“You are drunk!” Michele said sharply.

“I’m a little drunk,” the detective agreed. “But then I’m off duty so it’s OK. What I like to do is knock back a few and then ride the subways looking at faces. When I spot one that’s familiar I follow the guy, like I followed Mac here. It’s kind of a hobby.”

He started toward them. “And who are you, sweetheart?” he said to Michele. “Mrs. Carl Williams or Mrs. Francis X. McQuade?”

An elevator arrived behind him and let off the plump lady in the big flowered hat. Seeing the tense little tableau she stopped short. Her eyes, Michele noted incongruously, were the pale blue of souring milk. Her mouth opened and the scream she had swallowed upstairs came out, with plenty of pressure behind it. The detective looked away from McQuade for only an instant, but when he looked back the. 45 had appeared in McQuade’s big hand.

The detective congealed, both hands well forward. His tired look was gone.

“I see I made a mistake,” he said. “You don’t look anything like McQuade. And even if you did, nobody was killed in that stickup, so God bless you. Take off. Till we meet again.”

The scream from the woman at the elevators rose in pitch until it cut out abruptly as she dropped to the floor in a faint. McQuade and Michele still had fifteen or twenty feet to travel to the door, and they didn’t hurry. The detective remained fixed, as though he found himself playing the child’s game of statues, and would have to pay a forfeit if he was seen to move. But he was tense and ready. He wouldn’t have been a detective without a gun inside his coat. McQuade had pulled Michele in against him so she partially screened his body, but would the detective let that stand in his way when the shooting started? Michele knew better.

McQuade said softly in her ear, “When we get to the door I’m putting a slug in his knee. After that you’re on your own. If you ever see me again, start running.”