Hollander’s right hand had found the spot. It hung above it, motionless, very rigid, and the fingers very stiff.
“I’m going to call a policeman and—”
Endicott’s voice was so weak as to be almost inaudible. His lips seemed as motionless as the rest of his body, which was completely inert.
“No, you’re not, Herb,” whispered Hollander. “And you’re not going to tell, either.”
Endicott got tired of looking up at Hollander. His eyes travelled fretfully along Hollander’s right arm.
“Neither you nor all the devils in hell,” he whispered faintly, “can stop me from telling.”
And then he saw the knife.
“Can’t I, Herb?”
It was the slenderest knife Endicott had ever seen. He wondered where on earth Hollander had got it. No hilt—or perhaps the hilt was cupped in Hollander’s hand. A stiletto, that’s what it was, and its point was pressing through the white spread at a point that lay just above his heart. Why, if the pressure kept on, it would go right into his heart. …
Crack …
Crack … crack crack … crack … crack …
A bullet from Cassidy’s gun shattered Hollander’s right wrist. Hansen’s shot caught him in the right shoulder. Two bullets out of the fusillade that followed lodged, one in his right hip, and the other one farther down in the leg. Both officers, in spite of Nurse Murrow’s orders, had