she could finish the sentence. "Is he on the premises?"
"What?"
"Is the man who assaulted you still here?"
"Oh, no. Gone. He's gone."
"Which way did he go?" the blond man asked.
"Out this door."
"Did he have a car?"
"I don't know."
"Was he armed?"
"No. I mean, yes."
"Which is it?"
"He had a knife. But not now."
"Which way did he run when he left the house?"
"I don't know. I was upstairs. I--"
"How long ago did he leave?" the tall dark one asked.
"Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago."
They exchanged a look that she did not understand but which she knew, immediately, was not good for her.
"What took you so long to call it in?" the blond asked.
He was slightly hostile.
She felt she was losing some important advantage that she could not identify.
"At first I was ... confused," she said. "Hysterical. I needed a few minutes to get myself together."
"Twenty minutes?"
"Maybe it was only fifteen."
Both detectives put away their revolvers.
"We'll need a description," the dark one said.
"I can give you better than that," she said as she stepped aside to let them enter. "I can give you a name."
"A name?"
"His name. I know him," she said. "The man who attacked me. I know who he is."
The two detectives gave each other that look again. She thought: What have I done wrong?
***
Hilary Thomas was one of the most beautiful women Tony had ever seen. She appeared to have a few drops of Indian blood. Her hair was long and thick, darker than his own, a glossy raven-black. Her eyes were dark, too, the whites as clear as pasteurized cream. Her flawless complexion was a light milky bronze shade, probably largely the result of carefully measured time in the California sun. If her face was a bit long, that was balanced by the size of her eyes (enormous) and by the perfect shape of her patrician nose, and by the almost obscene fullness of her lips. Hers was an erotic face, but an intelligent and kind face as well, the face of a woman capable of great tenderness and compassion. There was also pain in that countenance, especially in those fascinating eyes, the kind of pain that came from experience, knowledge; and Tony expected that it was not merely the pain she'd suffered that night; some of it went back a long, long time.
She sat on one end of the brushed corduroy sofa in the book-lined study, and Tony sat on the other end. They were alone.
Frank was in the kitchen, talking on the phone to a desk man at headquarters.
Upstairs, two uniformed patrolmen. Whitlock and Farmer, were digging bullets out of the walls.
There was not a fingerprint man in the house because, according to the complainant, the intruder had worn gloves.
"What's he doing now?" Hilary Thomas asked.
"Who?"
"Lieutenant Howard."
"He's calling headquarters and asking someone to get in touch with the sheriff's office up there in Napa County, where Frye lives."
"Why?"
"Well, for one thing, maybe the sheriff can find out how Frye got to L.A."
"What's it matter how he got here?" she asked. "The important thing is that he's here and he's got to be found and stopped."
"If he flew down," Tony said, "it doesn't matter much at all. But if Frye drove to L.A., the sheriff up in Napa County might be able to find out what car he used. With a description of the vehicle and a license number, we've got a better chance of nailing him before he gets too far."
She considered that for a moment, then said, "Why did Lieutenant Howard go to the kitchen? Why didn't he just use the phone in here?"
"I guess he wanted you to have a few minutes of peace and quiet," Tony said uneasily.
"I think he just didn't want me to hear what he was saying."
"Oh, no. He was only--"
"You know, I have the strangest feeling," she said, interrupting him. "I feel like I'm the suspect instead of the victim."
"You're just tense," he said. "Understandably tense."
"It isn't that. It's something about the way you're acting toward me. Well ... not so much you as him."
"Frank can seem cool
"What?"
"Is the man who assaulted you still here?"
"Oh, no. Gone. He's gone."
"Which way did he go?" the blond man asked.
"Out this door."
"Did he have a car?"
"I don't know."
"Was he armed?"
"No. I mean, yes."
"Which is it?"
"He had a knife. But not now."
"Which way did he run when he left the house?"
"I don't know. I was upstairs. I--"
"How long ago did he leave?" the tall dark one asked.
"Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago."
They exchanged a look that she did not understand but which she knew, immediately, was not good for her.
"What took you so long to call it in?" the blond asked.
He was slightly hostile.
She felt she was losing some important advantage that she could not identify.
"At first I was ... confused," she said. "Hysterical. I needed a few minutes to get myself together."
"Twenty minutes?"
"Maybe it was only fifteen."
Both detectives put away their revolvers.
"We'll need a description," the dark one said.
"I can give you better than that," she said as she stepped aside to let them enter. "I can give you a name."
"A name?"
"His name. I know him," she said. "The man who attacked me. I know who he is."
The two detectives gave each other that look again. She thought: What have I done wrong?
***
Hilary Thomas was one of the most beautiful women Tony had ever seen. She appeared to have a few drops of Indian blood. Her hair was long and thick, darker than his own, a glossy raven-black. Her eyes were dark, too, the whites as clear as pasteurized cream. Her flawless complexion was a light milky bronze shade, probably largely the result of carefully measured time in the California sun. If her face was a bit long, that was balanced by the size of her eyes (enormous) and by the perfect shape of her patrician nose, and by the almost obscene fullness of her lips. Hers was an erotic face, but an intelligent and kind face as well, the face of a woman capable of great tenderness and compassion. There was also pain in that countenance, especially in those fascinating eyes, the kind of pain that came from experience, knowledge; and Tony expected that it was not merely the pain she'd suffered that night; some of it went back a long, long time.
She sat on one end of the brushed corduroy sofa in the book-lined study, and Tony sat on the other end. They were alone.
Frank was in the kitchen, talking on the phone to a desk man at headquarters.
Upstairs, two uniformed patrolmen. Whitlock and Farmer, were digging bullets out of the walls.
There was not a fingerprint man in the house because, according to the complainant, the intruder had worn gloves.
"What's he doing now?" Hilary Thomas asked.
"Who?"
"Lieutenant Howard."
"He's calling headquarters and asking someone to get in touch with the sheriff's office up there in Napa County, where Frye lives."
"Why?"
"Well, for one thing, maybe the sheriff can find out how Frye got to L.A."
"What's it matter how he got here?" she asked. "The important thing is that he's here and he's got to be found and stopped."
"If he flew down," Tony said, "it doesn't matter much at all. But if Frye drove to L.A., the sheriff up in Napa County might be able to find out what car he used. With a description of the vehicle and a license number, we've got a better chance of nailing him before he gets too far."
She considered that for a moment, then said, "Why did Lieutenant Howard go to the kitchen? Why didn't he just use the phone in here?"
"I guess he wanted you to have a few minutes of peace and quiet," Tony said uneasily.
"I think he just didn't want me to hear what he was saying."
"Oh, no. He was only--"
"You know, I have the strangest feeling," she said, interrupting him. "I feel like I'm the suspect instead of the victim."
"You're just tense," he said. "Understandably tense."
"It isn't that. It's something about the way you're acting toward me. Well ... not so much you as him."
"Frank can seem cool
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