Drawing his gun and holding it by the barrel, he approached Goshawk. “You’ve got enough dough there to make you rich,” he said casually, coming closer step by step.
Goshawk nodded, muttering figures as he laid the bills down on the bed. Raven was right behind him, and he swung his arm. Goshawk suddenly cringed and he gave a thin little cry of terror as he saw Raven’s shadow on the soiled sheet, the upraised arm coming down and the gun, looking three times its size, in the big distorted hand.
The gun−butt cracked his skull and he fell across the bed, blood and brains oozing out of a hole that appeared suddenly in his head.
Raven stepped back hastily. He knew he didn’t have to strike again. The blow had jarred his hand and arm badly. He stood looking down at Goshawk, a feeling of relief surging through him. The one man who knew enough to have him burnt was silenced for ever. Now he was free. All he had to do was to walk out, get in the car, pick up the Leroy dame and beat it.
He dragged Goshawk further on to the bed and covered him with a blanket. Anyone looking in the room would think that Raven was there, sleeping. He covered the head with a pillow and then he paused to light a cigarette. He glanced at the clock. It was twenty past nine. All was working satisfactorily. As he turned to the door his eye alighted on the wall calendar.
FRIDAY, 13th SEPTEMBER
made him pause.
“My lucky day,” he said with a forced laugh, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.
He met no one as he went downstairs. He let himself out the back way and at the end of the alley he found the big Chrysler waiting for him. He climbed in and started the engine. He could hardly believe that he was off, that he had a fast car under him, and that in a few hours St. Louis would be a long way behind.
He drove round the block once, and as the hands of a street clock moved to the half−hour, he drew up outside Marie Leroy’s apartment house.