She opened her purse, took out a nickel and gave it to me. I walked back to the telephone booth. Sandra and Alma stood there by the elevator, talking in low tones; and just then I heard the low wail of a police siren, sounding close at hand. I was just taking the receiver off the hook in the telephone booth when a radio patrol car drew up in front of the door. I started dialing blind, stalling along to keep out of sight. An officer climbed the two stairs, tried the door, and rattled the knob. Sandra walked across and let him in. I could hear him say through the door to the telephone booth, “Someone reported a shot was heard in 419. Do you know anything about it?”

“I live there,” Sandra Birks said.

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes.”

“Was there a shot?”

“I just came in.”

“Who’s this dame?”

“She lives with me—it was a shot, I guess—she heard it.”

“Let’s go up.”

He pushed them along with him into the elevator. The door rattled shut, and the elevator started swaying upward. Over the phone I heard the noise of the ringing bell and a sleepy masculine voice said “Hello.” I thought for a moment, then put the receiver back on the hook.

Apparently no one had said anything about me.

I watched the indicator swing upward in an arc until it came to the fourth floor. Then it stopped. I waited a minute or two to see if the elevator was coming back down, and when I saw it wasn’t, jabbed the button. The indicator remained stationary. Evidently, they’d left the door open when they went up. At that hour of the night, there was only one elevator running, and it was an automatic.

It took me a couple of minutes to climb the four flights of stairs and walk down the corridor to apartment 419.

The apartment door was open. I could hear the sound of voices coming from the bedroom on the right. The lights were on. I stepped into the apartment, and looked through the bedroom door. The two women were standing facing the officer: Alma Hunter, white-lipped, defiant; Sandra Birks, poker-faced. Sprawled on the floor with his arm outstretched, lying on his back, his glazed eyes reflecting the lights from the ceiling, lay Morgan Birks.

The officer asked Alma, “Where did you get this gun?”

“I had it.”

“When did you buy it?”

“I didn’t buy it.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“A gentleman friend.”

“Where? When?”

“In Kansas City, of course. It was some time ago. I don’t remember how long ago.”

Sandra Birks looked past the officer and saw me. Her eyes narrowed. She raised her hand to her lips, and as she lowered it, flipped the wrist in a signal to go away.

The officer caught either her motion or the expression in her eyes. He whirled and saw me standing there.