Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.
He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.
He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor; she lay there laughing and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.
Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.
He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”
Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room; Kells went out behind him and closed the door, said: “Wait a second.”
Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.
Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.
There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people — mostly men — in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.
The lighting was as Kells remembered it: Two powerful shaded globes over the big tables lighting all the rear end of the room. Toward the front of the room — the street — the light faded to partial darkness, black in the far corners.