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“Turn out the light.”
She did, instantly. “Are they coming?”
“Soon,” he said. “Get out. Use the window.”
She had jumped up from the chair and was standing behind his desk. He could see her silhouetted against the light in the alley. She stood stock-still.
“Quickly,” he urged. “Get away.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Go!”
“Come with me.”
“I wish I could. I can’t move another step, much less climb down that ladder. Go. Please go before they come.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“They’ll kill you, Pauline.”
She rummaged in her book bag and pulled something out. He heard the sharp click of a hammer cocking.
“What the devil is that?”
“I bought a gun.”
Arthur Curtis felt a part of himself die. This silly child, he thought, is going to stay here like I’m Sherlock Holmes and die with me, and I cannot think of a worse way for a man to leave this earth than drag a child with him.
There was only one way to get her to leave.
“Give that to me!”
She handed it over, butt first. It was a little revolver. He could feel rust on the trigger guard.
“Draw the window shade. Stand to one side as you do it. Good. O.K., now. Bend the desk lamp down until it just lights the desk. Turn it on.”
It cast a dim glow.
“Let me sit there.” He lurched to the desk and sank into his chair. He shoved her pistol aside, drew his own from his coat, and laid it on the desk. “Watch this.”
He removed the magazine and the cartridge from the chamber and took the slide and return spring from the barrel. He swabbed the parts clean with a rag he took from the cleaning kit in his desk. Then he reassembled the pistol, inserted a fresh magazine, and shoved it toward her. “Now you do it.”
Pauline mimicked the field stripping of the little Browning, step by step. Curtis was not surprised. She was as sharp a cookie as he had ever met.
“Good. Remember, always check there’s no bullet in the chamber, or you’ll blow your head off by mistake. O.K. Pick it up. Here’s how you cock it.”
He guided her hands and saw to his relief that she was strong enough to move the slide and chamber a round. “You have small hands, like me. It fits you fine. Keep it clean. Here’s a spare clip.” He took it from the drawer. “O.K. You got fourteen bullets.”
“You’re giving me your gun?”
“If anyone ever tries to take it away from you — they will, because you look like a little girl — here’s what you do. You point the gun at his face. And then you look through him, like he’s not there. Like you can’t see him, like he’s made of glass. Then he’ll believe you’re willing to kill him. Understand?”
She nodded solemnly.
“Still want to be a detective?”
“More than anything.”
