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and pushbuttons。 His name was on the third she scanned； but not in its own right； superimposed on the card of the previous tenant； left behind。 He had pencil…scratched the name off； and then put in his own underneath。 〃S。 Georgesson。〃 He didn't print very well。
He didn't do anything very well； except smash up people's lives。 He did that very well； he was an expert。
She went on up the stairs and followed the hall。 It was a jerrybuilt； makeshift sort of a place。 During the war shortage they must have taken the attic or storage…space part of the stores below and rigged it up into these flats。
What a place to live； she thought dimly。
What a place to die； she thought remorselessly。
She could see the thin line the light made under his door。 She knocked； and then she knocked again； softly like the first time。 He had his radio on in there。 She could hear that quite distinctly through the door。
She raised her hand and smoothed back her hair； while waiting。 You smoothed your hair…if it needed it…just before you were going to see anyone； or anyone was going to see you。 That was why she did it now。
They said you were frightened at a time like this。 They said you were keyed…up to an ungovernable pitch。 They said you were blinded by fuming emotion。
They said。 What did they know？ She felt nothing。 Neither fear nor excitement nor blind anger。 Only a dull； aching determination all over。
He didn't hear； or he wasn't ing to open。 She tried the knob； and this door too； like the one below； was unlocked； it gave inward。 Why shouldn't it be； she reasoned； what did he have to fear from others？ They didn't take from him； he took from them。
She closed it behind her； to keep this just between the two of them。
He didn't meet her eyes。 The room was reeking with his presence； but it was a double arrangement； bed… and living…quarters； and he must be in the one just beyond； must have just stepped in as she arrived outside。 She could see offside light ing through the opening。
The coat and hat he'd worn in the car with her tonight were slung over a chair； the coat broadside across its seat； the hat atop that。 A cigarette that he'd inpletely extinguished a few short moments ago was in a glass tray； stubbornly smouldering away。 The drink that he'd started； then left； and was ing back to finish any second now…the drink with which he was celebrating tonight's successful enterprise…stood there on the edge of the table。 The white block of its still…unmelted ice cube peered through the side of the glass； through the straw…colored whiskey it floated in。
The sight of it brought back a furnished room in New York。 He took his drinks weak； he liked them strong； but he took them weak when it was his own whiskey he was using。 〃There's always another one ing up；〃 he used to say to her。
There wasn't now。 This was his last drink。 （You should have made it stronger； she thought to herself wryly。）
Some sort of gritty noise was bothering her。 A pulsation； a discord of some sort It was meant for music； but no music could have reached her as music； as she was now。 The hypertension of her senses filtered it into a sound somewhat like a scrubbing…brush being passed over a sheet of ribbed tin。 Or maybe； it occurred to her； it was on the inside of her； and not outside anywhere。
No； there it was。 He had a small battery…portable standing against the side wall。 She went over to it。
〃Che gelida mannina…〃 some far…off voice was singing； she didn't know what that meant。 She only knew that this was no love…scene； this was a death…scene。
Her hand gave a brutal little wrench； like wringing the neck of a chicken； and there was a stupor of silence in his two shoddy rooms。 This one out here； and that one in there。
Now he'd step out to see who had done that。
She turned to face the opening。 She raised her handbag frontally to her chest。 She undid it； and took out the gun； and fitted her hand around it； the way her hand was supposed to go。 Without flurry； without a tremor； every move in perfect coordination。
She sighted the gun toward the opening。
〃Steve；〃 she said to him； at no more than room…to…room conversational pitch in the utter stillness。 〃e out here a second。 I want to see you。〃
No fear； no love； no hate； no anything at all。
He didn't e。 Had he seen her in a mirror？ Had he guessed？ Was he that much of a coward； cringing away even from a woman？
The fractured cigarette continued to unravel into smoke…skeins。 The ice cube continued to peer through the highball glass； foursquare and uneroded。
She went toward the opening。
〃Steve；〃 she rasped。 〃Your wife is here。 Here to see you。〃
He didn't stir； he didn't answer。
She made the turn of the doorway； gun wheeling before her like some sort of foreshortened steering…gear。 The second room was not parallel to the first； it was over at a right angle to it It was very small； just an alcove for sleeping in。 It had a bulb up above； as though a luminous blister had formed on the calcimined surface of the ceiling。 There was also a lamp beside the iron cot； and that was lit as well； but it was upside…down。 It was standing on its head on the floor； its extension…wire grotesquely looped in air。
She'd caught him in the act of getting ready for bed。 His shirt was lying over the foot of the cot。 That was all he'd taken off。 And now he was trying to hide from her； down on the floor somewhere； below cot…level； on the far side of it。 His hand peered over it…he'd forgotten that it showed…clutching at the bedding； pulling it into long； puckered lines。 And the top of his head showed； burrowed against the cot…just a glimpse of it…bowed in attempt at concealment； but not inclined deeply enough。 And then； just on the other side of that； though his second hand didn't show； more of those puckered wrinkles ran over the edge of the bedding at one place； as though it were down below there somewhere out of sight； but hanging on for dear life。
And when she looked at the floor； out beyond the far side of the cot； she could glimpse the lower part of one leg； extended out behind him in a long； lazy sprawl。 The other one didn't show； must have been drawn up closer under his body。
〃Get up；〃 she sneered。 〃At least I thought I hated a man。 Now I don't know what you are。〃 She passed around the foot of the cot； and his back came into view。 He didn't move； but every line of his body expressed the arrested impulse to get away。
Her handbag sprang open and she pulled something out； pitched it at him。 〃Here's the five dollars you gave me。 Remember？〃 It fell between his shoulderblades； and lay there lengthwise across his spine； caught in the sharp upcurve his back made； oddly like a label or tag loosely pasted across him。
〃You love money so；〃 she said scathingly。 〃Now here's the interest Turn around and get it。〃
She'd fired before she'd known she was going to。 As though there were some cue in the words for the gun to take of its own accord； without waiting for her。 The crash surprised her； she could feel it go up her whole arm； as though someone had stingingly slapped her wristbone； and the fiery spittle that gleamed for a moment at the muzzle made her blink her eyes and swerve her head aside invol