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the gun here... in the house?"
    "Yes." She nodded to the ugly sideboard. "In there."
    "I would like to see it."
    "See it? But why?"
    "May I see it?"

    She shrugged, got to her feet and went to the sideboard. She pulled open a drawer and took from it a wooden box which she put on the table.
    Anson opened the box to find it contained a .38 police Special, a spare clip and a box of cartridges.
    He lifted the gun from the box, checked to see it was unloaded, then balanced it in his hand.
    "He doesn't use it now?" he asked.
    "He hasn't touched it for months. Why the interest?"
    "Do you think it would be safe if I borrowed it for a night?"
    She stiffened.
    "But why?"
    "Could I borrow it?"
    "Yes ... of course, but you must tell me ... why?"
    "Use your head," Anson said impatiently. He put the gun in his hip pocket. "I have to find three thousand dollars."
    She sat motionless, staring at him.
    He took six cartridges from the box and dropped them into his pocket.
    There was a long pause, then he reached out and pulled her to him. His hands moved down her long back as he pressed his lips to hers.

Chapter 4
    Sometime during the late afternoon, Anson drove into the Caltex Service Station on the Brent highway. While the attendant was filling his tank and cleaning his windshield, Anson went into the office and through to the toilet. He left the toilet door ajar and standing against the far wall, he examined the office. There was a desk, a filing cabinet and a big, old-fashioned safe. He noticed the two big windows that faced the highway.
    He moved out of the toilet, satisfied he now had the geography of the office set in his mind and he returned to the car.
    As he paid the attendant, he said casually, "You keep open all night, don't you?"
    "That's a fact, but I go off in three hours. My sidekick does the night shift."
    A few months back, Anson had talked with the manager, of the Service station about insuring the takings. He knew there was anything from three thousand to four thousand dollars in the safe. While he had been examining Barlowe's gun, it had flashed through his mind that the Service station could be a pretty easy hold-up.
    He was surprised that he felt so calm about planning this robbery. The weight of the gun in his hip pocket gave him a lot of confidence. He decided around four o'clock in the morning he would walk into the Service station and force the attendant at gun point to open the safe. With any luck he would then have enough money to pay off Joe Duncan and to pay the first premium of Barlowe's fifty thousand dollar life policy.
    Back at the Marlborough hotel, Anson went up to his room. Sitting on his bed, he examined Barlowe's gun. He knew something about guns as he had served his two years of military service. He satisfied himself that the gun was in good working order, then he loaded it with the six cartridges he had in his pocket. He put the gun in his suitcase.
    He then went down to the bar. After drinking two stiff whiskies, he went along to the restaurant. He ordered dinner and asked for half a bottle of claret. He seldom drank wine, but he wanted the cork from the bottle: the cork was to play a minor part in his robbery plan. His stomach still felt sore and he had no appetite. He merely picked at his food. Around nine o'clock, he signed the check. He put the cork from the wine bottle into his pocket and leaving the restaurant, he walked to the men's toilet room. There was an old Negro attendant, dozing in a chair. He peered sleepily at Anson and seeing he needed no service, he closed his eyes again.
    Anson washed his hands, and while he did so, he looked in the mirror at the rows of hats and coats hanging on the rack behind him. He picked on a well worn brown and green striped overcoat; a shabby but distinctive coat, and a Swiss hat with a gay feather in it on the next peg.
    After drying his hands, he looked at the dozing Negro who had begun to snore gently. Anson took the hat and coat and left the hotel by a