"How long would it take?" "That depends," Dermitt shrugged. "If everything goes smoothly, if I can depend on the full cooperation of my characters, it shouldn't take more than a day. Two days at the outside." "I see," Fleetwood said. "And how much rough stuff will there be?" "No more than usual. Maybe a kick or two in the groin. A flesh wound, naturally." Fleetwood winced. "Is it absolutely necessary? Do I always have to get myself shot in the last chapter?" "If the readers demand it, what can I do?" "Obviously your readers are from an extremely low level of civilized society. I'm surprised that a bunch of savage, sadistic-minded brutes like that know how to read." "It's no good resorting to insults," Dermitt said mildly. "In fact, you had better mind your manners or this Kitty of yours is going to get the surprise of her pallid little life." For a long moment Fleetwood was silent, weighing the alternatives. "Okay," he said finally, giving in to the inevitable. "Okay, you win. All I ask is that you get it over with as soon as possible." "Fair enough," Dermitt said with satisfaction. "And I'm prepared to be reasonable about the thing, Cassidy. In fact I'm willing to go to work right now, if you like. All _I_ ask, though, is that you subdue those cowardly impulses of yours until I'm finished." He got up, crossed to the desk and sat down before the typewriter. * * * * * Watching with apprehension, Fleetwood stirred nervously and started to speak, but Dermitt motioned him to be quiet. The little man flexed his fingers, adjusted his monstrous glasses and regarded Fleetwood thoughtfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a nod of decision. He began to type. A shudder of weakness passed through Fleetwood's long frame, and he tried to cry out, but suddenly his voice was only an echo of the clattering keys.... _Fleetwood stirred, and consciousness seeped into his mind like a cold, grey fog._ "_Fleetwood!_" _A voice called to him with quiet urgency. He looked up and saw Evelyn's face blur into focus close above his own. Her arm was about his shoulders and she was pulling him toward her._ _"The kiss of death?" Fleetwood said flatly._ _"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't. I didn't know he was like that...."_ _"Where is he?"_ _It was a moment before she spoke, as though she needed time to make up her mind. "He's getting the car," she said. "He'll be back in a moment to take you with him. You've got to get out of here. I want you to."_ _Fleetwood glanced down at the gun beside her on the floor. "You're going to save me at gunpoint, huh?" he asked._ _"He made me take it." She picked it up and held it out to him. "Here, you can have it if you want." She pressed it into his hand._ _"How'd you get into all this?" he asked, sitting up. "You make a lousy gun moll. I'll bet you can't even smoke a cigar."_