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The staircase was familiar. Steeply angled, warped, and eroded. But for no apparent reason, it seemed even more precarious than the day she’d first climbed it to the rental office. Undoubtedly, her own apprehension had much to do with it. She was tense, irritable, strangely terrorized by the expectation of a confrontation with Miss Logan. Earlier in the day she’d decided that the time had come for the agent to answer some additional questions, and since the agent had refused to answer her office phone, and since no home listing in any borough or suburb for J. Logan or Joan Logan could be found, a trip to the office had become the only realistic alternative.
Staring upward for several minutes, she ran her hands over the heavy makeup she’d applied to cover her pallid complexion, then climbed the staircase and tried the office door. It was unlocked; she entered. The room was precisely the way she remembered it, but empty of Miss Logan or anyone else. The dust on the desk chair indicated that no one had been there in several days. Strange. Miss Logan wasn’t the type to have left her door unlocked or office untidy. And what had happened to the associate, if there was such a person. Allison was no longer sure of the associate’s existence, even though the agent had referred to the associate, because she now had serious doubts as to certain other representations made by the spinster. But it wasn’t just the presence of dust that suggested the place had been abandoned. The calendar date was ten days old and the last dated application was the same. And she couldn’t ignore the coincidence. It had been ten days since her merry jaunt into apartment 4A in the middle of the night.
She shuffled through the desk papers, as that seemed the obvious thing to do, and found nothing startling, except for a phone number with the name Joan Logan written next to it. She dialed the digits, but a voice answered and declared, this is not a working number. Please consult your directory for the appropriate listing. She had already. She slammed down the phone and rubbed her eyes, which ached constantly, looked around the office once more, then hesitantly made her way down the staircase to the street.
She looked down the block. Several feet away was the entrance to a flower shop. She walked over and stared in the window. An old woman in a dotted dress walked around the wrapping table, glanced in her direction, and smiled. She entered.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, brushing away discarded stalks.
Allison glanced at the refrigerated display case in the rear of the store. “I’d like a rose.”
“Red?”
“Yes.”
“I have some beautiful new arrivals,” the woman said proudly. She turned, opened the cabinet, and removed a long-stemmed Tropicana. “It will take just a minute.”
Allison leaned against the wall, watching the woman gather some greens to add to her package. “Would you know the rental agent next door?” she asked matter-of-factly.
The woman looked up. “Miss Logan?”
Allison nodded.
“Not well. She comes in every so often to buy some flowers for her office.” The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just curious. I’m one of her tenants. I’ve been trying to find her, but she seems to have left town.”
“Wouldn’t know,” said the woman, “but come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in about a week or maybe more.” She pulled a sheaf of green wrapping paper from a spool.
“Her associate doesn’t seem to be around either.”
“Associate? I didn’t know she had one.”
Allison raised her brow. “I’m sure she mentioned an associate to me.”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe she did. But since I’ve been here…and that’s two years…I’ve never seen Miss Logan with anyone else.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
The woman shook her head, as she wrapped the rose in the paper. “There now,” she said, holding up the order.
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
Allison laid the money on the table and grabbed the rose. The woman held out a carnation. Allison stared.
“For your lapel,” said the woman. “I see you haven’t been well. This will help.”
Allison touched her cheeks, then looked at the fingers. Rouge dotted the tips. She smiled wanly, grabbed the carnation, and turned. “Thank you,” she said. She stepped out the door, glanced quickly at the agent’s brownstone, then hailed a cab to go downtown.
Michael protested. “There’s nothing wrong with the food.” He sat down, folded his legs, and laid two aspirin on the table next to the decanter of sake, which now held the long-stemmed rose and the white carnation.
The protest. She’d expected it in one form or another, though, strangely, he hadn’t said anything negative, since she’d met him in the lobby of the restaurant. That didn’t mean that she was unaware of his conscious effort to remain positive and optimistic; rather, she’d expected that too, though she knew sooner or later he’d slip and provoke a confrontation. That had been the modus operandi, since his return from Albany…that was the place, wasn’t it? And she’d had no indication that the tension between them had subsided; in fact, if anything, it had intensified, since her release from the hospital.
“The food was tasteless!” she repeated caustically, determined not to be bullied into a defensive position. She’d been aggressively positive about everything since stating, upon arriving at the restaurant, that something had happened to the rental agent. And even his silence, which could have been considered an initial protest, had not changed her posture.
No taste? He wasn’t surprised. One more symptom added to the growing list of malfunctions. He quickly catalogued them: Headache. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of balance. Pain around the eyes. Blurred vision. Impaired hearing (she’d complained about that earlier in the day). The fainting spell. And now the inability to register taste. The list seemed endless. He’d accepted her increased mental instability. That was to be expected in the context of a breakdown and, in fact, he’d expected a moderate physical decline as well. So did her doctor and the specialists. But as to the rest…very strange. They’d found nothing to indicate any malfunction in her nervous system and they’d run through an exhaustive series of neurological tests. But the doctors were stumped, at least as of this afternoon, when he’d stopped by her physician’s office to review her condition. The diagnosis: psychosomatic illness!
He couldn’t argue with them; he didn’t want to. But then again…
She leaned forward, picked up the aspirin, and downed them with uncharacteristic courage. One gulp. No water. She grimaced at the taste, then looked back at him. “Satisfied?” she asked, referring to the aspirin.
“Yes,” he answered. And he was. Both about the aspirin and the expected results of their dinner together. He’d suggested the latter that afternoon, when he’d called to ask her several questions about her father’s financial interests. He’d just received the will and certain other administrative papers, and since he was going to represent the estate…unless he was challenged by one of the interested parties…he’d felt a few preliminary questions were in order. Yet, in retrospect, he should have waited. Expectedly, she became upset at the mere mention of the documents, and he had to postpone any further questioning. But the primary purpose of the call had been to get her out of the apartment. Dinner and a walk couldn’t hurt; they might even help, he’d reasoned, certainly as much as the myriad of pills she’d been taking without any visible improvement. If anything, the night out might alleviate the depression that had become as real a problem as her physical disability. She was wallowing in self-pity to the point where it was making him angry. When he’d asked her what the doctor had said that morning about her eyes, she’d replied, “He called them desiccated. Then he made some tests, but he made no aspersions as to my psychiatric condition.”
“What do you mean by that?” he’d asked.
“It’s self-evident,” she’d answered,
and then after he’d said he’d worry about her mental health, after she was physically better, she’d declared, “If ever.”
He’d challenged. “That attitude won’t help you get better.”
“That attitude will help me accept worse,” she’d concluded.
He had to end her depression, especially if the diagnosis of psychosomatic illness was correct, and he had no reason to doubt it.
The relaxed environment of a restaurant was a good place to begin.
“It’s all nonsense!” he declared in his usual definitive way.
“What is?”
“Your strange maladies!” The word “malady” seemed more appropriate than “disease,” referring to something mysterious and evasive.
“Are they?” she asked, disgruntled.
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because they’re illusory. You’re far too intelligent and aware to be doing this to yourself. You’re talking strong tranquilizers and painkillers that could have any number of side effects, and, on top of that, you’re physically weak, which can only worsen any side effects that already exist. You’ve been running low grade temperature and you have an overworked and over-imaginative mind. Need I say more?” Logical and interesting, but for some reason he didn’t quite believe it himself.
“Psychosomatic illusions are not my brand of hang-up!”
“Allison!” he warned angrily. “If you don’t fight this collapse, you’re going to continue having headaches and nausea and you’ll wind up in an institution or dead.”
“Amen.”
He lashed out and grabbed her tightly clenched first. “Can’t you leave the damn crucifix alone for five minutes?” He pulled; she refused to let go. “Allison!” he said angrily. Her fingers dropped from the cross; he grabbed it and placed it under her shirt.
She sat back, mouth closed, eyes wide open, rigid. His frustrations were beginning to show; she was convinced he was wrestling with one essential reality, no matter how logical he wished to seem. It had been ten days since the events in the brownstone, events he’d been unable to explain or understand, and no matter how hard he tried to help her relax, which he was obviously trying to do, that one simple reality would remain. Yet, she was more secure in the knowledge of his thought processes than in her own. She was uncomfortable. But she couldn’t pinpoint the reason. True, the shock had much to do with it; she’d had trouble relaxing anywhere. But it was more than that. There was a feeling of revulsion. Maybe it was the presence of Gatz that brought the memory of the past into focus and with that memory the image of Karen Farmer. But then again, maybe not.
“We’ll go for a walk,” he said, breaking the silence. “It’ll do you good.”
She yawned, waited silently, until the bill had been paid, then followed him out. “The food was delicious,” she remembered to say, as though forgetting her earlier comment. He found that amusing, but he didn’t laugh.
The night was clear and cold; the streets were dry. They walked the block to Broadway and Fifty-first Street, turned downtown, and, within minutes reached Times Square. Though her headache persisted, she resolved to put up with his attempt to distract her, and she followed him through a succession of parlors and shops. Eventually, they left the arcades and walked aimlessly on the side streets, stopping intermittently to examine billboards and glossies on the walls of darkened theaters.
Minutes short of midnight, he stopped in front of a wax museum and spoke to the dwarf, who occupied the admissions booth.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
Allison frowned and looked away, disgusted.
“Come on,” he prompted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“It’ll be fun.”
She looked at her watch and held it up for his inspection. “It’s almost midnight. And I’m tired.”
Michael glanced at the admissions booth, his expression inviting help.
“Half price for the lady,” said the dwarf, the bells at the end of his pointed cap jingling in the night. He stood up on his chair and signaled Allison with his stubby hands. She shrugged.
She was stupid enough to have let him take her into the museum in the first place. She should have gotten in a cab, gone home, and climbed into bed. That’s where she belonged. Not here in the darkness.
The collection was typical: Jack the Ripper, Lizzy Borden, the Boston Strangler and other lesser mass murderers.
He walked slowly; she followed, keeping her head bowed, glancing obliquely at the exhibits. She was uneasy, the darkness invoking an image of the staircase in the brownstone. At any moment, she expected to hear Jezebel’s high shrill screech and feel the round hairy body compress under her foot. With each step, she looked out of the corners of her eyes for her father or Chazen or some other creature of her nightmare. Foolish apprehension? Perhaps. But as she turned the corner, she saw it looming above her…a figure… woman.
She screamed. He looked up at the hovering figure. He shook his head. Another murderess, so what? She didn’t even look frightening. Just an old woman with an ax.
“What’s the matter?” he pleaded, grabbing her by the shoulders.
She stood paralyzed, shaking violently and staring at the figure. The inscription below the display read:
MRS. ANNA CLARK, CONVICTED MURDERESS, SENT TO THE ELECTRIC CHAIR AT SING SING, OSSINING, NEW YORK, ON MARCH 27, 1948, FOR THE HATCHET MURDER OF HER LOVER AND HIS WIFE. REPUTEDLY, HER LOVER, STANTON RIDGER, HAD FINALLY REFUSED TO LEAVE HIS WIFE OF TEN YEARS MARRIAGE. THE MURDER WAS MRS. CLARK’S GOODBYE. POLICE DESCRIBED THE KILLING AS THE MOST GRISLY AND DIABOLICAL IN THE STATE’S HISTORY. THE LONG MARRIED COUPLE WERE SLAUGHTERED IN THEIR BED DURING THE ACT OF INTERCOURSE.
Mrs. Clark, a friend of Charles Chazen, a tenant in her building, a missing person, who’d vanished into thin air several days before, dead twenty-five years, a murderess!
Allison lurched from Michael’s grasp and ran into the darkness, once again unaware of her surroundings, fighting to escape, stumbling back and forth in the passageway, screaming hysterically.
As she reached the main hallway, he caught her. “Allison!” he cried. Her eyes rolled up into her head. “What’s the matter?”
She choked and threw up. He stood helpless, holding her by the shoulders. Her lips were blue; a cold sweat adhered to her face. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe the vomit off her clothes.
“Take your hands off me!” she screamed.
He blanched from the stench. “But,” he stammered.
“Get away!” she cried again, as she fought desperately to break from his grasp.
In desperation he slapped her. Then again.
A small door opened in the darkness and out popped the squat little man in overalls carrying a flashlight. The attendant. “What’s going on here?” he asked. He walked across the room. “My God,” he cried, seeing the vomit.
“Nothing serious,” said Michael. “My friend saw something that upset her.”
“Let’s take her into the office.”
“Right.” He moved to turn her around.
“No,” she said unexpectedly. “I’ll be all right.” She began to straighten her clothes.
The attendant stammered, “You’re sure now?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Could you get a wet rag, so I can wipe myself off?”
The little man scurried nervously back to the door and disappeared into the little room. Moments later, he returned with a wet washcloth.
Michael stood several feet away, perplexed, unsure of what to say or do. “Let’s get out of here,” he finally suggested.
She nodded, then followed him up the staircase, out of the museum, and down the block. Before they’d reached the corner, he took her by the shoulders and turned her around.
“What happened in there?” he asked.
&
nbsp; She didn’t respond.
He put his hand under her chin; she pulled away and leaned against a brick wall.
“Allison, you must tell me what happened in there!”
She turned on him viciously. “You knew darn well…” She stopped. No, now was not the time for accusations, even though she knew he was aware of what she was thinking. That could come later. “It was the wax statue of the old woman,” she stated. “She was one of the women at Jezebel’s birthday party.” She knew she’d seen Mrs. Clark before or at least her image.
“I should have realized,” he said. “We’re back to the house again.”
How could he? Could she have been so wrong? About everything? She looked up at him. She clutched at the crucifix and declared angrily, “God damn it, what should I do? What do you want me to say? That it didn’t happen or that I didn’t see that woman in the house. All right, I’ll say it: It all didn’t happen, and I didn’t see that woman in the house. But I’m lying. I said it and I’m lying.”
“That woman was executed twenty-five years ago. You know darn well she wasn’t in the brownstone.” He paused. “Maybe someone who looked like her, but –”
“She was introduced to me as Mrs. Anna Clark.”
“There’ve been hundreds of Anna Clarks in New York.”
“Stop,” she screamed.
He exhaled deeply.
“Michael,” she said, “I want to be alone.”
“Why?”
“I just do. Please.”
“I’ll take you home and leave for a while.”
“No, I want to be alone now.”
“Allison, I can’t let you, not after what just happened.”
“I don’t think you have a choice.”
He was nonplused. “Allison,” he said.
“No, I’ll say it again. I want to be alone. Go home. I’m going to take a cab ride around. I’ll be at your apartment in an hour. I just want to be alone to think.”
He started to protest. She walked to the curb and waited, disregarding his objections. She hailed a taxi and crawled into the back seat. He started to follow. She slammed the door and locked it.
The Sentinel Page 15