When she came back, her face was wooden, but her eyes smouldered. The boy stood silently watching her. She was suddenly conscious of the heavy gun in his hand. She took one look at his set face, and she knew he was trying to make up his mind if he should kill her.
She said sharply: “Don’t look like that. It won’t get you anywhere.”
The boy had decided she was right, and he put the Luger in his hip pocket. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Terror had exhausted him.
Therese sat down beside him. “De Babar killed my husband,” she said. “I hate the whole goddam bunch of them. I’m glad you killed him. That lousy sonofabitch wanted killing.”
“I didn’t kill him,” the boy said tonelessly.
Therese went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “If they get you, it’s goin’ to be tough. What are you goin’ to do?”
“I didn’t kill him, I tell you,” the boy said savagely.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Therese said, patiently. “I’m glad you killed him. I’ll get you out of here.”
The boy looked at her suspiciously. Her big eyes were quite tender. He wanted very much to smash his fist in her face. He got to his feet and walked away from her. His fury at being trapped like this made him physically sick. Her sudden sentiment sickened him.
She saw his uncertain look, and she misread it. “Aw, hell, you’re only a kid,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it for you.”