The Sentinel

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  Miss Logan resumed buttoning her overcoat.

  Allison jumped up and grabbed Miss Logan by the arm. “Please don’t go,” she begged. “You can’t leave.”

  Miss Logan pulled away. “I do not appreciate being addressed in that tone of voice. Or being grabbed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Allison was determined to keep the rental agent there, at least until she could find out something more, anything that might help explain away the experiences of the last few days. “As you can tell, this has me rather upset.”

  “I realize that, but don’t take your frustrations out on me.”

  Allison looked at Miss Logan with pleading eyes. The agent paused, studied Allison’s grim expression, then sat down once again.

  “Believe me, no one lives in the other apartments,” she said.

  “When was the last time you looked into one of them?” Allison asked.

  “About a month ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Has anyone else checked the apartments in the interim?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe these people got in since then. Maybe they’re squatters. If no one has checked, it’s certainly feasible.”

  Miss Logan shook her head. “Impossible,” she declared. “If we were talking about one person, okay. But five or six in different apartments! No, I can assure you that it is out of the question.”

  “Then how do you explain what I’ve seen?”

  Miss Logan shrugged.

  “Could you let me into those apartments?” Allison asked.

  “It can be arranged.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m afraid I…”

  Allison interrupted. “I must get into those apartments.”

  “But…”

  “Please? Now?”

  Miss Logan stared at her. “Yes, if it will convince you that nobody lives there.”

  The two women stood.

  “I wish you would just take my word.”

  “I can’t,” said Allison. “If I did, I’d be rejecting my own senses. Would you expect me to do that?”

  She took the check, slipped into her jacket and walked through the crowd to the cashier’s counter. She paid the bill, then followed Miss Logan out the door.

  11

  A note was placed under a light and examined.

  It was headed: ALLISON PARKER. The address of the brownstone was written across the upper right corner. It described the events of the last few days in the brownstone and reviewed certain other incidents that had occurred over the last two years. It detailed a long list of instructions that were to be scrupulously followed and closed with a simple direction to destroy the list after reading.

  After Brenner had finished reading the list several times, he tossed it on the desk, next to a gold nameplate inscribed William Brenner, Private Investigator. He grabbed an envelope denoted By Hand Delivery, tore it in half and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

  Then he turned off the light.

  Allison sat silently in the rear of the cab, as it crossed the Eighty-sixth Street transverse road through Central Park. Her head tilted downward, her face lay partly against the glass and her eyes, carefully avoiding any contact with the rental agent, who sat impassively next to her, scanned the top of the gray stone wall that bordered the road and set off the branching maples and elms, which intermittently erased the encroaching skyline of high-rise apartments.

  From the moment Miss Logan had denied the existence of the other tenants, Allison had been in a daze. She kept telling herself that the rental agent was wrong; there were people living there. She’d seen them. She wasn’t mad. Logan was wrong, whether she knew it or not.

  “To light, to guard, to rule, to guide,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

  “Excuse me?” asked the agent.

  Allison did not respond.

  “Miss Parker, did you say something?”

  “Me?” asked Allison, turning her head. “No.” She turned back to the window and pressed her nose against the pane.

  Miss Logan humphed once or twice and looked ahead toward the rapidly approaching exit from the park.

  The taxi left the park, skirted the intervening streets, turned into Eighty-ninth Street and stopped in front of the brownstone.

  Allison continued to stare out the window.

  “Miss Parker, we’re here,” announced Miss Logan.

  Allison smiled meekly, but didn’t move.

  Miss Logan leaned toward her, jerked the latch, and opened the cab door. “I have no time to waste!” she said indignantly.

  Without reply, Allison stiffly slid out the door.

  Miss Logan paid the fare and joined her at the base of the stone staircase. “Shall we?” Miss Logan asked.

  Allison continued to look upward. Then she reached out and pointed to the fifth floor.

  The curtain in the middle window was open; in the frame was a man.

  Unfortunately, the outside light and shading made it difficult to define any features. The image resembled a picture negative, discernible, but unspecific. The figure seemed to be in a sitting position. Allison was sure of this; if he’d been standing, more of him would have been seen. His arms were crossed meeting below the waist, where his hands were probably clasped. Perhaps he was holding something. It was impossible to tell. But there he was. Clearer than ever before. The old blind priest.

  “The old man,” said Miss Logan matter-of-factly.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen him so clearly.”

  “And it won’t be the last. He, I can assure you, exists.”

  Allison scowled at the rental agent. “So do the others,” she said, as they climbed the outside staircase.

  Miss Logan touched Allison’s forearm to gain her attention. She pointed to the rust-covered mailboxes; they were set into the wall just inside the vestibule.

  “I know,” Allison said irritably. “But there’s no name tag on the priest’s mailbox either.”

  Miss Logan shrugged and opened the front door.

  They walked down the dimly lit hallway and climbed the staircase. As usual, Allison tested the banister, then she stopped in front of apartment 2A. She placed her ear next to the door and listened.

  “This one belongs to the lesbians,” she said.

  Miss Logan snapped her tongue against the upper bridge of her mouth, producing a tiny audible click which implied her doubts. She removed the master key from her purse, opened the door, and motioned Allison into the apartment. “Be my guest,” she said, secure in the knowledge of what they would find.

  Allison walked through the door and into the living room.

  The place was filthy. The layer of dust on the floor was thick. So, too, was the accumulation on the furniture, which she’d not seen there before. But the furniture was familiar; it was strikingly similar to what she had in her own apartment. In fact, once she discounted the effect of the dust, she realized that the furniture was identical, from the smallest bibelot to the two great grandfather clocks that guarded the fireplace. She sniffed the thick heavy air and walked to the couch, leaving a distinctive track in the dark-gray dust. She patted the fabric, causing billows of dirt to rise into the air.

  “The furniture is exactly like mine,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Yes. The old landlord, the person who furnished the building, did all the A apartments alike and all the B apartments alike. I can’t say that I approve, but I guess it saved him money.”

  “There was different furniture here before.”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Parker, you can’t expect me to believe that. These pieces haven’t been touched in years!”

  Allison smiled wanly, walked to the mantel, and ran her hand along the top. It was covered with dust
. She wiped her palm on her jacket, turned, and began to inspect the furniture and closets, looking for anything that might help explain what had occurred there. But there was nothing. Then why? Maybe she’d been in another apartment. She entertained the idea momentarily and then shook her head. No, she’d been in this room.

  She walked into the kitchen and then into the bedroom. More of the same. Dust. Furniture identical to her own. The musty smell of mildew.

  She returned to the living room. Miss Logan was standing by the door with a smug look on her face. “Find anyone?” she asked.

  “No,” said Allison quietly. She walked to a chair, sat briefly and rubbed her eyes. The caustic air hurt them. “Open 4A for me,” she demanded, and then stood up.

  Miss Logan nodded and, after watching Allison walk through the door, closed it.

  Apartment 4A offered no new surprises. The furniture was identical, the dust equally in evidence, and the air similarly stale. Allison quickly surveyed the living room and then carefully examined the bedroom. There was no sign of life. Certainly, if someone had been in this room the night before, there would have been some indication. But there wasn’t.

  She was disturbed and frustrated, as she followed Miss Logan up the staircase to the fifth floor and into Chazen’s apartment. Except for a chair that stood in the middle of the living room and a series of bookshelves along the wall, there was no other furniture.

  “I thought you said that the B apartments were furnished identically,” Allison claimed.

  “I did. The furniture was removed from here about a year ago. Most of it was falling apart.”

  Allison grabbed the solitary chair and flicked off the cobwebs. “A memento of better times?” She studied it carefully, trying to remember if it had been one of the chairs that had stood around the birthday table. She wasn’t sure.

  She sat down and cleared her throat. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Jezebel. Happy birthday to you.” She listened to the echo of her song reverberate throughout the apartment.

  “Where’s the cake?” asked Miss Logan.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Well, if we can find it, I’d like the first piece.”

  Allison was annoyed. “You know what I like about you best?”

  “What?”

  “The endearing nature of your cynicism.”

  “I trust you don’t expect me to pretend that a bunch of people have been running about these apartments?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Allison. She stood up and walked to the cobweb-lined bookshelves next to the front entrance. They were filled with musty old volumes, their covers disintegrating, their titles faded. She examined several of the titles. The Decameron, Hobbes’s Leviathan, Euripides’ Hippolytus, The Iliad, Canterbury Tales, Beowulf, and books by Aquinas, Bacon, Shakespeare, Milton, Spinoza, Kierkegaard, Dickens and Stendhal. Whoever had assembled the collection had a well-developed appreciation of classical literature, from ethical philosophy to metaphysics and political philosophy.

  “Believe it or not,” said Allison, “I attended a birthday party for a cat here last night.”

  “How quaint,” said Miss Logan.

  “The cat…her name was Jezebel…was here, and so were a lot of other people Charles Chazen, Mrs. Clark, the Klotkins, and cousin Malcolm and his wife. And there was a parakeet name Mortimer. We danced and sang till almost midnight. There were streamers and balloons everywhere. Everyone had a good time. And now all are gone, except me, and so is any hint or indication that they were ever here.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” said Miss Logan skeptically.

  Allison continued to examine the books. “You probably think I’m going mad.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “I can assure you that I’m not.”

  Had the bookshelf been in the room the night before? Allison couldn’t remember. She reached up to the top shelf and removed a book. It was inordinately old. In fact, several of the pages had almost disintegrated, the pulp rubbing off the paper onto her hands.

  It was written in Latin; she couldn’t decipher the title or any of the contents. She thumbed through the pages curiously. As she was about to close it, she noticed something peculiar. All the pages were identical. She flipped several back to verify the fact.

  Miss Logan cleared her throat. Allison reached up, placed the book back on the shelf, turned, and scanned the room once more.

  “I must be getting back,” announced the rental agent.

  “Yes,” declared Allison pointedly. “The old priest?”

  “It’s a waste of time.”

  “The old priest,” she demanded.

  Miss Logan nodded reluctantly. The old priest was just down the hall. The worst that could happen would be the waste of a few minutes more. Miss Logan turned, opened the door, and ushered Allison through.

  “You know what I think,” Allison said, as she passed Miss Logan. “I think someone is playing a little game, or should I say engineering a practical joke, and I’m not so sure that the joke’s not supposed to be on me.”

  Miss Logan declined comment. She walked up to the old priest’s apartment and knocked. There was no response. Again. Still no response.

  Allison stepped up to the door, and rapped several more times, her knocks being applied with greater force. Again, there was no answer.

  “Have you ever met or spoken to him?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Somebody must.”

  “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t know.”

  “Has he ever been out of his apartment?”

  “I wouldn’t know that either.”

  “Look, Miss Logan, if he doesn’t go out or see anyone, how does he live?”

  “I don’t know. You should ask him yourself.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to do.”

  Miss Logan turned from the door and confronted her. “All I care about is that his rent is paid on time.”

  “Has it been?”

  “Yes, without fail.”

  “Who pays it?”

  “The Archdiocese of New York.”

  Allison paused, then said, “I’d like to get into this apartment. Now!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the rental agent, shaking her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I cannot let someone into an apartment that’s occupied, especially when the occupant is home.” Her reply indicated that no further argument would change her mind. “Shall we go?” she inquired.

  Allison walked slowly to the staircase. “Don’t you find it peculiar,” she asked, turning, “that the man should exist in such isolation?”

  “No,” replied Miss Logan. “I establish no criteria for the manner in which another should live his life.” Dispassionately, she began to descend the stairs with Allison trailing behind.

  They stopped in front of apartment 3A.

  “I hope you’re satisfied that no one has been in these apartments?” Miss Logan declared.

  “Thank you for taking me around,” said Allison, ignoring the questions.

  She inserted her key into her apartment door.

  Miss Logan stared. “Perhaps…”

  Allison interrupted. “I must sincerely apologize again for having been an inconvenience.”

  Miss Logan nodded icily, remaining silent.

  Allison opened the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I must make an urgent phone call.”

  “If you have any other problems, call me.”

  “Other problems? I think the one I have right now is more than enough!”

  “I suppose I…”

  “Thank you,” said Allison, interrupting “I’ll let you know if I see any of these people again.”
She smiled unconvincingly, entered the apartment, and slammed the door.

  Inside, she leaned against the door frame. She felt weak and tried and frightened. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Her head had begun to hurt; perhaps another migraine was beginning.

  She walked into the hallway and down to the kitchen. After groping momentarily for the light switch, she flicked it, grabbed the vial of tranquilizers off the sink, removed three, one more than the recommended dosage, and downed them without the aid of anything to drink. They stuck in her throat. She choked and gulped frantically to force them down. In desperation, she turned on the tap and gulped a mouthful of water. The pressure on her throat eased and the pills went down.

  She walked into the living room, bolted the door securely, and sat down on the sofa to think. But she couldn’t. Instead, she cried.

  12

  It was dark outside. The rain that had started about seven o’clock splattered against the glass walls of the phone booth, obscuring the view. Everything was blurred, the colors undefined and muted. She was uncomfortable, disquieted by the oppressively small space, the wet umbrella that continually dripped on the floor, and the choking feeling she’d experienced since early that afternoon when Miss Logan had questioned her sanity.

  Thank God they’d fixed the corner phone. The thought of walking to Ninety-fifth Street in the freezing rain had appalled her.

  She held the receiver to her ear, dialed Michael’s office, and waited, licking her lips nervously; they were chapped and cracking and the rest of her face had fared no better; her complexion was sallow and her eyes were red from crying and fatigue.

  Since early afternoon, she’d been terrified, and if necessity hadn’t forced her to call Michael, she’d have locked herself in the apartment, secured the shutters, gone to bed, and buried herself under the protection of her knitted quilt. But she’d needed the comfort and assurance of his presence. And she’d needed his calm, logical mind.

  The telephone rang in his office. Once, twice, ten times. No one was there. She angrily slammed the receiver, fished out the dime, dropped it in the slot, and dialed; the phone rang, this time in his apartment. Again, no one answered.