Bassett, who seemed uncomfortable, avoided my eyes. I thought I might have shaken his conviction, but the other was my real opponent. I continued to look at the big man.
His face contracted a very little, and then he smiled and said gently, “They won’t find it, I’m afraid. And the date on the newspaper?”
Into the trap I went, headlong. “Last Sunday, February seventh.”
“The seventh!” the man said, and glanced at Bassett, shaking his head significantly. “Now, Miss Ferris, I’m sure that the place for you is the hospital.”
Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s right, said the treacherous voice inside me. Aloud, I said, “Nonsense.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it’s anything serious,” he said soothingly. (“That’s right,” Bassett murmured painfully.) The other went on, “Supposing you go away and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
I turned to the landlord. He didn’t look like much of a help: his dead-looking brown hair was disheveled, his eyes were filmed and wavering: but I felt that he was taking only a passive part and might be won over. “Would you show me your registrations?” I said. “There must be some record, or a notation of the date when I paid my rent.”
“That will be fine,” said the big man unexpectedly.
Bassett’s muddy brown eyes flickered; he looked hunted. Then, murmuring something in the nature of a weak protest, he rose and brought out a small ring-backed ledger. That meant the leaves were removable, but—would that fact help me?
I read the roster of the tenants on my floor. 4-A, Mrs. Pitman; 4-B, Mr. and Mrs. H. Johnson, rent paid in advance on February 7; 4-C, G. Spelvin, January 1. 4-D—there it was before my eyes: B. Smithers, February 1.
There was no page for C. Ferris, anywhere in the book. I looked for it twice.
In that moment I would have gone. They had me all but beaten, I’d have been more than thankful to escape from this uneasy nightmare—if there had been any place to run to.
There was sixty-seven cents in my purse. My suitcase was in a stranded bus, thirty miles from San Francisco. I thought of those things, and realized that, with one exception, there wasn’t a soul in the city to whom I could appeal. The exception was Mr. Tripp.
I couldn’t take it. He’d warned me against living alone, he’d told me I should not leave the country until morning. Maybe he wouldn’t say, “I told you so,” but he would surely think it—and at the very best he’d be more and more protective and dictatorial, taking for granted that I’d turn to him in trouble. I wasn’t letting anything be taken for granted. Rather than that I’d sleep on a bench in the Ferry Building.
Maybe, quite literally, I should have to. I began to fasten my raincoat, with rather unsteady fingers, and the big man watched me with a sort of remote compassion.
I had all but made up my mind to try the girls’ club. They knew me there, perhaps they would trust me, even without money or luggage. If they asked any questions, and I explained truthfully, they’d be certain to take me to the hospital. Somehow I’d have to invent a plausible story...
It was as near as that.
Then I saw the wastebasket.
It was one of those open wire ones, and half way down in the pile of rubbish, bulging through the meshes, was a crumpled piece of paper in a peculiarly horrible shade of coral pink with white edges. I knew there couldn’t be a duplicate in this house of the samples that a printing firm had handed round to the personnel of Caya’s. With true Scottish thrift I had brought mine home to use for scratch paper, and on Friday I had pushed under Mrs. Ulrichson’s door a half-sheet with these words scribbled on it:
“If my laundry comes, will you put it inside my door? Shall be away until Monday evening.
Thanks very much.
C. Ferris, 4-D.”
As if in despair I stared at the bit of paper, while a wave of good healthy anger took the place of my doubt. The paper, I’d swear, had not been there for two weeks. These two gentlemen were playing games with me.
What was more, they thought they had me thoroughly buffaloed, while right in my hands I had the weapon to defeat them.
“Maybe—maybe you’re right,” I said dully, and put a hand up to my head. “I’m so tired—I don’t know where I could go.” The unsteadiness of my legs, when I got up, was quite in character though involuntary. Once more I put on a piteous look, and added, “I suppose I could find a hotel that would take me in, but I haven’t any money.”
“If that’s all, I’ll give you a couple of dollars,” said the big man, and brought a handful of silver out of his trousers pocket. Mr. Bassett sprang suddenly to life; he hadn’t liked this, but he was afraid of the other one.
“That’s right, you go away and get some rest,” he said in a relieved tone. “It’s too bad to see a young girl like you, wandering around.”
Without shame I took the money, keeping my head down. “It’s still raining,” I sighed, “I—I hate to go out in the rain—Oh, my overshoes! I left them in the hall upstairs—if you’d just come up with me to get them—Mr. Smithers, isn’t it?” I turned to my chief enemy. “I can’t go out without rubbers, in this storm.”
Bassett was easy; he fumbled ineffectually and gave way, shaking his head, when I pushed him aside and got to the door.
“Or,” I said brightly, “I still have my key. I can go up alone.”
The big man said, “Don’t trouble. I’ll get the overshoes and bring them down. Mr. Bassett will wait here with you.”
“Sure,” the landlord said hopefully, “you stay with me, Miss.”
“How do I know you’ll bring them down?” said I, raising my voice a little so that it echoed in the enclosed foyer. I’d show him how crafty these lunatics could be. “You might just get in there and shut the door and never come out, and I’d have to ruin my shoes in the rain and maybe catch cold. I’ll come right up with you!”
There was a fine loud ring to those last words, and I saw the tall man’s jaw go tight. “Please, hush,” he said. “If you disturb the tenants, we’ll have to explain to them that you’re—not quite right. Very well, come if you must, but be quiet.”
I looked cowed, shut my mouth and crept meekly up the stairs behind him. The big window in my living room, I remembered, was closed and the shade was down. In any event, it looked out on the blank rear wall of another building, and the wind and rain were howling outside so that you couldn’t hear yourself think. There was a more obvious way to defeat him, but I wanted my victory all to myself.
The man unlocked the door of 4-D, and motioned me in. He was careful to close it behind him, and his voice was very low as he said, “There are your galoshes. Put them on and get going. I want to give you a bit of advice, too; don’t try this game again. You haven’t a Chinaman’s chance of getting away with it.”
I dropped the overshoes and faced him. “You still think I’m lying?” I said pathetically, and before he could stop me, turned and darted into the kitchen. He wouldn’t risk a struggle; I was banking on that. I flicked on the light and swung around, putting out a hand to raise the window that gave on the light well. He had reached the doorway, and I said in a conversational tone, “I’ll yell if you come one step nearer. I can yell bloody murder when I want to, and it’ll sound worse than that in this light well.”
It was the satisfaction of a lifetime to see that large brute stop short. For the sake of prudence I moved closer to the window, and said, “I’ll give you five minutes to put your things in a bag and get out of here. You have more to fear from the police than I have, and you’re afraid of noise.”
He made one more effort. “For your own sake—”
I snapped, “Get on with it. This is my apartment, and you know it as well as I do. What’s more, no matter how many faces you make, last Sunday was the seventh of February.”
The man drew a deep breath, folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. He said with a faint smile, “Can you produce the recipe for cheese soufflé?”
“No,” he said mildly, “that’s the last thing on earth I want.” Once more he seemed to be taking my measure, but I couldn’t help seeing that his look was tinged with admiration. “Well, my little scheme didn’t work, did it?”
“It never had a chance,” I lied cheerfully.
“Would it have been any better if I’d asked you politely to let me borrow your room for one night?”
“Scarcely,” said I, giving him the old raised eyebrow.
“Nevertheless, I’m going to beg you to go somewhere else—just for this one evening. Please, Miss Ferris. I give you my word; it’s not safe for you to be here.”
“The story’s getting better,” I said. “Is it your idea of safety to turn me out alone in the dark? Somehow I’d prefer that you went.”
“No,” the man said, “I can’t go. I’ll make this up to you somehow. I’m sorry it happened, but that stunt of trying to bluff you out was the best I could think of at the moment—and you gave me the cue yourself. You see, we’d thought you were to be away.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And I wish to heaven you’d stayed away. Would you go now, if I told you all hell might break in this building before the night’s out?”
I looked at him in complete incredulity. Why, this was a dream after all; or else the man, and not I, was wacky.
“You don’t believe me? I could prove it to you. I will, if you’ll shut the window.”
“I’ll do that when you walk out of here.”
The man straightened and unfolded his arms. “You win,” he observed unemotionally. “I see you’re determined, so there’s nothing for me to do but go. This will be a nice little mystery for you to think about all your life—if you live through the night.”
A curious sensation played around the back of my neck. “That’s a silly sort of threat,” I said, “and as soon as you’re gone I can demand an explanation from that man downstairs. He wouldn’t be such a—a quavering loon if he weren’t scared of you. The threats worked on him, I suppose.”
“Oh, he doesn’t know anything,” said B. Smithers lightly. “He’s only pinch-hitting for his aunt, Mrs. Ulrichson, while she’s away for a few days.” His eyes were on my face. “Yes, there is a Mrs. Ulrichson. That worried you, didn’t it?—I’m the only one, Miss Ferris, who knows why I had to take over your apartment, to make it look as if I lived here, and who can tell you what kind of hell is going to break loose, and who your neighbors are.”
—A nice little mystery, for me to wonder about all my life.—
He couldn’t have dangled a more alluring bait than the situation of this insane set-up, nor could he have offered me a neater loophole than was suggested in his next words.
“I could tell you about it in half an hour or less, if you’d consent to listen. No, please—” His hard mouth twitched into a grin, somehow rather disarming. “Please don’t flash your eyes at me again. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. But—when it means not only your own safety, but the lives of two or three others as well—couldn’t you gamble thirty minutes?”
“Certainly I deserve some kind of explanation,” I said slowly. “You can begin on it, I’ll grant you that much—but make it good.”
“Thank you.” He actually sketched a sardonic bow. “If I might suggest it—you can’t be very comfortable there, leaning on the oven. Won’t you come into the living room?”
“I think I’ll stay right here, by the window.”
“For your information,” the man said, with the effect of making a concession, “a good scream delivered anywhere in this apartment would ruin all my plans. Your weapons will be just as potent if you’re sitting down. And,” he added after a moment’s wait, “you know—you needn’t be afraid of me, personally.”
“I’m not,” I said, flicking a glance up and down him.
The words actually made him color faintly, under the brown of his skin. He stared at me angrily for a moment, and then the flush receded.
“Atta girl,” said B. Smithers, with obvious relief and pleasure.
The queer thing was that I’d spoken the truth, and the insulting intent was only superficial. He looked like the kind of person you’d ask to help you out of a turbulent crowd—competent, impersonal and trustworthy. The crow’s feet beside his eyes had been made, and the furrows in his cheeks deepened, by laughter. He was spare and hard in spite of his great size, and though the shabby clothing was obviously his, I felt that he’d look just as comfortable in English tailoring. He was older than I’d thought at first glance; somewhere between thirty-five and forty, judging by the drifts of gray in his dark hair.
“Walk ahead of me, please,” I said, and moved slowly after him as he shrugged his shoulders and obeyed. “You’ll have to talk fast, Mr. Smithers.”
“Please,” he said, “not that name. I had to use it, because it was on the papers I borrowed to impress Mrs. Ulrichson.”
“What papers were those?”
“They made me out to be a private detective,” he said, turning in the bright light of the living room to confront me with a grin. “I’m supposed to be collecting evidence on an erring husband.”
“On this floor of this apartment house?”
“Sure.”
“You wouldn’t find him in my place,” I said dryly, “and there’s a bachelor on one side of me and a youngish couple on the other—with a baby.”
“With a what?” His eyes blazed suddenly, and the big frame went rigid.
“A baby.”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Sorry, I thought you were hard of hearing.”
“How do you know they have one?”
“I saw it, and heard it,” I said patiently. “Is this the best you can—”
“Skip it,” the man said. I couldn’t ignore the authority in his voice. “When did you see it?”
“The early part of the week, and what’s it to you?”
“A lot. Monday or Tuesday?”
“Tuesday afternoon.” His urgency shook my defenses. “A woman was coming up the stairs as I went down—I’d been sent on an errand by the office, and had come home to get my raincoat. I thought she was just visiting here, calling on Mrs. Pitman, perhaps; but on Friday morning, just before I left, I heard the child crying in the next room, in 4-B.”
“You’re sure it was there?”
“Of course. I looked out the window to make sure, and the same woman came to her window and slammed it down. The crying had stopped by then. That was the only time I’d heard a sound.”
“Good Lord!” the big man hissed, and struck his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He continued to stare at me, his eyes brilliant. “Maybe there’s a chance for us after all.”
Then a new thought came into his mind. I could see it steal across his face, and the triumphant expression changing slowly to one of dismay. “But if that’s so,” he said in a whisper, “if they know you saw it—Miss Ferris, what I said about your being in danger was mostly talk. Now—after this, I’m afraid it’s true. You can’t leave, now.”
FOUR
My Own Petard
I SAID, “Changed your mind again, Mr. Smithers?” but the effect of this was marred by my involuntary step backward.
“My name’s Barney,” he said absently, his troubled gaze still on my face. “You might as well have something to call me.”
“If you think I—”
“Don’t get any ideas into your head. You’re nothing to me but an added burden. If you’d had the sense to get out while the going was good, while we were downstairs, you’d have been all right; but now that you’ve been up here talking to me, there’s no way of telling—what might happen to you.”
After that hesitation his voice had dropped even lower than before. He was staring right through me now, his mind almost visibly turning this way and that, gauging possibilities even
as he spoke.
I was silent. From a personal duel with someone who had inexplicably tried to frighten me out of my room, this had suddenly become a major battle. Maybe I believed him too readily, but when someone tells you you’re in danger—in that tone of voice—you generally duck first and ask for proof afterward.
Into that brief silence came an almost imperceptible sound that sent a chill racing up my back. It was the light tap of a fingernail on glass.
The man’s head jerked round toward the big window. He froze for a second, and then got into action. “In there!” he commanded in a whisper, jerking open the dressing-room door, “and keep still. Don’t show yourself.”
The door closed. For all his size, he could move as stealthily as a huge cat, for I could barely hear his progress across the main room. There was a rustle, as if the window shade had been pulled aside, and then a soft exclamation.
I had to see what went on. One step brought me to a point of vantage, the crack of the loosely fitting door on which the wall bed was suspended. The dressing-room was dark, but the outside room was brilliantly lighted.
The shade of my big window had been raised, and the window itself silently pushed up. It was as silently lowered as I reached the crack. A man had come in from the fire escape.
“Have you lost your mind, O’Shea?” Barney demanded in a low voice. “I thought you weren’t to appear at all—and then you go right past that window.”
The other man was, for the moment, invisible. When he replied it was in a smooth monotone, but a perfectly audible one. There was a curious precision about his speech.
“Appear was meant in the official sense, Barney,” he said. “Did you think I could stay away completely? And I have not been seen.”
The 9 Dark Hours Page 4