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a shiny black satin gash or belt done up in a kind of large bow or knot at her hip. Architecturally speaking, she wasn’t exactly from Sexville, as the cats back home would put it. But the smoothly fitting black dress indicated that she wasn’t hopelessly deformed, either, while at the same time it gave her a nice, smart, covered-up look that went well with her clipped, brushed hair.
    She gave me a final glance and a brief smile and vanished from sight. I hoped she was feeling slightly disappointed, even if she was a respectable widow determined to be loyal to the memory of her dead husband. If I’d given her a chance to rebuff me, even in a gentle and friendly way, the advantage would have been hers. Now it was mine. I’d probably have worked it this way, being a diabolical soul, even if I hadn’t had a date in the park.
    Back in my room, I changed into slacks and a loose sports jacket that gave me a little more freedom than my Sunday suit. Then I opened my suitcase and took out the Smith and Wesson revolver. Mac had wanted to fit me out with some cute luggage lousy with secret compartments, but I’d pointed out that this, if discovered, would be a dead giveaway, whereas anybody who wore hats and boots like mine could probably get away with having a six-shooter—a five-shooter, to be exact—rolled up in the top of a pair of pajamas. If my stuff was examined, it would just go with my gaudy Western character.
    I held the weapon for a moment, weighing it in my hand. It was compact and powerful and deadly. The hammer was shrouded so there was nothing to catch in your pocket; a low, grooved cocking piece let you shoot single-action when accuracy was important and you had the time. Not that it would ever qualify as a target pistol. I didn’t like it much. It was too much cartridge for too little gun. It was an ugly, sawed-off little beast, it kicked like a mule, and when it was fired indoors the muzzle blast from the two-inch barrel sounded like an atomic explosion.
    The last time I’d worked for Mac there had been a war on, and we’d been allowed to pick our own weapons. For firepower, I’d used a quiet, accurate little .22 and got along fine. But everybody was regulation-happy these peaceful days, and current armaments regulations for people in my category specified a cartridge of no less authority than a .38 Special, a requirement they’d probably got from listening to some cop, since it’s standard for most police departments. Of course, we weren’t cops— quite the contrary—but that thought wouldn’t cross the bureaucratic mind.
    I rolled the little monster up in my pajama top again and tucked it back into its nest. Even if I’d liked it, tonight wasn’t the time to wear it.
    I took the knife from my pocket, next. It looked like an ordinary jackknife with a stag handle, except that it was just a little bigger. It wasn’t in the regulations. The sections dealing with lethal cutlery were even more ridiculous and impractical than those dealing with firearms, so I’d decided to ignore them. What I had was a folding hunting knife of German Solingen steel. There were two blades, a corkscrew, and no tricks except that, when the large blade was opened it locked into place, so it couldn’t close accidentally on your fingers, no matter what resistance it met in dressing out game—or in any other occupation you might find for it. I’d got it from the pocket of a Nazi officer after my own knife had jammed and broken between his ribs and my partner of the moment—a girl named Tina—had had to save the situation with the butt of a gun.
    It wasn’t as big as a fighting knife ought to be, by a long shot, and it wasn’t worth a damn for throwing, being balanced all wrong. But it was inconspicuous enough so that I could carry it anywhere, and even be seen paring my fingernails with it, without attracting much attention except for my bad manners. I’d carried it through the last year of the war, and through fifteen