His counterpart rolled, whipping round the gun.
Horning lashed out with the wrench, straight at the other's head. It struck home with a sound like that of a dropped watermelon bursting on a concrete sidewalk.
The killer went limp.
Horning sagged back, panting. After a moment, he saw that his counterpart had stopped breathing.
Horning staggered to his feet. His stomach churned. He lurched to the wastebasket beside the desk and vomited.
Then a dull, shuffling sound impinged upon him. Swaying, Horning came erect and peered round behind him.
Myrtle stood in the doorway, eyes blacker and beadier than ever. Her jaw was set, her greying hair loose and disheveled. She wore a frayed, ancient kimona and dirty white mules.
Horning choked, "Myrtle, get back—!" and tried to move round between her and the bodies. But she pushed past without speaking, straight to his fallen counterpart, and bent as swiftly as her bulk would allow. When she straightened, she held the murderer's pistol in her hand.
"Myrtle, be careful—!"