never got used to it. There’s a peculiar deadliness about the thing—especially if you know how erratic juries can be—that makes your flesh crawl, no matter how safe your judgment tells you you are.
“Phone the police,” Tennant told the girl; “and for God’s sake keep your story straight!” As he tried to impress that necessity on the girl his eyes left me.
I was perhaps five feet from him and his level gun.
A jump—not straight at him—off to one side—put me close.
The gun roared under my arm. I was surprised not to feel the bullet. It seemed that he must have hit me.
There wasn’t a second shot.
I looped my right fist over as I jumped. It landed when I landed. It took him too high—up on the cheekbone—but it rocked him back a couple of steps.
I didn’t know what had happened to his gun.
It wasn’t in his hand any more. I didn’t stop to look for it. I was busy, crowding him back—not letting him set himself—staying close to him—driving at him with both hands.
He was a head taller than I, and had longer arms, but he wasn’t any heavier or stronger. I suppose he hit me now and then as I hammered him across the room. He must have. But I didn’t feel anything.
I worked him into a corner. Jammed him back little in a corner with his legs cramped under him—which didn’t give him much leverage to hit from. I got my left arm around his body, holding him where I wanted him. And I began to throw my right fist into him.