There was a commotion in the hallway. Women were screaming. Within the apartment Roberta Fenn was sobbing quietly, and Edna Cutler was swearing.
As the man went over my head, the gun slipped from the nerveless fingers and remained in my hand.
A man’s voice in the corridor behind me said, “What’s the matter? What’s happening?”
I ran past the inert figure on the floor, leaned out the window, and looked down into the pulsing red darkness, illuminated by the neon sign at the corner.
There was more commotion behind me. I heard the sound of a siren a block away.
One of the more venturesome men was coming in the room now.
“What’s happening?” he demanded. “What’s going on here.”
I said over my shoulder, “Someone tried to kill these women. The lights are all off. I think he must have got a fuse in the corridor. See if you can get some lights, will you?”
I leaned farther out of the window and looked up.
There was a brick ledge about three inches wide, running along over the top of the windows. I climbed up on the sill, extended my hand above my head, and gently placed the gun on top of the bricks. Then I slid down and back into the room. A moment later the lights came on.