"You are right, of course. They weigh little, but the weight already is overmuch. They will have to come off."
He jerked off her shoes, and dropped them to the floor. Then the stockings. He grasped the dress at its throat, and ripped it off with one furious tug… The brassiere, then. And then…
He glanced down critically at the nude, undulant figure, and grinned spitefully at Toddy. "Tempting," he said. "You are incapacitated, unfortunately, but there is no reason why I… You could enjoy that, Mr. Kent? You would derive pleasure from mine?"
"Y-you,"-Toddy rasped-"bastard…"
"I shall kick you some more," Alvarado promised. "As for Dolores, she shall lie with the dog, poor Perrito. He deserved it, eh, Mr. Kent? It is small recompense for the death which expedience forces me to inflict… If he were smaller, if he could not talk, I might have…"
Going down on his knees, he looked regretfully at the dog. He got an arm under it, stroked the head absently with his bleeding hand.
"Pobre Perrito," he murmured. "I am sorry."
A shudder ran through the dog's body. His tongue lolled out, touched Alvarado's hand. It moved against the hand, licking.
"Cruel," murmured Alvarado. "You are nearly dead, and I let you revive. I let in the air. I kill you twice…"
He got up abruptly, brushing at his eyes, and turned to the bed. He lifted the girl and lowered her roughly into the box from which he had taken her.
"Now," he said, bending over the dog again, "it will soon be over."
This time he put both arms under the great black body, and grunting stood erect with it. The animal's eyes slitted open. The huge jaws gaped lazily. Alvarado bent his head-his scarlet face.
The dog's jaws snapped shut on it.
The blood scent… Like a dream, a nightmare, a scene at the Los Angeles house came back to Toddy… Shake and Donald, their faces spouting blood. And Alvarado holding the lunging dog.
Alvarado was bent over, staggering. His fists flailed against the dog and his muffled, smothered shrieks emerged as a horrible humming… "Hmmmm? Mmmmmm! MMMMMM!…"
Toddy yelled. He got to his hands and knees and lurched forward, tried to grasp the dog by a leg. How this had come about didn't matter now. He only knew that it had to be stopped.
There was a roar in the room and Toddy dropped to his stomach. Alvarado had got out his gun, but he couldn't aim it. He was pivoting in a slow, pain-crazed waltz; doubled over, the automatic sweeping the walls. And the dog waltzed with him, eyes closed, jaws clamped, its hind claws rattling and scratching against the floor.
Suddenly, Alvarado's right arm shot straight out from his body. The dog moved-they moved together-and the gun swerved. It steadied, pointing at the girl.
Toddy could never say how he did it; he could never recall doing it. But somehow he was on his feet, his hands gripping a bony scarlet wrist. He threw his weight forward, and there was a long staccato roar-that and the shattering of glass as the windowpane behind a drawn curtain was blown into bits.
Then, somewhere, in the not too distant distance, a motor raced and an automobile horn tooted angrily.
Toddy staggered backward and sat down on the bed. Alvarado and the dog lay on the floor, motionless. One paw rested against Alvarado's shoulder, and Alvarado's left hand lay on the dog's black hide. The dog had released his hold at last. What the jaws had clung to was no longer there.
Toddy bent forward suddenly and retched. His dizziness disappeared and he could think again.
He'd have to get out of here-he gripped the edge of the bedstead and pulled himself upright. Those shots had made a hell of a racket; it sounded like they might have grazed a car. It might take the cops a little while to discover their source, but when they did… Well, they wouldn't find him here. Alvarado had dough on him. Plenty of it. And the keys to the convertible were in the switch. By the time the cops got a line on him, he'd be through Tijuana, heading for one of the fishing villages below Rosarita Beach. From there, for a price, he could get passage to Central America.
Of course, he'd be on the run for the rest of his life. He'd always have Elaine's murder hanging over him. That couldn't be helped. When you couldn't fight you had to run.
He got up. Eyes averted, he was bending over Alvarado's body, starting to search for the money that must be there, when something made him pause. He straightened, shrugged irritatedly, and stooped again. He stood up again, Cursing.
He picked up the girl and laid her on the bed. His tanned face flushed, he pulled one side of the spread over her.
That was all he could do. He wasn't any doctor. Anyway, she'd be all right. She…
He pressed his thumb and forefinger against her wrist. At first there seemed to be no pulse. Then he felt it, faint, stuttering, strengthening for a few beats, then fading again.
His voice trailed off into silence. Angry, desperate. Someone might not be there. Not soon enough. They might- but they might not. She was right on the edge. A little longer and she might be over it.
He dropped her hand-almost flung it from him-and raced into the front room. His shoes grated against the broken glass, as he snatched up the brandy carafe. He let it slide from his fingers, fall gurgling to the floor.
He knew better than that, after all the talks he'd had with Elaine's doctors. Alcohol wasn't a stimulant but a depressant. An anesthetic. Taken on top of the chloroform it would mean certain death.
Running to the kitchen, he yanked open the cupboard doors. No ammonia. Nothing that would act as a restorative.
He glanced at the stove. A coffee pot stood on the back burner. It was half full.
As soon as the coffee began to simmer, he grabbed the pot and a cup and hurried back to the bedroom. He got down on his knees at the bedside, filled a cup and set the pot on the floor, and raised the girl's head.
Her head wobbled and coffee ran from her lips, down over her chin and neck.
He put an arm around her, under her left arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. He poured more coffee in the cup.
This time she swallowed some of the liquid, but a shuddering, strangled gasp made him suddenly jerk the cup away. Too fast-he'd given it to her too fast. She'd smother, drown actually, if he wasn't careful.
He waited a minute-an hour it seemed like-and again placed the cup to her lips. Mentally, he measured out a spoonful, and waited until her throat moved, swallowed. He gave her another spoonful, then waited, and another swallow.
Slowly, a little color was returning to her face. Maybe it would be all right now if he… He felt her pulse. Sighing, he refilled the cup.
He had almost finished doling it out to her, a spoonful at a time, when her heart began to pound. He could feel it against his hand, skipping a little, still a little irregular, but going stronger with every beat.
He started to remove his hand, but her arm had tightened against her side. Her eyelids fluttered drowsily, and opened.
"You're all-" he began.