Fenner said, “Sure.” He was thinking. Then he looked at her. “Carlos is goin’ to be washed up. You might like to talk now.”
Curly pursed her mouth. “Nuts,” she said. “Your clothes are in the cupboard. They’ll do to get you to your hotel.” She went to the door. “I’ll get the bus.”
Fenner dressed as quickly as he could. His clothes looked as though they’d been mixed up in a road smash. He didn’t care. When he’d finished dressing, he went to the door and stepped into the passage. His intention was to meet Curly downstairs. He walked slowly to the head of the stairs. He found that he wasn’t as tough as he thought. It was an effort to move, but he kept on. At the head of the stairs he paused. Curly was lying on the landing below.
Fenner stood very still, and stared. Then he pulled the gun from his hip pocket and went down the stairs cautiously. There was no one about. When he came nearer he could see the handle of a knife sticking out of her back. He stooped and turned her. Her head fell back, but she was still breathing.
It took a great effort for him to get her upstairs. She was heavy, and he was trembling by the time he got her on the bed. He put her down gently, then snatched up the telephone. Nightingale’s number was on the address pad. He dialed, standing with his eyes on Curly.
Nightingale said primly, “This is the Funeral Parlor.”
Fenner said, “Come over here quick. They’ve got Curly.” He hung up and went over to the bed.
Curly opened her eyes. When she saw Fenner she held one of her hands out to him. “Serves me right for helping a dick,” she said faintly.
Fenner didn’t dare pull the knife out. He held her so that she didn’t have any weight on the handle. He said, “You take it easy, baby; I’m gettin’ help.”
Curly twisted. “It’s going to come a lot too late,” she said, then her face crumpled and she began to cry.