“Not me!” Yaker shrieked. “I did not. I never even saw the woman. It was Keith!”
I said, “It took long enough for you to admit it.”
Keith Walch didn’t say anything, except with a stubby-nosed, nickel-plated 38.
It spoke louder than words.
Chapter thirty-four:
Cornered killer
It happened faster than “Hands Up!”
He stalked for the door. I was in his way. So were Schneider and Yaker. But I was nearest. I grabbed a straight-back chair, swung it legs-first.
He angled the snout of the gun at my eyes. I jabbed the chair at him. Chair’s a disconcerting weapon; if you don’t believe it, ask a circus lion.
He fired. Over my head. That’s why expert man-handlers never aim as high as the eyes. The lift of the barrel in the recoil always throws a shot high.