Rendezvous in Black

by Cornell Woolrich

  The door spun around once after them, empty.

  He decided he didn’t want a magazine after all. He quitted the counter and went out the door himself. The counterman swore at him with noiseless lips, rearranged his display.

  The taxi they’d just gotten into drove off.

  He got into the next one in line as it shifted forward.

  His drove off too. His went the same way theirs had, around the corner. But all traffic had to go that way, it was a one-way street.

  They got out a few minutes later and about six or seven blocks away, in front of the theatre. Their taxi drove off. Another taxi came, and another, and another; but countless people always drive up to a theatre in taxis.

  The boy got in line, picked up his tickets, rejoined her, and they went in. The next person in the line picked up his tickets, the next one hers. Then a man came along and asked for just a standing-room admission.

  “I can give you a good single in the tenth row,” the ticket seller suggested. “Last-minute cancellation.”

  “I just want to stand up in the back,” the man emphasized with considerable asperity. “Do you mind?”

  The ticket seller looked surprised at the gruffness, instead of gratitude, he’d drawn. He shrugged and sold him his ticket. The man went in.

  Between the acts the boy and girl came out into the lobby. But so did everyone else in the audience; the place was thronged, just a sea of anonymous faces around you every which way you turned.

  From the theatre, at half-past eleven, they went to a Chinese restaurant and dance spot. Pseudo-Chinese. The waiters were Chinese and the food was the “Chinese” food that China never knew but that Americans think is Chinese. But the band played “The Jersey Bounce” and the biggest seller at the bar seemed to be Martinis. And the man whose money was invested in it was named Goldberg.

  The lights, incidentally, were dimmed so low they were almost extinct. Just a faint bluish and reddish tinge to the twilight here and there. This was for purposes of creating a devilish “atmosphere.” It was, for anyone under twenty, very romantic. It was, incidentally, very innocuous at the same time. A sheep in wolf ’s clothing sort of a place. The next stage, in night-life experience, after the corner ice-cream parlor, and coming before the really adult clubs and roadhouses have been arrived at.

  They were shown to one of the little booths along the wall, and they sat down facing each other. They couldn’t see who came in and stood up at the bar and who didn’t. They wouldn’t have wanted to if they could.

  A man came in and stood up at the bar and ordered a Martini, just to pay his rent, and then he didn’t touch it. But he didn’t turn around and stare at anyone; he kept his back to the room, so who was to notice that?

  They got up and danced, the boy and girl.

  Their food arrived.

  They sat down and ate rice and fried noodles and foo yung, and things that they didn’t even know the names of themselves.

  They got up and danced some more.

  They sat down and ate some more fried noodles and rice and foo yung. They were having fun.

  The party of four in the booth next to theirs got up and left.

  The man at the bar with the neglected Martini turned and accosted the head waiter.

  “I’d like to order a dinner,” he said. “Could I sit over there? That one, over there.”

  “That’s for four, sir. I could give you a nice one down by the edge of the dance—”

  “I want that one,” the man said grittily. “I’ll pay the cover for four.” He put something in his hand.

  “Yes, sir,” the head waiter said reluctantly.

  He went over to it and he sat down with his back to them. He ordered dinner.

  He sat quietly, waiting for it to come.

  “. . . I liked the part where she turns around to him and says—”

  “Gee, that was good, wasn’t it? D’you suppose married people ever really act that way about each other?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t in my house.”

  “They don’t in mine either. My older brother’s been married five years now, and I never heard him act that way to Dolores. That’s his wife, Dolores.”

  “I guess they just made it up, for the stage, to make it more interesting.”

  They brought his dinner, and he still sat quiet. Eating it now.

  “. . . of course I like you better than Charlie Nickerson. I go out with you more than Charlie Nickerson, don’t I?”

  “Yeah? Well, at Betty’s party two weeks ago I counted how many times you danced with him. Out of ten dances, you danced six with him and only four—”

  “Well I like that! Now you’re blaming me. Just because you don’t know how to rumba right, I’m supposed to sit on a chair and say ‘No’ every time anybody comes up to me and—”

  The price of his dinner was a dollar and a half. He acted as though it hadn’t been worth it.

  He started down the stairs—the place was on the second floor— and stopped halfway to the bottom to retie his shoelace. It hadn’t come open, but he opened it first himself, and then retied it. They were standing there at the curb-line, hailing up a taxi.

  They got one and drove off.

  He got one, a moment or two after, and also drove off.

  The two taxis went in the same direction.

  Theirs stopped outside a large one-family house a considerable distance uptown. Two figures got out and disappeared into the shadows of the entrance.

  His stopped three or four houses away. Nobody got out.

  There was a wait. A long wait. Ten or fifteen minutes’ worth of wait. The doorway didn’t light up. Nothing happened. Nothing that could be seen. You couldn’t even tell that they were there at all, except that the first taxi, theirs, remained in abeyance at the curb.

  Then one figure came back to it. The boy alone this time. There was a brief flickering of orange light as the door opened and closed.

  The first cab went on.

  The second one too.

  “Now get in a little closer,” its rider instructed. As though this was the part that really counted.

  The lead cab drove north ten blocks, and east another eight, then north again, after waiting for a traffic light, for just half a block more.

  It stopped finally in front of a flat building, the third one in from the corner on the east side of the street.

  The boy in it got out. He paid it off. He went inside the building.

  The man got out of his at the corner. He paid off too. He started down the opposite side of the street, the west side, on foot. He watched the windows carefully.

  A single one lit up. On the fourth floor, on the right-hand side of the building.

  He crossed over, went into the entryway himself.

  He only stopped there a minute, looking at one of the name cards affixed to the letter-boxes. Looking carefully at just one of them, the fourth one on the right-hand side of the entrance. It read:

  4-H. Morrissey, Wm. C.

  He turned and went outside again, and walked rapidly away from there. That was all.

  It was a night later.

  The same man had a companion now. A doorway companion. They were both loitering just inside the basement entrance to that same building, which was only a few yards away from the main entrance. It was recessed, and it was set somewhat below sidewalk level; three or four cement steps led down to it. It offered a perfect place of concealment from which to watch the sidewalk and the main entrance to the house. It had a light bulb set above it, to show the ash-collectors their way, but this had either gone out of order or been deliberately manipulated around in its socket so that it no longer conducted current.

  The man’s doorway companion smelled of cheap whisky and stale clothing, although nothing could be seen of him—there was only the telltale odor to classify him. He fidgeted a good deal more than the man himself. He started to light a cigarette. The man gave a chop of his hand and knocked it to the ground. The would-be
user stooped down, located it, and put it back into his pocket, as if he was used to getting them from there anyway.

  “Suppose he drives up in a cab?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “A guy only does that when he’s out with a girl. He was out with one last night. He won’t be out with one tonight again. He’s a one-girl man.”

  “Suppose he chases me himself and catches up with me?”

  “Hit him in the belly, then,” the man said grimly. “Foul him so that he can’t. I thought you said you were an ex-pug. You ought to be able to take care of that.”

  “Okay, I will. I’ll double him up like a pretzel.”

  “Make sure you get the wallet, now.”

  “I’m not new at this. It’s the first time I’m doing it for somebody else, and not myself; that’s the only difference.”

  There was a blur of lights down at the corner as a bus halted momentarily, then went on again along the lateral avenue that intersected there. Three people had been deposited at the stop, started going their diffuse ways. One was a girl, two were men.

  “See the one with the floppy topcoat, hanging open?” the man coached. “That’s your boy.”

  “It won’t work,” his companion said tautly. “The girl’s heading the other way, but that other guy’s coming right along behind him on this same side of the way. I can’t do it with him there, he’ll jump in and help him—”

  “There’s two chances out of three in our favor,” the man said, equally taut. “He may turn in one of those first two houses. If he doesn’t, then we’ll put it off until tomorrow night.”

  The anonymous second man passed the first house.

  “Even odds, now,” the man in the doorway breathed.

  The anonymous second man turned, went in the second house, as he came up to it. Morrissey remained alone on the sidewalk, striding for the third house, his own.

  The man in the doorway let out his breath. “It paid off.” He gave his companion a push, out and up the three short steps. “Get going before he gets the door open.”

  The shabby, hulking figure accosted Morrissey just as he reached the band of light flaring out from the doorway, said something to him in a whining undertone.

  Morrissey half reached into his pocket, about to hand him something. Then he changed his mind. “No—beat it,” he grunted. “You’re no good, I can tell by looking at you.”

  He turned to go in.

  The panhandler brought the edge of his hand down like a cleaver, across the back of his neck, in a devastating rabbit-punch. Then as the boy swayed and went staggering off-balance, he swung him around forward and drove his knee brutally up into his intestines. The boy gave a deep, shuddering groan and collapsed to his knees. His assailant spaded a hand deftly around to his back pocket, extracted his wallet, then let him tumble in a writhing heap. He turned and fled, disappearing around the lower corner where the bus had just stopped.

  The man in the basement entrance now jumped up, as if on cue, and reached Morrissey at a run. He bent over him solicitously.

  “What happened? What’d he do to you?”

  Morrissey lay there helpless, hugging his stomach and gagging. He was still conscious, but unable to pick himself up yet.

  “Stop him—took my wallet—” he panted.

  The man ran on in pursuit. He turned the corner. There was no one any longer in sight. He ran down that way for a block, and then turned the next corner and ran up the adjoining side street beyond there. He dove suddenly into a basement entryway, highly similar to the one he had just quitted, as if he knew ahead of time there would be someone in it. There was.

  “Okay, give me back the wallet,” he breathed heavily.

  “Here. Don’t forget the rest of what’s coming to me.”

  “Here’s your second ten.” The man took it out of his own pocket, not the thefted wallet. “Now, on your way. Make yourself scarce.” He gave him a push to get rid of him.

  He waited until he was alone in the doorway. Then he jerked at his own necktie, pulling it awry. He scoured his palms against the brick wall, getting them good and grimy, then he transferred the dust in streaks to his own face and the shoulders of his coat.

  He was punching and swatting at his hat when he came back in sight of Morrissey a few moments later, as if it had been knocked off and he’d had to pick it up from the ground.

  Morrissey had managed to stagger erect now against the wall, and was standing there with both hands against it to support himself, and with his head held low between them, looking down at the ground.

  “Did you lose him?” he said weakly.

  “I latched onto him around the corner, but I couldn’t hold him. I tried to tackle him, but he got away. But I made him drop the wallet. Here it is.” He dusted off his shoulders ostentatiously, and felt tenderly of his jaw, as if to see whether any teeth had been damaged.

  “I was sick all over the place just now,” the boy said ruefully. “Thanks for helping me, anyway.” He took the wallet, leafed through its contents.

  “Did he get anything?”

  “No, it’s all here. I only had seven dollars in it, anyway.”

  “Feeling better now?” the man asked solicitously.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I’m still a little wobbly inside. Gee, I sure appreciate your giving me a hand like that—”

  “Anybody’d do as much,” the man said disclaimingly. “I couldn’t just stand still and watch, could I? Glad I happened along when I did.”

  “There’s never a cop around when you need one,” Morrissey said.

  “No, there’s never a cop around when you need one,” the man agreed. “Sure you’re feeling okay? You still look a little white around the gills. Want to go to a drugstore and have them look at you?”

  “No, it’ll be all right.”

  “How about a drink, then? That’ll straighten you out. I could use one myself.” He looked vaguely up and down the street as if in search of some bar they could adjoin to.

  “Swell,” the boy said heartily. “That’s more like it. There’s a nice place down the line I know of.” He held out his hand in new-found friendship. “My name’s Bill Morrissey.”

  The man took it, shook it. “Mine’s Jack Munson.”

  Munson came in and went up to the bar. He ordered a Martini, just to pay his rent. There wasn’t anything Chinese about the place except the waiters. The band played “The Jersey Bounce” and the operator’s name was Goldberg.

  Munson turned around and faced the room, this time; he kept his back to the bar. He kept looking steadily over at the booth where Morrissey was sitting, until finally their eyes met, as they were bound to sooner or later.

  Morrissey quickly took a second look to make sure, then raised his arm in greeting.

  Munson raised his in answer.

  Morrissey beckoned him over, both with a nod of his head and a sweep of his hand.

  Munson picked up his drink and sauntered casually down that way. Then as the booth came into frontal perspective, a girl was revealed, sitting facing Morrissey. A girl who made every other girl in the place look plain. She wore her dark hair long; she wore a clasp of brilliants in it. Her eyes were gray, or if they were blue . . .

  “Hello, Jack,” Morrissey greeted him warmly. “What’re you doing here, all by your lonesome?”

  The girl looked at him. With polite interest, no more. Such as was due the friend of an escort. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t frown.

  “Hello, Bill,” he answered. They’d been calling one another by their given names ever since their third stag meeting, approximately.

  “Miss Drew, this is Jack Munson; good friend of mine.”

  They chatted for a few moments.

  Then, “Aren’t you with anybody, Jack? Come on, sit down,” Morrissey invited. “There’s room enough on the bench.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude.” He looked at the girl for her permission.

  “Do,” she said mildly.

  He sat down. />
  Again the clock at the Carlton.

  The two of them were waiting now, together, side by side, running-mates on an evening date.

  “What do I owe you for my share of the tickets?” Morrissey asked. “Better let me fix it up with you before I forget.”

  “You mean while you still have that much on you,” Munson ribbed him.

  They both laughed.

  “Here they are.”

  She’d brought another girl with her. That had been the arrangement. Less lovely, less radiant, but then anyone would have been. Still pretty enough in her own right.

  The introductions were made. They paired off. Morrissey with Madeline Drew. Munson with Miss Philips.

  They took a taxi to the theatre.

  They came out, formed a momentary little island in the eddying current of the audience streaming past them on the sidewalk.

  “Shall we go to the Bamboo Grove again?” Madeline suggested.

  “Sure, that’s our old standby,” Morrissey answered, more particularly to her than to the other two.

  Munson danced with Miss Philips first.

  Then the next time the music played they changed partners. He danced with Madeline, and Morrissey with the other girl.

  “How do you like Harriet?” she asked him.

  He looked at her, at her, herself, and only smiled.

  That was all that was said while they danced.

  She hummed the tune a little, lightly under her breath. Not very surely, almost self-consciously.

  Then the dance was over.

  He danced with Miss Philips, first. Then the next time the music played, they changed partners. He danced with Madeline.

  She looked up at him presently.

  “Why so quiet, Jack? You haven’t said a word all evening. You’re not as good company as last week, or the week before.”

  “And you should be good company,” he said somewhat bitterly.

  “Harriet thinks you don’t like her. In the ladies’ room at the theatre just now she told me she thought she oughtn’t to come along with us any more. You should really be more attentive to her, Jack. She feels hurt.”

  “I haven’t thought about her once the whole evening,” he admitted.

  She shrugged reproachfully. “But you’re her escort. Then who—?” She stopped that before she’d said it.