Jean shook her head. “No.”
“Well, where is he? What’s all this about? You look as if you were expecting someone to die.”
She looked at him in horror. “Don’t say that,” she said fearfully.
He took a quick step towards her, but she got out of his way and half ran round the settee. He stood very still, staring at her. “Well, tell me,” he said between his teeth, “where have you been?”
She said, “Iran into an old pal of yours. He insisted onseeing you.” She waved her hand towards the door.
Mendetta turned his head slowly. A cold chill ran down his back. Raven stood in the doorway, his cold face expressionless. A limp cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth, and in his right hand he held a long−barrelled gun.
Mendetta shivered with the shock. His big white hands fluttered, imploring Raven to go away. “What do you want?” he whispered.
Raven jerked the gun. “Sit down, Tootsie,” he said, “we got things to talk about.”
Mendetta sat by the card−table. He folded his twitching hands on the green cloth. From where he sat he could see Jean, kneeling on the floor. She had covered her head with her arms. Her attitude reminded Mendetta of a woman who is witnessing an unavoidable head−on collision, and turns away in horror before the crash. He suddenly felt very sick.
Raven continued to lean against the doorway. “It’s taken time to get around to you, Tootsie,” he said, “but I’ve done it. I said I’d do it, didn’t I?” He jerked his head to Jean. “She ratted on you, Tootsie. Don’t trust women, they always let you down. She got the guard to go away. She let me up here, just because she was tired of sleeping with you.”