Elizabeth's face was white in the gloom. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "We never saw you before."
"No. But you took away my job. I was in the breadlines back in the thirties. I'm there again, and it's your fault, you—Got any prayers to say?"
A gibbering ran through Arch's brain. He stood motionless, thinking through a lunatic mind-tilt that there must be some way to jump that gun, the heroes of stories always did it, that might—
Someone moved out of the night into the wan radiance. An arm went about the man's throat, another seized his gun wrist and snapped it down. The weapon went off, sounding like the crack of doom in the stillness.
They struggled on the slippery sidewalk, panting, the rain running over dimly glimpsed faces. Arch's paralysis broke, he moved in and circled around, looking for a chance to help. There! Crouching, he got hold of the assassin's ankle and clung.
There was a meaty smack above him, and the body sagged.
Elizabeth held her hand over her mouth, as if to force back a scream. "Mr. Horrisford," she whispered.
"The same," said the FBI man. "That was a close one. You can be thankful you're an object of suspicion, Arch. What was he after?"
Arch stared blankly at his rescuer. Slowly, meaning penetrated. "Unemployed—" he mumbled. "Bitter about it—"
"Yeah. I thought so. You may be having more trouble of that sort. This depression, people have someone concrete to blame." Horrisford stuck the gun in his pocket and helped up his half-conscious victim. "Let's get this one down to the lockup. Here, you support him while I put on some handcuffs."