“Holy Christ,” said Rio softly.
“Aye,” Martin nodded. “Holy Christ.”
They left the park and walked on silently, each thinking more of the other’s thoughts than of his own. A wind from the south, carrying a burned, sulphurous cloud, quickly hid the stars and descended until even the solitary street lamps were darkened, became ominous and were worse than none at all. It muffled the occasional sounds of late night and was as forbidding as the attitude of these two silent men; for except themselves, the streets were deserted, and their presence only accentuated the desolation. It was a moment of such stillness that even nature becomes disturbed and ultimately furious, and sharply moving her wing, brings down a sudden and a violent sound.
A block away from Martin’s room an ambulance rushed past them, its siren full and piercing. It drew up quickly before the house and an ambulance doctor with white cap and trousers bent over a man who was lying on the curb. A thin group of spectators had gathered. They were quiet, looking on curiously. Martin’s landlady was standing by, shivering and crying. Martin went to her and touched her arm.
“What is it, Mrs. O’Brien?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Mr. Devaud,” sobbed the woman. “I heard a noise. I guess it was a shot. So I looked out the window and there he was.”
Martin hurried back to Rio.
“What does it look like?” he asked nervously. “I can’t see.”
Rio struck a match.
“I dunno. He can’t get no pulse.”