。
The garages were alphabetized； and she began calling them alphabetically。
〃Have you a New York car there for the night； license 09231？〃
At the third place the night attendant came back and said： 〃Yes； we have。 It was just brought in a few minutes ago。〃
〃Mr。 Georgesson？〃
〃Yeah； that's right。 What about it； lady？ Whaddya want from us？〃
〃I…I was out in it just now。 The young man just brought me home in it。 And I find I left something with him。 I have to get hold of him。 Please； it's important。 Will you tell me where I can reach him？〃
〃We ain't supposed to do that； lady。〃
〃But I can't get in。 He has my doorkey； don't you understand？〃
〃Whyn'tcha ring your doorbell？〃 the gruff voice answered。
〃You fool！〃 she exploded； her fury lending her plausible eloquence。 〃I wasn't supposed to be out with him in the first place！ I don't want to attract any attention。 I can't ring the doorbell！〃
〃I getcha； lady；〃 the voice jeered； with that particular degree of greasiness she'd known it would have； 〃I getcha。〃 And a double tongue…click was given for punctuation。 〃Wait'll I check up。〃
He left。 He got on again； said： 〃He's been keeping his car with us for some time now。 The address on our records is 110 Decatur Road。 I don't know if that's still…〃
But she'd hung up。
40
She used her own key to unlock the garage…door。 The little roadster that Bill habitually used was out； but the big car； the sedan； was in there。 She backed it out。 Then she got out a moment； went back to refasten the garage…door。
There was the same feeling of unreality about this as before； a sort of dream…fantasy； a state of somnambulism； yet with over…all awareness。 The chip…chip of footsteps along the cement garage…driveway that were someone else's； yet were her own…sounding from under her。 It was as though she had experienced a violent personality split； and one of her selves； aghast and helpless； watched a phantom murderess issue from the cleavage and start out upon her deadly quest。 She could only pace this dark thing； this other self； could not recapture nor reabsorb it； once loosed。 Hence （perhaps） the detached objectivity of the footsteps； the mirror…like reproduction of her own movements。
Reentering the car； she backed it into the street； reversed it； and let it flow forward。 Not violently； but with the suave pick…up of a perfectly possessed driver。 Some other hand； not hers…so firm； so steady； so pure…remembered to reach for the door…latch and draw the door securely closed with a smart little clout。
Outside； the street…lights went spinning by like glowing bowls ing toward her down a bowling…alley。 But each shot was a miss； they went alternately too far out to this side； too far out to that With herself and the car； the kingpin in the middle that they never knocked down。
She thought： That must be Fate； bowling against me。 But I don't care； let them e。
Then the car had stopped again。 So easy it was to go forth to kill a man。
She didn't study it closely； to see what it was like。 It didn't matter what it was like； she was going in there； it was going to happen there。
She pedalled the accelerator again； went on past the door and around the corner。 There she made a turn； for the right…of…way was against her； pointed the car forward to the way from which she had just e； brought it over against the sidewalk； stopped it there； just out of sight。
She took up her bag from beside her on the seat； as a woman does who is about to leave a car； secured it under her arm。
She shut off the ignition and got out。 She walked back around the corner； to where she'd just e from； with the quick； preoccupied gait of a woman returning home late at night； who hastens to get off the street。 One has seen them that way many times； minding their own business with an added intentness； for they know they run a greater risk of being accosted then that during the daylight hours。
She found herself alone on a gloomy nocturnal strip of sidewalk in front of a long rambling two…story structure； hybrid； half mercial and half living quarters。 The ground floor was a succession of unlighted store…fronts； the upper a long row of windows。 The white shape of a milk bottle stood on the sill of one of these。 One was lighted； but with the shade drawn。 Not the one with the milk bottle。
Between two of the store…fronts； recessed； almost secretive in its inconspicuousness； there was a single…panel door； with a wafflepattern of multiple small panes set into it。 They could be detected because there was a dim hall…light somewhere beyond them； doing its best to overe the darkness。
She went over to it and tried it； and it swung out without any demur； it had no lock； was simply a closure for appearances' sake。 Inside there was a rusted radiator； and a cement stair going up； and at the side of this； just as it began； a row of letter boxes and pushbuttons。 His name was on the third she scanned； but not in it