The English shotgun, I noticed, had been carefully returned to its place on the rack. The two shells it had contained stood, base-down, on a nearby table, to let me know the piece was unloaded and there was no point in my building any fancy plans around it. He wasn't missing any bets. He was a pro.

"The knife," he said. "Careful now."

That's the trouble with showing your best tricks to punks like Tony and Ricky. When you really need them, they're common knowledge. Well, he probably wouldn't have let me get away with it, anyway. I reached cautiously into my pocket and got out the Solingen knife with thumb and forefinger.

"Let it drop on the rug."

I did so.

"Go get it, Duchess." He released her. She stood up uncertainly. He gave her an encouraging pat on the rear. "Go on. Get it and bring it here, Duchess." He grinned. "Duchess. Duke-Duchess. Get it?"

The other man in the room laughed dutifully, bringing himself to my attention for the first time. He wasn't much, just a competent workman with a broken nose in a wide, cruel face. One look and I knew he knew nothing whatever. He'd be the reason Martell was still putting on his Fenn act for us-or maybe he'd just played the role so long it came natural to him now.

The other man said, "The phone, Fenn."

"What about the damn phone?"

"It's still ringing."

"I know," Mat-tell said. "I realize it's painful as hell, Joey, but just try to bear up under the agony a few minutes longer, huh?" He gave Beth a shove. "Go on, Duchess. The knife. Get it."

Beth moved forward as awkwardly as if she were trying out her first pair of high heels. She stopped by the sofa and looked down at me.

"I… I'm sorry, Matt."

"Sure," I said.

There were no signs of a struggle. They'd just walked in, probably through the open study door near the fireplace-there was an outside door in the other room, I recalled-and taken the loaded gun from her before she could bring herself to shoot. I should have known that was what would happen, if the occasion should arise. I'd asked too much of her, although it hadn't seemed like much at the time.

She had that strange aversion to making a mess, or a loud noise-to making a fool of herself-that seems to afflict all respectable people. The idea of discharging a great big destructive firearm, or even a little one, in her own living room, perhaps for nothing, had seemed just too outlandish. She'd waited until she was absolutely sure it was necessary, and then, of course, it had been too late.

I couldn't help thinking of women I'd worked with who, given a shotgun and sufficient shells, could have guarded my sleep against an army of Martells and Joeys, but that wasn't fair. She wasn't Maria, or Tina, or any of those girls I'd known during the war, savage fighting animals, species human, gender feminine. She was Elizabeth Logan who had been Beth Helm, gentle wife and mother.

"I… I couldn't help it," she breathed.

"Sure."

Her lips formed a word, soundlessly. The word was, "Peter."

Behind her, Martell stirred impatiently. "Pick it up and bring it here!" he commanded.

She wasn't sure I'd got it. She signaled desperately with her eyes, indicating that there was someone or something outside, and spoke the name silently again as she bent to pick up the knife. She turned away and carried it to Martell. He looked at it and seemed surprised at its smallness, but made no comment. He dropped it into his own pocket.

"Get up," he said to me. I got up and put my feet into my shoes. "Okay," he said. "Now we'll take care of that damn phone and put Joey out of his misery. You get it, Duchess. If they ask what took you so long, say you were out. You just came in, the two of you, to hear the phone ringing. Find out who it is and what they want. One wrong word and you'll wish you hadn't. Got it? Now march."

There wasn't much chance yet, I told myself. He was still sizing me up, ready for trouble. There wasn't any hurry. If he'd wanted us dead immediately, he'd had plenty of opportunity to achieve his wish. He was saving us for something, so there was no need to risk the long, long gamble of taking action now, while he was alert and wary. Besides, if the boy were actually outside, he might create a diversion. I remembered now that Beth had said he was to check in every morning at a certain hour. I wasn't counting too much on him, however. This wasn't a game for college kids in high-heeled boots.

"Fenn!" Joey said.

"What now?"

"The phone!"

"What about it?"

"It's stopped!"

Martell listened. "Well, damned if it hasn't," he said mildly. "Feel better now, Joey?"

They were both looking towards the hail door, as if waiting for the instrument to start ringing again. So were Beth and I. In that moment, there was a crash behind us, as the study door slammed back against the stone fireplace. A boy's voice commanded:

"Drop that gun! Put your hands up!"

If he'd shot one, as he should have, I'd have taken out the other for him. I was ready to hit Joey just as hard and dirty as I could. But I'd been right in not counting too much on young Mr. Logan. He was just a kid and he wanted to talk.

"Don't move! Hold it just like that!"

Beth turned, beside me. "Peter! Oh, thank God-"

It seemed to me she was offering up thanks a little prematurely. I let my breath go out very softly. There was a very bad taste in my mouth; I don't like amateur productions. I turned slowly.

He was there all right, in his cowboy boots and big hat, with his trusty thirty-thirty in his fists. He looked as if he'd just ridden Hiyo Silver off the range. It was disillusioning to realize that he'd undoubtedly arrived in an imported, four-wheel-drive Land Rover.

He must have spotted something wrong-a strange car in the yard, perhaps-and left his vehicle at a distance and come forward on foot to investigate. You've got to give him credit for that much, I suppose, but it would have been nice if his daddy had taught him what to do with that firearm he was brandishing.

He was still on the dialogue pitch, however. "Now, drop it like I said!" he snapped, aiming the rifle at Mar-tell, who was, I saw, getting an amused, tolerant, and kind of pitying look on his face. He even glanced at me and shook his head almost imperceptibly, as one pro to another, asking me, I guess, to witness that it wasn't his fault if children attacked him and he had to defend himself.

Young Logan was still talking. There was no end to his supply of brilliant, dramatic lines. "You with the gun! I'm not fooling! Quick or I'll shoot!" And the click of the drawn-back hammer to punctuate the command.

Martell sighed and dropped his pistol, muzzle-first, so that if it discharged-which possibility didn't seem to have occurred to the boy, I suppose because they're always dropping guns harmlessly on TV-the bullet would go into the floor. Nothing happened. The weapon just bounced on the rug and lay still.

I had that terrible nightmare feeling you get when you see a very badly performed play or movie. Even when it's nothing to you if the performers make jackasses of themselves, it still hurts. I started to speak, to advise the boy but checked myself. All he had to do was pull a trigger, but that's something a kid's got to learn for himself, somehow.

They all think there's a kind of magic property in firearms, some hypnotic emanation that causes people to do your bidding. There isn't. The one thing a gun can do is shoot, and it isn't supposed to do even that without being told. But you can't explain it to them. They simply don't understand.

Joey was already moving now, very cautiously, increasing the distance between himself and Martell. I was going to have to decide very quickly whether or not to risk taking a hand.

"You there! I told you to stay put…!"

More words. Martell was moving. They were already far enough apart so that young Logan was having trouble keeping them both covered. The waving gunbarrel decided me. I wanted no part of this suicidal, sentimental foolishness. He wasn't really a bad kid, however, and I couldn't help pleading with him silently, for his own good: You're going to have to shoot, you stupid little bastard. Why the hell don't you shoot now, while it will still do some good…?