Keats froze.
And then the whole room exploded, motion gone wild.
Priam’s arm flashed upward and his great hand closed like the jaws of a reptile on the wrist of the hand that held the revolver. The crippled man heaved his bulk upright, bellowing. There was the blurriest of struggles; they looked like two squids locked in battle at the bottom of the sea.
Then there was a soggy report, a smart thud, and quiet.
When Ellery snapped the wall switch Keats was already on his knees by the figure on the floor. It lay in a curl, almost comfortably, one arm hidden and the other outstretched. At the end of the outstretched arm lay the revolver.
“Chest,” Keats muttered.
Roger Priam was glaring at the two men.
“It’s Adam,” he said hoarsely. “Where did you two come from? He came to kill me. It’s Adam. I told you I could handle him!” He laughed with his teeth, but at once he began to shake, and he squinted at the fallen figure and rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. “Who is he? Let me see him!”
“It’s Alfred.”
“Alfred?” The beard drooped.