I wasn't comfortable, and time passed slowly. It was another half-hour, plus about seven-and-a-half minutes, before I heard my lady coming. She was walking fast, and she had long legs and a business-like stride, but even on the gravel you could tell she was a woman hampered by high heels and a narrow dress. She jerked the car door open, hit the front seat hard, and bounced herself over about ten inches to line up with the wheel. She slammed the door closed. I heard her fumble in her purse for the keys.

"Oh, God damn!" she said savagely, as something got in her way.

I received a face-full of mink or sable as she flung her furs in the general direction of the rear seat. Then she had the keys. I waited until she had put the right one into the ignition lock for me; then, under cover of the noise of the starter, I rose up and got a head-hold with my left arm, covering her mouth at the same time, locking my hands together, holding her head hard against me as she writhed and tried to cry out, I used the leverage of both arms to exert knuckle pressure upon a certain nerve center in a certain way. Her body went slack with frightening abruptness.

I couldn't help remembering Jean, and the little sigh she'd given as she crumpled to the floor. I was tempted to feel for a pulse, but there was no time for sentimental horsing around. I got out the little kit we're issued-the one that contains a number of fascinating chemicals, including the death pill for the agent's own use-and slipped the needle, already loaded, into Mrs. Rosten's arm. That would keep her under for about four hours, if she wasn't already dead and if I'd judged the dose correctly.

I dragged her out from behind the wheel, climbed over, started the big car, and drove out of there fast, like an angry woman might-or a man with a limp female body beside him. It took me about half an hour to make my way through town and out the shore road where I'd been that afternoon. The little woods track leading to Mason's Cove wasn't easy to locate in the dark, but I found it, and drove into the clearing where I'd met Rosten earlier, hoping that nobody had decided to use it for a lovers' lane tonight.

The place was empty of vehicles. I checked Mrs. Rosten's pulse and found it strong and steady, which was a relief. I cut the lights and motor, got out and prowled around in the dark, and saw nothing. I sat down to wait. It was a very quiet place. One car went by on the shore road, sounding far away; that was all. There was no wind. There was a mist; I could see stars through the treetops, but they looked vague and distant. Well, I wasn't expecting trouble from that direction, but if anybody on this planet was planning to interfere with the grim work for which I'd been hired twice, it was about time he-or she- showed up.

Nobody came. The moon rose, big and hazy through the trees. A little wind came up and died away. Some small nocturnal animals got used to my presence and went about their nightly affairs. An owl hooted far off, then closer and then far off again. It was a weird sound to hear in the middle of the night. I couldn't help wondering if it had some sinister significance, but after all, I wasn't Daniel Boone surrounded by hostile redskins. I didn't think the people I was after would go in for bird calls, although I still didn't know anything about them. All I knew was Mac's verdict: They must learn not to monkey with the buzz saw when it is busy cutting wood.

There was a slight sound from the car, as if the woman I'd left there had stirred in her drugged sleep. I went back and turned on the light to look at her. She'd changed position on the seat; the drug was wearing off. I regarded her for a moment, feeling kind of guilty about the whole thing; but I was committed now. I'd hoped my well-announced murder would get some action out of somebody; but nobody was co-operating. There was nothing to do but carry out the bluff to the end.

I went to work grimly, picking up Mrs. Rosten's purse and slipping the shoes from her feet. She wasn't wearing stockings; she was tanned enough, I guess, to figure she could get by without them. I carried the stuff halfway across the beach and arranged it neatly on the sand. Then I went back to the Cadillac, started it, and drove forward, out onto the beach, until I felt the wheels begin to sink and slip. I tested reverse, and the rear tires only dug in deeper, indicating that nobody was going to drive the big car out of there, now, without a considerable amount of preliminary work.

I got out, walked around, opened the other door, and got Mrs. Rosten into my arms. I carried her across the beach, out into waist-deep water and threw her in.

FOURTEEN

IT WAS A stupid damn business. By the time I had fished her up and towed her back and arranged her artistically at the water's edge, I felt like a prize damn fool. Soaking wet, with water squelching in my sharp Petroni shoes, I made my way back up the beach disgustedly, and stepped behind the car to watch and wait.

It didn't take long. The cold water had brought her around. I saw her head come up. Her long dark hair, washed free of combs and pins, covered her face like seaweed. She pushed strands of hair from her eyes, sitting up in the shallows, and looked around dazedly, regarding her surroundings and herself with shock and horror. I could hardly blame her. She'd left a gay party and got into her expensive car, something had happened that she couldn't quite remember, and now she was discovering herself in the sodden wreckage of her party finery washed up like driftwood on a dark and lonely shore…

I saw her draw a long breath and take her runaway emotions under firm control. She got to her feet, took a couple of steps to dry land, and stood there looking around in the moonlight, rubbing her hands on her hips to get the wet sand off them. Now there was something aggressive and challenging, something startlingly primitive in the way she stood there, brown and tall and lean, with her bare feet planted solidly in dry sand, well apart. The wet white cocktail dress could have been a scrap of hide or woven bark. Plastered to her body unheeded, leaving one tanned shoulder bare, it gave her a look of barbaric nakedness. All she needed, I thought, was a stone-tipped spear, and maybe a tame ocelot for a pet. The damn cat didn't need to be very tame, at that. She could handle it.

She stood there, looking and listening warily. I saw her take notice of the Cadillac, stuck in the sand, and I saw her discover her shoes and purse, closer at hand. Presently she moved over and studied them, frowning. She shrugged, and at last gave some attention to her dress, twisting the skirt up hard against her thigh to force the water out of it.

After yanking the wrung-out garment into some kind of order, she squeezed the excess water from her hair and found something in her purse with which to tie the hair back out of the way. She stepped into her shoes, and moved towards the car, but froze as I stepped into sight and came towards her.

"You didn't have to wake up," I said, stopping in front of her.

"You!" she breathed. "What are you doing here? What in God's name do you think you're-what do you want?"

"You didn't have to wake up," I said. "I could have arranged it the other way, too. Call it an object lesson, Mrs. Rosten."

"I'll kill you for this," she said softly. "I will! I'll shoot you down like a dog, Peters-or are you Petroni tonight?"

"Let's say Petroni," I said. "Peters is a harmless jerk."

"The inference being that you're not harmless? You're threatening me?"

I looked at her sadly, and sighed. "Lady, it's not a threat, it's a demonstration. I'm showing you how easy it would be. The only reason you're still alive is because I wanted you that way." I paused deliberately. "You should have come to the phone when I called you this morning, Mrs. Rosten."