safe-drawer. I waited until she leaned forward to investigate the next compartment of that safe. Then I stooped and let my hand slip out to that automatic.
I felt better, once that gun was in my hand. It had a candlestick beaten seven ways for Sunday. And it was loaded with a full clip of cartridges.
The woman in front of the safe went serenely on with her work. Then she snapped the club-bag shut, sighed audibly and brushed the tips of her fingers together, as though knocking dust from them. I could see her carefully wipe the metal handles and the japanned surfaces of the drawer-fronts. This I knew was to brush away any tell-tale finger prints. Then she looked down to the rug on her right. I could see her frown of perplexity. She felt along the knee of her lisle-thread stocking, still frowning. And in the meantime I balanced the automatic in my hand and trained the barrel directly at the back of her head. Then I felt that my moment had come.
"Stand up!" I called out sharply.
She came to her feet, with a jump like a jack-in-the-box released on its spring. And as she rose she also twisted about, so that we stood face to face.
