“I have some money in my purse if we can get the door of the apartment open,” Alma Hunter said.

“Well, we’ll see who this is and—”

I could see the vague, indistinct form of a driver at the wheel of the big car. A girl was between him and me, and she almost smothered him saying good night. He didn’t come around to open the car door for her or see her into the apartment. But as soon as she disentangled herself and opened the door of the car, he slid away from the curb and out into the night. I started toward the door and stopped. The woman was taking a latchkey from her purse. As she walked up to the door, I saw her face. It was Sandra Birks.

I walked back to the telephone booth and said, “Here comes Sandra now. You can go up with her. Tell me, Alma, how did it happen no one heard the shot?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you don’t think they did?”

“No. At any rate, there hasn’t been anything done about it.”

Sandra Birks came in, walking with quick, determined little steps. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were starry. She seemed to be walking on air. I stepped out from behind the little counter which ran around the desk, and said, “Just a minute.”

She caught her breath when she saw me, and then shifted her eyes to stare at Alma in her robe, pajamas, and bare feet.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“If you’ve got a nickel,” I said, “we’ll call the police. Alma shot someone in your apartment.”

“Who?”

“A burglar,” Alma said, quickly.

“The same one who—” Sandra broke off to look at her throat.

Alma nodded. “I think so.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

I started to say, “I gave it to her,” but Alma said quickly, “It was one I had. I’d had it in Kansas City. I kept it in the bottom of my suitcase.”

Sandra said, “We’d better go up and look things over before we—”

“No, we hadn’t,” I interrupted. “There’s been enough delay already. We call the police.”

Sandra said, “What’s the matter? Haven’t you a nickel?”

I met her eyes, and said, “No.”