Edna Cutler said, “I haven’t any—”
“Shut up!”
I started for the door, trying to close it. I stumbled over a footstool.
The steps were very near now.
I could hear a slight inequality in them, the walk of a man with a limp.
He reached the door before I did, a man wearing an overcoat with the collar turned up, and a hat with the brim turned down. He didn’t seem to be particularly tall, nor particularly thick. The overcoat hid the lines of his figure.
Roberta Fenn screamed.
The man started shooting before I was close enough to do anything about it. One shot at Roberta; then the gun swung toward Edna. By that time I was too close. He knew he couldn’t waste that shot. He swung the muzzle of the gun around toward me, and I heard the roar, felt the blast of flame in my face. He missed me, and I was clutching for the hand that held the gun,
I got it.
My old jujitsu lessons came in handy. I whirled so that my back was toward him, holding the wrist, twisting his arm, pulling it over my shoulder. I bent sharply down. The leverage I had gave me everything I needed to throw him over my head and halfway across the room.