She stared at me; her face still expressionless, but far up on her left cheek a nerve began to jump.
“Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t see why not. Give me the gun and tell me where she is.”
“Don’t you want me to write the cheque first?”
I shook my head.
“I trust you,” I said, and hoped I wasn’t over-working the dumb look.
She pointed to a door opposite the casement windows at the far end of the room.
“She’s in there.”
I stood up.
“Then give me the gun. It must be made to look like suicide.”