“I’m going there now,” she said. “I’m afraid Einarson’s got my house on his list.”
“Good idea,” I said. “If you hit a bad spot get word to me.”
I walked back to the hotel through the dark streets—the lights were turned off at midnight—without seeing a single other person, not even one of the gray-uniformed policemen. By the time I reached home rain was falling steadily.
In my room, I changed into heavier clothes and shoes, dug an extra gun—an automatic—out of my bag and hung it in a shoulder holster. Then I filled my pocket with enough ammunition to make me bowlegged, picked up hat and raincoat, and went upstairs to Lionel Grantham’s suite.
“It’s ten to four,” I told him. “We might as well go down to the plaza. Better put a gun in your pocket.”
He hadn’t slept. His handsome young face was as cool and pink and composed as it had been the first time I saw him, though his eyes were brighter now.
He got into an overcoat, and we went downstairs.