Young Macgowan was gaping.
“But if you sent this ‘warning’ ― whatever in your poisoned mind it’s supposed to mean ― you sent the others too, Delia. And they won’t do anything about it. It’s washed up, they say. Well, I’ve given them their chance, Delia. You’d have got away with it if only men were involved; your kind always does. But I’m not letting you get away with killing my father! You’re going to pay for that right now, Delia! ― right n...” Ellery struck her arm as the gun went off and Keats caught it neatly as it flew through the air. Crowe made a choking sound, taking a step toward his mother. But Delia Priam had not moved. Roger Priam was looking down at his tray. The bullet had shattered the bottle of wine two inches from his hand.
“By God,” snarled Priam, “she almost got me. Me!”
“That was a dumb-bunny stunt, Miss Hill,” said Keats. “I’m going to have to take you in for attempted homicide.”
Laurel was looking in a glazed way from the gun in the detective’s hand to the immobile Delia. Ellery felt the girl shrinking in his grip, in spasms, as if she were trying to compress herself into the smallest possible space.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Priam,” Keats was saying. “I couldn’t know she was carrying a gun. She never seemed the type. I’ll have to ask you to come along and swear out a complaint.”
“Don’t be silly, Lieutenant.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not making any charge against this girl.”
“But Mrs. Priam, she shot to kill―”