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No； it had to be tonight； tonight； she kept telling herself grimly。 Before the darkness ended and the daybreak came。 If she waited； she'd lose her courage。 This surgery had to be performed at once； this cancer on her future removed。
No matter where he goes in this city tonight； she vowed； I'll track him down； I'll find him； and I'll put an end to him。 Even if I have to destroy my own self doing it。 Even if I have to do it in sight of a hundred people。
The car…door swung closed。 He tipped his hat satirically。
〃Good night； Mrs。 Georgesson。 Pleasant dreams to you。 Try sleeping on a piece of wedding…cake。 If you haven't wedding…cake； try a hunk of stale bread。 You'll be just as crummy either way。〃
The car sidled past her。 Her eyes fastened on the rear license…plate； clove to it； memorized it； even as it went skimming past It dwindled。 The red tail…light coursed around the next corner and disappeared。 But it seemed to hang there before her eyes； like a ghost…plaque； suspended against the night； for long minutes after。
NY09231
Then that； too； dimmed and went out。
Somebody was walking along the quiet night sidewalk； very close by。 She could hear the chip…chipping of the high heels。 That was she。 The trees were moving by her； slowly rearward。 Somebody was climbing terraced flagstone steps。 She could hear the gritty sound of the ascending tread。 That was she。 Somebody was standing before the door of the house now。 She could see the darkling reflection in the glass opposite her。 It moved as she moved。 That was she。
She opened her handbag and felt inside it for her doorkey。 Hers； was good。 The key they'd given her。 It was still there。 For some reason this surprised her。 Funny to e home like this； just as though nothing had happened to you； and feel for your key； and put it into the door； and…and go into the house。 To still e home like this； and still go into the house。
I have to go in here； she defended herself。 My baby's asleep in this house。 He's asleep upstairs in it； right now。 This is where I have to go； there isn't any other place for me to go。
She remembered how she'd had to lie； earlier tonight； asking Mother Hazzard to mind Hughie for her while she visited a new friend。 Father had been at a business meeting and Bill had been out。
She put on the lights in the lower hall。 She closed the door。 Then she stood there a minute； her breath rising and falling； her back supine against the door。 It was so quiet； so quiet in this house。 People sleeping； people who trusted you。 People who didn't expect you to bring home scandal and murder to them； in return for all their goodness to you。
She stood there immobile。 So quiet； so still； there was no guessing what she had e back here for； what she had e back here to do。
Nothing left。 Nothing。 No home； no love； even no child any more。 She'd even forfeited that prospective love； tarnished it for a later day。 She'd lose him too； he'd turn against her； when he was old enough to know this about her。
He'd done all this to her； one man。 It wasn't enough that he'd done it once； he'd done it twice now。 He'd wrecked two lives for her。 He'd smashed up the poor inoffensive seventeen…year…old simpleton from San Francisco who had had the bad luck to stray his way。 Smashed her up； and wiped his feet all over her five…and…tencent…store dreams； and spit on them。 And now he'd smashed up the cardboard lady they called Patrice。
He wouldn't smash up anybody more！
A tortured grimace disfigured her face for a moment。 The back of her wrist went to her forehead； clung there。 An inhalation of terrible softness； yet terrible resolve； shook her entire frame。 Then she tottered on the bias toward the library entrance； like a ic drunk lacking in sufficient coordination to face squarely in the direction in which he is hastening。
She put on the big reading…lamp in there； center…table。
She went deliberately to the cellarette； and opened that； and poured some brandy and downed it。 It seemed to blast its way down into her； but she quelled it with a resolute effort。
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。
The