“Is anybody supposed to be here?” I asked, putting her around to one side, where she wouldn’t be between me and the two doors across the passageway.
“No! Just my little dog Frana, but—”
I slid my gun half out of my pocket and back again, to make sure it wouldn’t catch if I needed it, and used my other hand to get rid of the woman’s arms.
“You stay here. I’ll see if you’ve got company.”
Moving to the nearest door, I heard a seven-year-old voice—Lew Maher’s—saying: “He can shoot and he’s plain crazy. He ain’t hampered by nothing like imagination or fear of consequences.”
With my left hand I turned the first door’s knob. With my left foot I kicked it open.
Nothing happened.
I put a hand around the frame, found the button, switched on the lights.
A sitting-room, all orderly.
Through an open door on the far side of the room came the muffled yapping of Frana. It was louder now and more excited. I moved to the doorway. What I could see of the next room, in the light from this, seemed peaceful and unoccupied enough. I went into it and switched on the lights.