There was a ghost of a knock at the studio door. I picked up the shotgun and went to answer it.

SHE made a slender, trumpet-shaped silhouette in the doorway, in her narrow, straight black dress that flared briefly at the hem, as was the current fashion- well, one of the current fashions. I can't keep up with all of them. She stepped inside quickly, and reached back a black-gloved hand to press the door gently closed behind her. She was still dressed as she had left the Darrels', mink and all. I took a step backward to leave a strategic amount of room between us.

Tina looked at my face and at the shotgun in my hands. It wasn't pointed at her-when I aim a loaded firearm at someone, I like to pull the trigger-but it wasn't pointed too far away. Deliberately, she slipped the glossy fur stole from her shoulder, folded it once, and draped it over her arm, from which a small black bag already hung by a golden chain.

"Why didn't you turn off those stupid lights?" she asked.

I said, "I was hoping you'd find them inconvenient." She smiled slowly. "But what a way to greet an old friend? We are friends, are we not, chйri?"

She'd had no accent at the Darrels', and she wasn't really French, anyway. I'd never learned what she was. We didn't ask that kind of question back in those days.

I said, "I doubt it. We were a lot of things to each other in a very short time, Tina, but I don't think friends was ever one of them."

She smiled again, shrugged her shoulders gracefully, glanced again at the shotgun, and waited for my move. I knew it had better be good. You can stand only so long threatening with a gun someone you don't intend to shoot before the situation becomes ridiculous-the situation, and you, too.

I couldn't afford to become ridiculous. I couldn't afford to be the fat old saddle horse, long retired to pasture, now summoned, almost as a favor, for one last, brisk trot through the woods before the final, merciful trip to the fish-hatchery. I was good for something besides fish-food yet, or at least I hoped I was. I'd run my own shows during the war, almost from the start. Even the one on which I'd met Tina had been mine after I joined her, in the sense that I carried and gave the orders.

Mac or no Mac, if I had to be in this one-and the dead girl in the bathroom didn't leave me much choice- I was going to run it, too. But looking at Tina, I knew it would take doing. She'd come a long way since the rainy afternoon I'd first made contact with her in a bar, pub, bierstube, or bistro-take your choice according to nationality-in the little town of Kronheim, which is French despite its Teutonic-sounding name.

To look at her then, she was just another of the shabby little female opportunists who were living well as the mistresses of German officers while their countrymen starved. I remembered the thin young body in the tight satin dress, the thin straight legs in black silk stockings, and the ridiculously high heels. I remembered the big red mouth, the pale skin, and the thin, strong cheekbones; and I remembered best the big violet eyes, at first sight as dead and dull as those with which Barbara Herrera was now contemplating the bathroom fixtures. I remembered how those seemingly lifeless eyes had shown me a flash of something fierce and wild and exciting as they caught my signal across the dark and smoky room that was filled with German voices and German laughter, the loud, overbearing laughter of the conquerors..

That had been fifteen years ago. We'd been a couple of cunning, savage kids, I only a little older than she. Now she made an elegant, adult shape against the rough-plastered wall of my studio. She had more shape and color, she was older and healthier and more attractive-and much more experienced and dangerous.

She looked at the shotgun and said, "Well, Eric?"

I made a little gesture of defeat and set the piece against the wall. Phase one was over. I wondered how it would have gone if she'd found me unarmed.

She smiled. "Eric, Liebchen," she said, "I am glad to see you." Now the endearments were coming through in German.

"I can't say the same."

She laughed and stepped forward, took my face in her gloved hands, and kissed me on the mouth. She smelled a lot better than she had in Kronheim, or even in London, later, back when soap and hot water had been expensive rarities. What her next move would have been I never found out, because as she stepped back I caught her wrist, and a moment later I'd levered her right arm up between her shoulder blades in a good old fashioned hammerlock, and I wasn't gentle about it, either.

"All right," I said. "On the floor with it, querida!" She wasn't the only one who could make with the languages. "Dump the weasels, kid. Herurnten mit der mink!"

She tried for me with a thin spike heel, but I was ready for that and the latest in cocktail fashions didn't give her much leg-room. I tightened the lock until she moaned a little through her teeth and bent forward to relieve the strain. It put her right into position, and I brought my knee up smartly, hard enough to rattle her vertebrae, against her smoothly elasticized posterior- another writer, more clever than 1, has discovered a relic of Victorian modesty in the fact that, while women nowadays may admit to the ownership of two legs, upon formal occasions, at least, they must still seem to possess only a single buttock.

"I'll break your arm, darling," I said softly. "I'll kick your behind right up between your ears. This is Eric, my little turtledove, and Eric doesn't like dead girls in his bathtub. But he can get used to the idea, and it's a good sized tub. Now shed the pelts!"

She made no sound of assent, but the fur stole dropped to the floor, not with the slithering sound you'd expect, but with a solid, if muffled, thump. Apparently there was a pocket somewhere in that furrier's masterpiece, and it wasn't empty. This hardly came as a surprise to me.

"Now the purse, kiddo," I said. "But gently, gently. The bones take so long to knit, and casts are so unbecoming."

The little black bag dropped on top of the furs, but even this cushion didn't prevent the impact from being noticeable.

"That's two," I said. "Let's say mine and the Herrern's, for the sake of argument. Now how about putting your personal hardware on display for an old friend?" She shook her head quickly. "Oh, yes, indeed, you've got one somewhere. Say the little Belgian Browning, or one of those pretty toy Berettas they've been advertising She shook her head again, and I slid my left hand up her back and hooked my fingers into the high neck of her dress. I put some tension on it, enough to cut off her wind a bit. We heard a stitch pop somewhere. I said, "I've no serious objection to naked women, chiquita. Don't make me peel you to look for it.''

"All right, damn you!" she gasped. "Stop choking me!"

I released the dress, but not her wrist. There was a coy little slit in the front of the garment, through which a hint of white skin was supposed to show intriguingly as she moved. She slipped her free hand inside, brought out a tiny automatic pistol, and dropped it on top of the other stuff on the floor. I swung her away from the pile of armaments and let her go. She wheeled to face me angrily, rubbing her wrist; then she reached back with both hands to massage her bruised bottom; suddenly she was laughing. "Ah, Eric, Eric," she breathed. "I was so afraid, when I saw you..

"What were you afraid of?"

"You looked so changed. Slacks, tweed jacket, a pretty little wife. And the well-fed stomach… You should watch out. You will be a human mountain, tall as you are, if you let yourself get fat. And the eyes like a steer in the pen, waiting for the butcher. I said to myself, he will not even know me, this man. But you did. You remembered."