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away....”
    He leant slowly towards her. As he came nearer, she crouched away until she lay flat on the bed, his face hovering just above her. She couldn't scream. Her tongue curled to the roof of her mouth and stayed there. She couldn't do anything. Even when his hands slid up to her throat she only clutched feebly at his wrists, shaking her head imploringly at him.
    He said softly, “It won't hurt, if you don't struggle.”
    She shut her eyes, and as the blood began to drum in her ears she suddenly realized that this was death, and she began to fight him frantically. She had left it too late. His knee, driving into the little hollow between her breasts, pinned her like a poor moth to the bed. The vice−like grip of his fingers cut the air from her lungs.
    He said, “Mendetta will hear about this. He'll hate it. He'll know then someone is after him. Do you hear, you silly little fool? You couldn't earn enough to live decently. Look at this room. Look at the poverty of it.
    When I run this territory my broads won't live like this. Do you hear?”
    She beat his face with her hands, but she had no strength. Her legs thrashed up and down, at first violently, then jerkily, and then not at all.
    As her tongue filled her wide−open mouth, and her eyes tried to burst from their sockets, he turned his head slightly so he couldn't see her. He said in a whisper, “You ugly little bitch.” Then blood ran on to his hands from her nose, and she went limp. He climbed off her and stood looking down at her.
    He knew that he could go home and sleep now. For a time his hatred had gone out of him.

6
    June 5th, 10.15 a.m.
    THE SUN came through the windows of Mendetta's apartment and made patterns on the white carpet.
    Remains of breakfast on a silver tray stood on a little table by the settee. An ash−tray gave out a thin grey smoke of a dying cigarette.
    Jean, still in a bed−wrap, lay on the settee, her eyes closed and her thoughts far away. She was trying to imagine her life without Mendetta. It was difficult to imagine. It would be difficult also to replace this luxury.
    But she knew that she couldn't live with Mendetta much longer.
    The telephone rang shrilly. It startled her. She reached out and took the receiver off. “Who is it?” she said.
    Her voice was deep, almost man−like.
    Grantham said, “Where's Mendetta?” He sounded very excited.
    Jean looked up at the ceiling. She hadn't much use for Grantham. “He's out,” she said briefly. “What's wrong?”
    “Where is he? I've gotta get in touch with him.”
    “He's gone round to fix Poison. You can't get him there. What is it? I'll tell him.”
    There was a pause. “No, I guess I'll wait.” Grantham sounded worried.
    “Listen, tell me. Maybe I can get hold of him.”
    “It's one of the girls. She was strangled last night.”
    Jean's eyes narrowed. “Well, what of it? Tootsie can't do anything about that.”
    “I know he can't; but he's gotta know.”
    “All right, I'll tell him. Who did it?”
    “The cops don't know.”
    “I didn't ask that. I said who did it?”
    Again there was a long pause. Then Grantham said, “You're not to tell Mendetta this, it'll only make him mad, but I think Raven did it.”
    Jean sat up. “Why do you say that?”
    “One of the patrolmen thought he recognized him going into the girl's apartment. You know, O'Hara. He keeps an eye on that beat. I slipped him a hundred bucks to keep his mouth shut.”
    Jean thought for a moment. “Raven?” she repeated. “I wonder. Does that mean?”
    “I don't know, but he said he'd start something, didn't he?”
    “He said he'd get Tootsie. Listen, what are you going to do if he gets Tootsie?”
    “Don't talk like that,” Grantham said sharply. “He won't get him. Tootsie's too big. He's too well protected.”
    “I know, but suppose he does. Raven's dangerous; he might, you know. What will you do?”
    “What the hell can I do? I couldn't afford to fight him. He's got quite a big mob, and