I said nothing, waited nearly twenty seconds, then knocked again, this time more insistently. The voice sounded from close to the door. “Who is it?” A note of panic had crept into the voice now.
I still didn’t say anything, just waited — waited a good thirty-five seconds. Then knocked again, this time louder than before.
“Who—” Her voice broke.
I was raising my hand to knock for the fourth time when I heard the sound of a key in the lock, and the door opened a few inches. My shoulder pushed it the rest of the way. Helen Framley gave ground before me as I entered the room and walked toward her. Her face was chalk white. Her hand was on her throat.
“Well?” I asked.
“Close — close the door, Donald.”
I half turned, stabbed at the edge of the door with the toe of my shoe, and slammed it shut.
“Well?” I asked.
“Sit down, Donald. My God, don’t look at me like that!”
I sat down, took a package of cigarettes from my pocket, offered her one, took one myself, and held out a match.