by Various
The door seemed to move a little, but nobody came out. She waited another minute. Oh, well, maybe the last person out there just forgot to shut the door tight. She opened it wider, stepped out on the stair landing. No one was there.
The chute was wide, almost three feet around. Ellen opened the top and started to throw the bag down. Something was stuck in there. Her eyes saw it, but her brain refused to believe.
What was there, blocking the chute, looked like--looked like--a chicken's foot, gnarled, clawed, but as large as a human foot--and an ugly, sickly green!
Automatically, she reached in and clutched it. Her stomach turned at the cold feel of the thing, but still she tugged at it, trying to work it loose. It was heavy. She pulled with all her strength, felt it start to slide back up the chute. Then it was free!
She gaped in sick horror at the thing she held. Her hand opened weakly and she sat down on the floor, her head swimming and her throat muscles retching. Dimly, she heard the thing rattle and bump down to the incinerator in the basement.
The full horror of it gradually hit home. Ellen stood up, swaying, and ran blindly down the hall. Her feet thudded on the carpeted floor. As she passed 404, she was vaguely conscious of Mrs. Moffatt's concerned face poking around the door.
"Is there something wrong, Miss Tighe?"
"No," Ellen managed to gasp "It's all right--really--all right."
She kept on running, burst through the apartment door, slammed it behind her, fell on her knees in the bathroom and became thoroughly, violently ill.
She continued to kneel, unable to think, her head against the cool porcelain bowl. Finally, she stood up weakly, ran cold water, washed her face and streaming eyes. Thank God the wall bed was still down! She fell on it, shaking.
* * * * *
What was that unbelievable ghastly, impossible thing? It was the size of a man, but thin, skeleton thin, and the color of brackish water. It had two legs, two arms, like a man ... but ending with those huge, birdlike claws. Heaven alone knew what its face was like. She had let go before it was that far clear of the chute.
She thought of the story in the paper. So that was what the bartender saw! He wasn't drunk at all, and what happened when he told the police? They laughed at him. They'd laugh at me, too, she thought. The proof is gone, burned up in the incinerator. Why did this happen to me? Dead cats on the fire escape, dead monsters in the incinerator chute ... it's this terrible neighborhood!
She tried to think coherently. Maybe the cat had something to do with it. The bartender said the thing ate a mouse--maybe it had tried to eat the cat, too. A monster like that might eat anything. Her stomach started churning again at the thought.
But what was it doing in the incinerator chute? Someone in the building must have put it there, thinking it would slide all the way down and be burned up. Who? One of them, probably. But there couldn't be any more green monsters around. They can't live in an apartment house, walk the streets like anyone else, not even in this neighborhood.
She remembered something else in the bartender's story. He said it looked perfectly normal at first. That meant they could look like humans if they wanted to. Hypnotism? Then any man could be....
Suddenly another thought struck her. Supposing they find out I saw--what will they do to me?
She jumped up from the bed, white with fear, her faintness forgotten in the urge to escape. She snatched her bag from the dresser, threw on her brown coat.
At the door, she hesitated, afraid to venture into the hall, yet afraid to stay inside. Finally, she eased open the door, peered out into the corridor. It was deserted. She ran to the elevator, punched the bell, heard the car begin its creaky, protesting ascent.
The elevator door had an automatic spring closing. The first time she tried it, her hands shook and the door sprang closed before she got in. She tried it again. This time she managed to hold it open long enough to get inside. She pushed the button, felt the elevator shake and grind and move slowly down.
Out into the lobby.
Out into the street.
* * * * *
The fog was completely gone now. The sun shone on the still-damp street. There were very few people around--The Tenderloin sleeps late. She went into the restaurant next door, sat down at the white-tiled counter. She was the only customer. A sleepy-eyed waitress, her black hair untidily caught into a net, waited, pad in hand.
"Just coffee," Ellen mumbled.
She drank it black and it scalded her throat going down. The waitress put a nickel in the juke box and then Bing Crosby was singing "Easter Parade." Everything was so normal. Listening to Bing Crosby, how could you believe in things like green monsters? In this sane, prosaic atmosphere, Ellen thought, I must be batty.
She said to herself, "I'm Ellen Tighe, bookkeeper, and I just saw the body of a green man with claws on his feet...." No, that didn't help a bit. Put it this way: "I'm Ellen Tighe and I'm 27 years old and I'm not married. Let's face it, any psychiatrist will tell you that's enough cause for neurosis. So I'm having delusions."
It made more sense that way. I read that story in the paper, Ellen thought, and it must have registered way down in my subconscious. That had to be it. Any other way, it was too horrible, too impossible to be borne.
I'll go back to the apartment and call Dr. Clive, thought Ellen. She had the feeling, no doubt held over from the days of measles and mumps, that a doctor could cure anything, even green monsters on the brain.
She drank the last of the coffee and fished in her coin purse for change. Picking up the check, she walked over to the cash register at the end of the counter, facing the street. The untidy waitress came from the back of the restaurant to take the money.
Ellen looked out at the street through the glass front. The man from 410 was standing out there, smoking a cigarette, watching her. When their eyes met, he abruptly threw away the cigarette and started walking toward the apartment house. Again she felt that faint dread she had experienced in the hall earlier.
The waitress picked up her quarter, gave her back a nickel and a dime. Ellen put the change into her purse, got out her key chain and held it in her hand while she walked quickly next door. 410 was just ahead of her in the lobby; he held the front door open for her.
She kept her head down, not looking at his face, and they walked, Indian file, across the lobby to the elevator. He opened the elevator doors, too, and she stepped in ahead of him.
* * * * *
When the doors clanged shut, she had a feeling of panic. Alone with him ... cut off from help. He didn't pretend not to know her floor, but silently pressed the proper button. While the car moved slowly upward, her heart was beating wildly.
I'm not convinced, she thought, I'm not convinced. I saw it so plainly ... I felt it, cold in my hands.
The elevator stopped. The man held the door open and for a moment she thought he was going to say something. His free hand made a swift, involuntary movement as though he were going to catch her arm. She shrank away, but he stepped back and let her through.
Ellen almost ran down the hall. Behind her, she heard his footsteps going in the opposite direction toward his apartment. She was panting when she reached her door. She fumbled for the right key--front door, office--and then she froze. There was a scratching sound in the apartment.
She put her ear close to the door, listened. There was a rasping noise, like somebody dragging a rake ... or like claws, great heavy claws, moving over the hardwood floors!
Ellen backed away from the door. It was true, then. She retreated, inch by inch, silently. Get away, leave before it catches you! She turned, ready to make a dash for the elevator ... and faced the man from 410.
Down at the end of the hall, in front of his apartment, he was watching her. The way he lingered outside the restaurant, the way he looked at her. One of them ... maybe underneath that homely, ordinary face, his skin was green and clammy. Maybe there were long, sharp claws on his feet.
She was breathing unevenly
now. Trapped! The thing in the apartment, the man in the hall. Her eyes darted to the elevator, then back, down the hall, past the door marked 404 ... the door marked 404! She covered the few yards in a mad dash, flung herself at the door, pounding wildly.
"Please, please!" she sobbed. "Mrs. Moffatt, open, please!"
The door opened at once. Mrs. Moffatt's round, wrinkled face beamed at her.
"Come in, my dear, come in."
She almost fell over the landing. The door closed behind her.
She stumbled to the davenport, sank down, gasping. Two cats rubbed against her legs, purring. Two cats?
She heard herself say stupidly, "Mrs. Moffatt, where's the other cat?" and wondered why she said it.
Then she understood.
The old lady's face quivered, altered, melted into something ... something green.
* * * * *
Outside in the hall, the man from 410 slowly returned to his apartment. Pushing open the door, he thought, I'll never get the nerve to ask her out.
Well, probably wasn't a chance, anyhow. What would a girl like her have to do with a lousy cop like me?
* * *
Contents
TO INVADE NEW YORK...
By Irwin Lewis
He was a tall, learned-looking man, about fifty, slightly stooped, with a bulging midriff, tortoise-shell glasses, graying hair, and a strange look in his eyes. I'd noticed him standing outside Shannon's Bar for about ten minutes, pacing back and forth. Then he came in and sat down next to me. It was late afternoon, before the rush hour, and we were the only customers in the place.
Jimmy, the bartender, put down the towel with which he'd been idly wiping glasses, and came over. "What'll it be?"
The stranger jumped nervously and looked blank for a moment. "Uh ... er ... a glass of beer, please. Root beer."
Jimmy snorted. "Try the candy store down the block."
"Oh," said the stranger, obviously upset. "Then let me have a glass of regular beer--mild, please."
I smiled at Jimmy as he filled a glass. All sorts came into Shannon's. Outside, the traffic on Third Avenue was only a faint hum.
The stranger licked the foam tentatively and wrinkled his nose in distaste. He put the glass back on the bar and shook his head.
"Pro superi! quantum mortalia pectora caecae, Noctis habent."
"Huh?" said Jimmy.
The stranger smiled briefly. "That is Latin. It means, Oh, ye gods, what darkness of night there is in mortal minds."
Jimmy shrugged and went back to wiping glasses. The stranger nodded to me. "Ovid said that. He was a wise man."
"Friend of yours?" I asked, just to be polite.
"He died nearly two thousand years ago." He tasted the beer again and pushed it away. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Horace Howard Clarke, associate professor of Roman History at one of the universities in the city."
I introduced myself and we shook hands. "Tell me," he said, "do you believe New York can be conquered?"
One of those kind, I thought. And here I was with an hour to kill before meeting my date. "Lots of people have taken it in," I started.
"I don't mean that kind. I mean physically invaded."
"Pretty big job, I'd think."
"Very simple." He dropped a small metal disk on the bar. "This could do it--or at least help."
I picked up the metal disk. "Why, it's a subway token."
"Almost a subway token," he said. "And therein lies the key to conquest. That--and the green lights." I edged away from him. This I didn't need! He leaned towards me. "If only I could convince someone," he said, his lips tight. "Perhaps you will believe me."
I got to my feet. "Sorry. But I've got a date."
"Please!" The voice was firm, all of a sudden. "It is vital!" I hesitated and Jimmy came over, in case there was trouble.
"Well," I said, deciding to humor him, "if it won't take long."
"Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio."
"Oh?"
"If I labor to be brief, I become obscure."
I sighed. A long-winded one. And in Latin, yet!
He motioned to Jimmy. "Let this gentleman have another drink, bartender." He moved closer to me. "I will tell you what I know," he said. "If you believe, perhaps you will be able to do something about it. This much is certain. Very little time remains before disaster strikes!"
* * * * *
It all began (he said) prosaically enough on the Tuesday of last week, on the third floor of the Public Library at 42nd Street, in Room 315. There, as you probably know, one may obtain books on most subjects by filling out a slip, receiving an odd or even number, and retiring to either the odd or even Reading Room, where your number will eventually flash on a lighted board. At the time I was engrossed in a study of the early life of Publilius Syrus and, I must admit, glanced only casually at the card given me by the young man at the desk. I saw that it was 18 and proceeded into the Even room on the right for what I knew from past experience would be a tedious wait.
Ah! Had I but paid more attention to the card handed me! But "Ad poenitendum properat, cito qui judicat." "He makes speed to repentance who judges hastily." The card which I thought was numbered 18, was actually 81. I had inadvertently glanced at it upside down. Had the Roman numeral system been used, as I have long advocated, this unfortunate accident could not have occurred: a XVIII cannot be mistaken for LXXXI no matter which way it is turned!
Be that as it may, number 18 flashed on the board in a surprisingly short time and I hastened to obtain the book from the extremely harried young lady behind the counter. I returned to my chair at one of the long reading tables. When I opened the book, which was of a disturbing blue color, I was highly irritated to learn that this was not a biography of Publilius Syrus; furthermore it was not even in Latin. I removed my glasses to make certain (someday I shall simply have to get bifocals) and saw that it was a foreign cookbook.
Annoyed, I snatched the book from the table and started to return to the counter. As I did so, a green slip of paper fluttered from between the pages. I glanced at it idly. There was an address on it, scrawled in almost illegible block letters. "432 West 28th Street." Being of a tidy nature, I slipped the bit of paper into my pocket and turned, only to find my way blocked by a rather large man wearing a trench coat with upturned collar. He tapped the book significantly and whispered, "Eight-thirty tonight. You know the place."
With that he strode rapidly from the room, giving me no chance to ask him what he was talking about. Irritated, I returned to the counter where a smallish man, wearing a loud-checked suit was arguing with the young lady. He was holding a number card.
"But I tell you," said the harassed young lady, "number 18 was flashed on the board and the book was picked up."
The little man clucked impatiently and waved the card. "But I have number 18," he said shrilly, "and I must have the book!"
Normally I am not a fast thinker. Years of teaching Roman history to classes of dozing students, interested only in easy credits, are not reckoned to sharpen one's wits. However, I instantly realized what must have happened. I tapped the little man on the shoulder.
"Pardon me, sir," I whispered, "is this your book?" He whirled around violently. He had a thin, sharp-pointed face with deep-set eyes, heavy brow and a receding chin that terminated in a little scrub of a beard. Rudely he snatched the book from my hand and began leafing through it with shaking fingers.
I started to say, "If Roman numerals had been used instead of--" but saw he was paying no attention to me, so I headed for the Main Room to get another card. I had no sooner reached the entrance when I was confronted by the little bearded man again. His mouth was agape with distress, his loud-checked bowtie askew. He waved the book in my face. "Didn't you find anything in here?" he demanded.
"Not really," I said. "I have no interest in French cooking."
He shook his head vigorously. "I mean inside the book!"
"Quiet, please," said the guard at the entrance, holdi
ng his finger to his lips disapprovingly. I continued into the Main Room, the little man scurrying alongside me.
"Please," he pleaded, "think. Wasn't there something in the book?"
Irked at his persistence, I was about to move on, when I remembered. "Why, yes," I said, slowly. "There was something. This." I fished the bit of green paper from my pocket. He snatched it from me, uttered a squeak of delight, and hurried away.
* * * * *
Relieved that this untidy business was finally done with, I decided to forego Publilius Syrus for the day, since I was no longer in the mood and I had some important papers to edit. So I returned to my home, a rather large and comfortable room on the first floor of a converted brownstone in lower Manhattan. I had no sooner settled down at my desk when there came an urgent knock on my door. I slipped on my glasses and opened the door. Imagine my amazement and irritation when the little man from the library scuttled into the room. He hurried to the window and pulled down the blind. Then he firmly removed my hand from the doorknob, closed the door and locked it. He leaned against the door, facing me.
"There is no 432 West 28th Street," he announced, angrily.
"The information does not impress me," I said. "How did you find out where I live? And why?"
"I asked several of the librarians if they knew you. It seems they did. And since you are listed in the telephone book, the rest was simple." He held up the green slip of paper. "Was this ALL you found?"
Well, I thought, childishly pleased, at least I am not one of the innumerable nameless faces that pour in and out of the library daily. "What else was there supposed to be?" I asked pleasantly.
The little man sank into my favorite leather chair, almost disappearing from view. He waved the slip of paper aimlessly. "There must be more to it than this."
Despite his rudeness I found myself taking a liking to him. He was so intense and so--frightened. "There was a man," I said.
