Druse stood up, said: “He’ll have to stay where he is for a little while.” He went to the heavily draped window, to the fire-escape, moved the drape aside and locked the window. “How many doors are there to the apartment?”
“Two.” She was standing near the table. She took the black automatic from a pocket of her suit, took up a gray suede bag from the table and put the automatic into it.
He watched her without expression. “How many keys?”
“Two.” She smiled, took two keys out of the bag and held them up. “The only other key is the pass-key — the manager’s.”
He said: “That’s fine,” went to the table and picked up his hat and put it on. They went out into the hall and closed and locked the door. “Is there a side entrance to the building?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go out that way.”
She led the way down the corridor, down three flights of stairs to a door leading to Sixty-third Street. They went out and walked over Sixty-third to Lexington and got into a cab; he told the driver to take them to the corner of Fortieth and Madison, leaned back and looked out the window. “How long have you and Mister Hanan been divorced?”
She was quick to answer: “Did he say we were divorced?”
“No.” Druse turned to her slowly, smiled slowly.