“Yes.”
Then we left the taxi and went into the apartment building.
“ Mr. Gantvoort to see Mr. Dexter,” he told the Philippine boy at the switchboard.
The boy spoke into the phone.
“Go right up,” he told us.
At the Dexters’ door I stepped past Gantvoort and pressed the button.
Creda Dexter opened the door. Her amber eyes widened and her smile faded as I stepped past her into the apartment.
I walked swiftly down the little hallway and turned into the first room through whose open door a light showed.
And came face to face with Smith!
We were both surprised, but his astonishment was a lot more profound than mine. Neither of us had expected to see the other; but I had known he was still alive, while he had every reason for thinking me at the bottom of the bay.
I took advantage of his greater bewilderment to the extent of two steps toward him before he went into action.
One of his hands swept down.
I threw my right fist at his face—threw it with every ounce of my 180 pounds behind it, reinforced by the memory of every second I had spent in the water and every throb of my battered head.
His hand, already darting down for his pistol, came back up too late to fend off my punch.