The girl from the cab, with her change, bills and all, in her bare hand, got out. She swept her long skirts, aquamarine velvet over rosy silk, up in one hand. Her golden slippers stepped quickly on the gray sidewalk. She went by Jed. Her gaze crossed over his face blankly, and he, blankly, watched her by, for they were strangers.
Jed saw the doorman prance, and the door spin. The cab door, in front of him, remained open. It hinted, tempted, invited. Finally it said to him, “Well?”
He moved nearer and put out a hand, ducked his head, brought his bag up in the other hand, and his knee up . . . Something hit him. It seemed to him that he was struck in the face by a barrier as soft, elastic, and yielding, as easy to pass through, as a cobweb. Something that was no more substantial than the air itself. Only a faint scent . . . breathing into his face from the cab’s closed place. A perfume, it was, that stopped him because he knew that scent and it made his stomach turn over. Why, he reeked of it, himself! Of course. It was on him! It came from himself.
He barked, “Sorry,” and slammed the door. He lifted his hand, giving permission and command. Go ahead. The cab’s gears snarled at him. It went away in a huff, saying with a flounce of its back bumper, “Whyncha make up your mind, stupid!”
Jed trod his cigarette out. He felt rooted on the sidewalk and his feet kicked at the invisible chain. All right. He would not shut himself up with that sickening odor. That’s all. He’d air himself free of it. Walk, then. Lug your damn bag. But get gone, stupid! He held hard for anger, this kind of anger. His hand came up to brush before his face.
Milner, the man at the desk, leaned over, full of summons, but Pat Perrin was out of range of a soft hail and a loud hail would never do. Milner’s still-startled eyes blinked. Towers, 821. Eighth floor, sure enough. Fellow might know what he was talking about. Something wrong in 807? Peter O. Jones, 807 and 809. Mr. Milner didn’t know where the Joneses were. He was annoyed as well as startled. But of course he would check. It would never do not to check up on such a warning.
He took up a phone and pivoted, looking anxiously for some reason at the hands of the clock. “Give me 807, Rochelle, will you?”
“Sure thing.” Rochelle alerted. She thought, “Oh boy, something’s up!” She thought, “I smelled a rat up there hours ago.” She was rather pleased. There were long stretches on this job that were pretty dull. She hoped this was going to be interesting. Whatever it was. She said softly, “What goes on, Mr. Milner?”
Since Mr. Milner did not know, he was haughty. “If you’ll ring them, please?”
“O.K., O.K.” He heard Rochelle ring them. He stood, holding the phone, staring at the clock as if he could by the willful power of the human eye stay the hand, as Ruth O. Jones went rustling by behind him.
No need to stop for her key, she reflected, since of course Nell was there to open the door. Besides, it would take time. Her feel of time wasting was because she’d been wishing too long to come. Only that. Why, the lobby was just the same, just the same.
Ruthie and the jitters. How Betty would laugh! Betty the city mouse. Betty the louse, who’d begged off. Although why on earth I assume she’s so darned reliable . . . Betty and her system of values . . . Betty who doesn’t even know, yet, what a woman’s in the world for . . . It was the blood tie, of course. It was the mere fact that Peter’s sister could not be a stranger.
Now Ruth began (for everything upstairs would be just the same) to pick and choose among excuses. One could not say, I came because I don’t trust you an inch, my dear. No. But one could say, I came for a clean handkerchief, which would be pretty feeble. Obviously, no shoulder straps to break. Oh, say a pill. Say some special remedy brought from home. For a headache, say. It would do.
There was a man in a brown suit talking in rather an official manner to the elevator boy. He kept on talking. “I beg your pardon,” Ruth asked. “Is this car going up?”
“In a minute, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She stepped by. They kept muttering together. The boy said, “Never rode with me.”
Ruth’s foot in the golden slipper twitched. Oh, don’t be silly! Surely a minute doesn’t matter! (Except on the inner clock of her apprehensive bones.)
Chapter 17
NELL LET the water run. Then she filled the glass. She stood, holding the glass, and twisted the faucet once or twice, on and off. Her face was sullen and a little bored and weary, as she looked down at the form of the little man on the bathroom floor, lying as if he were normally asleep, twisted a bit to one side, as if to be comfortable.
The skin around his eyes twitched, as if the bright light affected him. She frowned faintly, and then her whole body seemed to shrug, to lift off the problem and let it go. The hell with it.
She snapped off the light, opened the door that she had so speedily put between her and room 807, and pulled it after her quite deftly as she stepped through. “Miss Ballew?” She was all sweet service.
The schoolteacher, with her eyes closed, was silently reciting poetry. It was a trick to play on the release of the fearful substances to the blood, on the whole panicked interior chemistry. Sometimes, by taking the brain’s attention elsewhere, she could wait out, slow down, and defeat the pound of the goaded heart.
“Oh, thank you, my dear. Really, this is so feeble of me.” Her teeth chattered. “But I lead rather a quiet existence. I rarely . . .” The phone rang. The glass was still in Nell’s hand. “I’ll get it,” chattered Miss Ballew and jerked around.
Nell sat down quietly. Her toes turned in, then out, almost imperceptibly. Her finger tips danced a little on the cool damp glass.
“Yes?” quavered the teacher.
“This is the desk. I’ve had word of some trouble. Perhaps you can tell me?”
“Trouble!” burst Miss Ballew. “Yes, certainly, there has been trouble. I spoke to someone, long ago! Now, who was that? Really, by this time you ought to have accomplished something. Do you mean to tell me! Didn’t you stop him?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the astonished voice.
“Did you or did you not stop that man! I told you— I described him.”
“Who is this, please?”
“This is Miss Eva Ballew. I have 823 but I am now in 807 as you ought to know since you are speaking to me here. Now, I reported this trouble minutes ago—”
“Yes. Yes, I see, Miss Ballew,” he broke in. “The house detective must have taken—”
“Must have! Are you guessing? Who are you, pray?”
“I’m at the desk, ma’am.”
“And do you mean to tell me that you do not know! See here. Is anything at all being done?”
“The house detective evidently—”
“Evidently! Are you men or mice down there? Where is he?”
“He is evid— He is looking— That is, I see, now.”
“You are too late and too slow,” she spoke on top of him, “and it has been too long. You have irresponsibly allowed that ruffian to escape.”
Milner’s spine curled. “But is the child all right?” he demanded.
“The child? Why, yes, I believe—”
Milner, man, not mouse, was delighted to say, disagreeably, “Do you mean to tell me that you do not know!” and snap, “Someone responsible will be up there at once,” and slam down the phone. But all the same, he was relieved. Pat Perrin knew about it.
Miss Ballew hung up and her eyes were pained. So often this physical weakness had betrayed her. So often it had led her to be ashamed. She knew so well what one ought to do, but the weak flesh was a drag.
“What was it?” Nell said.
“They . . . someone will be up. They seem confused.” And I, thought Miss Ballew, am a pitiful despicable cowering wretch. And she tried to shift her legs.
“He got away?”
“Evidently.” It was no use. Her legs were mush, still. “My dear,” she said sadly, “hadn’t you better see to the child?”
“Oh, yes,” said Nell quickly. But she rose w
ithout haste, in fact, rather slowly and tentatively. “Don’t you want the drink of water?” She didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
Miss Ballew received the glass. She was not a fool. Now, as she knew her guilt, and realized that someone ought long ago to have gone in to the poor frightened child, the terrified little girl, she began to wonder why Nell had not gone. Nell, whose responsibility she was, had fetched water for a stranger instead. It didn’t ring right. First things had not come first. No, it rang wrong. Echoes of their first exchange began to come to her. Nell’s rudeness and the odd manner. She could no longer so glibly excuse it. And she seemed, besides, to see in her mind’s eye that the man in the corridor had no freckles on that averted cheek and no blue in his clothing.
She looked at Nell. She murmured, “It’s incredible, really.” The girl seemed to be waiting politely for her to go on and perhaps she didn’t understand. “It’s hard to believe,” translated Miss Ballew. “I’ve never heard such a wild story. There seems to be no sense . . . not even a mad method to this man’s actions. Are you sure?”
“What?”
“Are you sure you didn’t encourage him?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Nell said, looking surprised. “I don’t know what you mean.”
This was an echo, too, and it rang false. “Come now, of course you know what I mean.” Miss Ballew looked annoyed but she checked herself. “Never mind. This is no time for debate. See to the child, my dear, and bring her in here, do. Poor, poor baby. When the detective arrives,” her voice faltered from its habitual tone of instruction, “I daresay he . . .”
“He what?” Nell frowned faintly.
“I mean to say,” said Miss Ballew dryly, being fair, “perhaps he’s seen more of this sort of thing . . . perhaps more of it goes on than is dreamed of in my philosophy. And of course,” she added thoughtfully, “the child . . . How old is the child?”
“How old?”
“She is not an infant? She is old enough to talk?”
“Of course,” said Nell wonderingly. “She’s nine, I think.”
“Then that is fortunate,” said Miss Ballew, “for of course she will be able to corroborate your story.”
Nell was just standing there, looking stupid and even half falling asleep.
What a handicap to have so limited a vocabulary, thought the teacher. “Corroborate means to confirm,” she explained, “to tell the same story, or enough to prove it, do you see? That’s why I point out—”
“And fortunate,” said Nell, “means lucky.” She was smiling. Why, she was dancing! She stood on the same spot, there at the foot of the bed, but for a moment Miss Ballew had the distinct impression that she was dancing. Even her face had a twinkling, sparkling look. Impish, as if she’d thought of something, had an idea, or knew a mischievous secret. “I know more words than you think I do,” said Nell. “And I understand the future.” She flung up her hands . . . yes, it was a dance! (Miss Ballew looked on, bewildered.) And then the dark skirt flopped and fell out of the moving arc and reversed. . . .
And the girl was leaning on her two stiff arms, her knuckles white on the footboard, her eyes very wide, very blue. “I . . . I wonder . . .” The eyeballs turned in slow fear and the slow fear welled in Miss Ballew.
“She’s awfully quiet,” Nell said, softly, softly. “Isn’t she?”
Miss Ballew clawed her own throat.
“Don’t you think . . . it’s funny?”
“F-fun—” Miss Ballew wafted her arm across the air.
Nell’s teeth enfolded her lower lip. Now she looked very grave and thoughtful. She walked on soft toes to that inner door. Her hand was slow on the knob and nerves in the teacher’s temple turned excruciatingly with it.
The latch fell out. The door yawned. No sound emerged from 809.
“Bunny?” Nell called, softly, softly.
There was no answer.
“Bunny!” The girl’s back shook as if with a long shiver. Only quiet answered her. Her eyes rolled as she looked over her shoulder. “I’m afraid . . .” she whimpered.
Miss Ballew was afraid, too. She could not move. Her own ears knew that frightening silence was really there. “But you said— But you told me he didn’t . . . hurt . . .”
“He was in there, afterward. After you knocked. Do you think . . .”
“Don’t think! Don’t even say!”
But Nell’s words fell like Fate. “Maybe he remembered . . . she’s old enough to talk. . . .”
“Our Father which art in heaven,” mumbled Miss Ballew. “Beseech thee . . . from evil . . .”
“It would,” said Nell, glassy eyed, “be so easy. She’s just . . . a little thing . . .”
“Go see!” screamed Miss Eva Ballew, up on her elbow but paralyzed for all that. “For the love of heaven, girl! Go in there and see!”
Chapter 18
LYN TOUCHED his arm. He veered away from her touch as if he expected a blow to follow. (Yah! Iron nerves, Towers?)
“Lyn! Oh for—I thought . . .”
“Didn’t they give you my note?”
She was there, and not an apparition, standing beside him and, in the light of the city night, her face was sweetly, soberly wondering why he was as startled as this to see her. Ah, she was sweet and sane!
“Gosh, you look . . .” He grabbed her wooley blue arm. “What are you doing here at this hour? You been rattling around this town alone! It’s too damn late, Lyn.”
“I’m not afraid. . . .”
“The street’s no place . . .”
“I haven’t been . . .”
“I don’t care where you . . .”
“Nobody bothered . . .”
“You ought to know better!”
“Oh, don’t be so . . .”
“Little fool . . .”
“Oh, Jed!” she wailed. They teetered back from the brink of the same quarrel. The same damn thing. Jed even stepped backward on the sidewalk.
“I guess this is where we came in,” he murmured.
“Where I walked out,” she laughed uncertainly. Her eyes were not merry. But they were sweet and sane.
He put his hand in his pocket. “Jed, didn’t you read it?”
“No, I . . . Not yet.” He fumbled for the envelope. He felt troubled . . . troubled. Not ready to meet her. She was here too soon. He held her note passively in his hand.
“It’s nothing.” She tried to take it, gently, but he refused to let it go. “I’ve been waiting and waiting,” she said breathlessly. “In the lobby, Jed. It was safe enough. I was just about to give up and go home. I went into the drugstore . . . saw you . . . I’ve been calling your room.”
He made no reply, no excuse, no explanation.
“I waited the longest time,” she said.
“Why, dear?” he asked gently.
Lyn’s face looked as if she were touched to tears but she did not weep and she did not turn her face away. “Because I’m sorry, Jed. That’s about all there is to say about it. I’m ashamed to have been so stubborn and ornery. I’m sure you were more in the right than I was willing to admit while I was so mad.”
“Never mind.” He slipped his arm around her. “Never mind. Never mind.” He thought, If this isn’t like her! This kind of weird, high-minded, overdone fairness, this proud dragging down of her pride.
“I couldn’t bear you to go all that way,” she said quietly, keeping her own balance, although he embraced her, “and us mad. That’s . . . all about it.”
“Was I mad at you?” he said, scarcely believing it.
“Where were you going?” She put her bare fingers to her eyes.
“Oh, I . . . was more or less lighting out,” he said vaguely. He felt very sad, very sad. He had a sensation in the breast as if the heart would break.
“Could we have one drink somewhere? And would you take me home? Will you make it up, Jed, and get the nasty taste out of our mouths, before you go?”
He looked down at her. “You beat all,
” he said gravely. “But you’re sweet. How come you do the way you . . . ?” He broke off. He looked up and the stone face on the building above him had no expression, nothing to say.
“I called you things I don’t believe,” Lyn said in a low voice. “Is it a date?”
Something bigger than he was took him and shook him like a rat. He covered the shudder up by grabbing for his suitcase. “It’s a date, Lyn.” He let his mouth curve, his voice be as tender as it wished to be, and she smiled like the rainbow.
Jed looked away, off over her head. Why did he feel so troubled and sad? Here was she, stubborn little love, trying to get back where they’d been. And why not? So Towers had his date, after all. Didn’t he? Right back where he’d been. Wasn’t he? (Episode over. Close quotes. File and forget.) Here’s Towers in the evening with his own girl under his arm and a honey she was, wearing that proud humility, believing (his heart sank because it was so heavy), trusting that he was going to match it. That they’d be together again. Be that as it may, the night was young and nothing was lost. Not a thing. Was it? And he could park the suitcase somewhere and on with the dance! March on! Te dum de dee . . .
Proceed, Towers. From where you were. Advance, right out along the line, the line you cut in your time, the track you see before and leave behind, that goes, if you are smart, straight without any stupid detours. . . .
“Please, Jed, let me have my note?” she begged softly. “You don’t need . . .”
He looked down. He said, “No.” He put it back in his pocket. Oh-ho no! he thought. This we look into, in some dark bar. “Just a minute, honey,” he went on, sounding to his surprise exactly as if this was what he’d planned to say from the moment she had touched his arm. It came out so smooth and easy. “Something I want to check, a minute. In here.”
She smiled. It was all right with her. Anything he said, of course. He thought, What a reckless attitude that is! But he touched her and with tenderness pushed her into a slot in the door and pushed the door, following.
What the hell was he going back in for? Curiosity? One thing, he’d surely keep it from Lyn, what he was up to. It was nothing, anyhow. Take a minute. No need to invent a lie, for her . . . innocent, reckless little love! No, he’d just take a quick look around, that’s all. He thought he could tell, pretty quickly, if they’d got up there to the little kid, all right. Surely repercussions would sift down to the lobby, which he would be able to feel. Maybe no other guest could notice, or catch on at all. But surely, he could tell. And rest his mind about it.
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