Slowly the door moved in. Too slowly.
I kicked it open.
Pat and I went into the room on top of my kick.
His shoulder hit the woman. I managed to catch her before she fell.
Pat took her gun. I steadied her back on her feet.
Her face was a pale blank square.
She was Myra Banbrock, but she now had none of the masculinity that had been in her photographs and description.
Steadying her with one arm—which also served to block her arms—I looked around the room.
A small cube of a room whose walls were brown-painted metal. On the floor lay a queer little dead man.
A little man in tight-fitting black velvet and silk. Black velvet blouse and breeches, black silk stockings and skull cap, black patent leather pumps. His face was small and old and bony, but smooth as stone, without line or wrinkle.
A hole was in his blouse, where it fit high under his chin. The hole bled very slowly. The floor around him showed it had been bleeding faster a little while ago.
Beyond him, a safe was open. Papers were on the floor in front of it, as if the safe had been tilted to spill them out.
The girl moved against my arm.
“You killed him?” I asked.