She looked at him for a long moment. There was something cat-like in her stillness that made Sweeting feel a little uneasy.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to see what I have. Will you wait?”
She went into another room.
Sweeting took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his aching eye.
Perhaps his technique wasn’t as good as it used to be, he thought uneasily. He had never had so much trouble before. First, Holland had been violent and had thrown him out, and now this girl was being suspiciously difficult.
The first indication he had that he had lost control of the situation came from Leo, who suddenly bolted off his lap and dived under the couch.
Sweeting hurriedly looked over his shoulder.
Gilda was standing in her bedroom doorway, a .38 automatic in her hand, its blue nose pointing at Sweeting’s head.
Sweeting froze at the sight of the gun. If he had a horror of violence, guns terrified him. His heart seemed to turn over, and he shrank back in his chair, his fat face turning grey.
Gilda came over and stood over him.