Corey stood with the gun in his hand. He was thinking that he ought to put the gun back under his shirt, but he wasn’t sure about the other squadmen. Maybe one of them would snap as Donofrio had snapped. Or maybe all of them would snap. He told himself it was a matter of tactics, and he had to let them know he was ready to use the gun.

Then he saw that McDermott was looking intently at the gun.

“Gimme that,” McDermott said.

Which is just what you’re gonna hafta do, Corey told himself. You either hand it over or use it, and you know you don’t wanna use it.

He handed the gun to the detective-sergeant. The other squadmen moved in as McDermott examined the gun.

“This ain’t no police pistol,” McDermott said.

Corey didn’t say anything.

“Where’d you get this pistol?” McDermott asked.

“Someone gave it to me.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“Like how many hours?”

“Whaddya mean, hours?”

“Twenty-four hours? Less than twenty-four hours?”

“Look, Sergeant, I said—”

“Hold it,” McDermott cut in softly. He smiled a trifle sheepishly. “I’m just guessing here.” And then, the smile fading, “Now let’s check to see if I’m guessing right.”

McDermott went to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers. He took out some papers, studied them, put them back in, took out more papers. It appeared he couldn’t find what he wanted. He pulled out another drawer and looked through the papers. Finally he had the paper he wanted. It was mimeographed. He studied something on the paper, then studied something on the gun. He put the paper back in the filing cabinet, closed the drawer and walked toward the prone form of Louis Donofrio. He gently patted Donofrio’s head. The Italian stirred, opened his eyes, started to get up, then sighed heavily and went back to sleep. McDermott stood looking down at him with fondness, something close to tenderness.

The four squadmen moved closer to Corey. Then McDermott came toward them, coming very slowly, looking at the gun in his hand and saying, “There’s a sales notation for this pistol. It was sold just a few months ago. It was sold to Walter Grogan.”

Corey heard a low-pitched growl. It came from one of the squadmen. He wasn’t sure which one.

McDermott said, “You’ve had this pistol less than twenty-four hours. Grogan gave it to you.”

“Now look, I can explain—”

“No you can’t. Not now you can’t. This pistol does all the explaining. And proves it, too. Proves you’re working for Grogan.”

“Sergeant, if you let me—”