By that time, Walters and the two policemen were on the front
porch.
Suddenly Ritter turned and sprinted around the right side of the house.
Rand stood looking after him for a moment, then started to follow more
slowly; as he did, a shot slammed in the rear. Jerking out the changeling
.38-special, he whirled and ran around the left side of the house,
arriving at the rear in time to see Gwinnett standing on a boardwalk
between the house and the stable-garage behind, with his hands raised.
There was a fresh bullet-scar on the boardwalk at his feet. Ritter was
covering him from the corner of the house with the .380 Beretta.
Rand strolled over to Gwinnett, frisked him, and told him to put his
hands down.
"Nice, Dave," he complimented. "I thought of that, too, about a minute
too late. As soon as he saw Walters coming up the walk with the police,
he knew what had happened. Come on, Gwinnett; we'll go through the house
and let them in."
Gwinnett's eyes darted from side to side, like the eyes of a trapped
animal. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, stiff-lipped.
"What is this, a stick-up?"
Nobody bothered to tell him to stop kidding. They marched him through the
kitchen, where a Negro girl, her arms white with flour, was dithering in
fright, and into the front hall.
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