I’d not let myself say, “Barney is one of the forces of evil.” I’d say if he were. If he were, a great deal might be explained: his careful choice of words, his refusal to look at me while he spun that engrossing yarn, his adjectives for the Cork—diabolically clever, a brilliant organizer; his carefully casual mention of Bassett as a possibility for the role, and then the instant disclaimers meant not quite to convince; his triumph when Bassett had blundered into the spider’s parlor, offering himself as an obvious scapegoat; the restraint with which he’d only hinted at the landlord’s guilt and let me supply the conclusion! By then, he knew how implicit was my trust.
Why, even that look of his, that half-smile which my vanity construed as tenderness, had been bent upon me at the moment when he saw that at last I believed him.
He’d spoken of danger, but the only actual danger I’d seen as yet was his own attack on me.
That talk of double-crossing might have referred to his own hirelings—the henchmen whom he’d wanted to watch, from the close vantage of a room on the same floor.
But on the other side, what part was being played by Colly O’Shea? And why, since Barney would already know that the recovered film was worthless as evidence, should he insist on its return?—Perhaps that was only a part of the story, the story he’d invented?
It was too much for me to figure out. I’d wait till he came back from that wind-swept marsh where the ransom money was even now, presumably, changing hands. Then I’d pluck up my courage and ask him what he was doing with a purple ink-pad. I’d know if the baby, that helpless pawn in this disgusting game of move and counter-move and bluff, had been safely returned. Then I could make up my mind.
Till he came back. But when would he come—if he came at all?
Presently, after a fashion, I got myself pulled together. That idea of action had worked well before; my belongings were still parked at the top of the stepladder. I’d get them down and restore the living room to its original state; then, with the oddly heartening sense that comes from being in one’s own surroundings, I might be able to think clearly.
The wind was rising, for I could hear even through the roof the moan of whirling ventilators. It slackened now and again, before stirring once more uneasily over the wet roofs, down the narrow canyons of city alleys. Before remounting the ladder, I opened the kitchen window to let out the smoke and the odor of coffee that still lingered there. Up and down the dark airshaft, four stories deep, no light shone. It was nearly four o’clock—the blackest of black winter hours.
At the top of the ladder I paused before dragging down the carton of my household goods. Imagination was certainly playing tricks with my ears, for somewhere in the dim space that surrounded me a sound, murmurous and indistinct, rose and fell as if a man were speaking.
Barney’s description came back to me, how he had crept over the rafters to hear my neighbors’ conversation. I thought, perhaps that was only one more bit of verisimilitude to bolster up his unconvincing narrative; could you really distinguish words through these ceilings? And, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder, who was talking?
I could find out for myself, easily enough. Follow the electric wiring, he’d said, and it would guide you to a spot over the ceiling of apartment 4-B. I kicked off my shoes and took the hem of my dress between clenched teeth; thus unhampered, the crawl across the rough grid of the rafters was not too difficult, though the distance between them was as awkward as possible. A knee here, a hand reaching ahead in reconnaissance—I was approaching the source of that sound.
The low murmur resolved itself into voices, at first sounding in a quick give and take whose words were indistinguishable. Then, as with infinite care I lowered my head between the rafters, I could hear O’Shea speaking with his incongruous suavity and precision.
“I have no doubt,” he said, “that you enjoy great success with women. But why did you have to keep her here—tonight?”
I should have known from that. I should have been better prepared for what was coming; but the shock was scarcely minimized. At his companion’s first words a point of deadly cold touched my heart. The voice was Barney’s.
He had not, after all, gone to the rendezvous—of course, he had no need to go. That had been another lie in his carefully built up structure of innocence.
What he said was, “Do you think I wanted it this way? I tried to get rid of her—until I found out how much she knew.”
It might have been the echo of my own warning to myself.
O’Shea said, “A little amusement for you on the side, too.”
“How like you to think of that, Colly,” said Barney, and I could read nothing at all from his tone. “We’ll not discuss it now. The point is, there’s little danger so long as I can keep an eye on her, and that’s what I mean to do—as far as possible.”
“For how long?”
“Until the fireworks are over. Yes, they’re sure to go off here. Jay and Fingers will come back—take my word for it.”
“And I have your word that I shall have my share. But,” said O’Shea silkily, “can you guarantee that your other promise will not be broken? How much did you tell her?”
“No more than was necessary. I told you to leave that part to me,” said Barney coldly. “Don’t worry, she knows—nothing essential.”
He added, “You did your best to give the game away yourself.”
Give the game away? The white-eyed man had been careless; then perhaps—when I saw him through the window he’d been carrying something.
My throat had closed until it was hard for me to breathe, but I didn’t dare move or struggle for more air. The low voice, the damning words, beat on my mind like loaded whips.
O’Shea ignored that last accusation.
“And—afterward? If they asked her to identify—”
Barney laughed softly. Under other circumstances it might have been a pleasant sound.
“She’ll never talk,” he said, and my blood stopped circulating altogether. “I promise you that. She’ll never say a word.”
* * *
This was no time to faint. I had to get out of here—get back without making a sound, and climb down that ladder. If my door opened now, if either of those men saw where I’d been and guessed that I’d overheard them—my number would be called that very minute. It was bad enough now—
It was so bad that I couldn’t afford a false move. I’d crawled across these rafters a minute ago without betraying my presence, but then I wasn’t hampered by the dreadful weakness of terror. A creaky joint or a piece of loose plaster dislodged under my hands would give me away hopelessly.
I was moving, I’d actually managed to lever myself to hands and knees and begin backing slowly away, with painful care lowering my weight onto each support. The voices had faded to a murmur again; I must be making progress, or else the men had moved. Perhaps that had been the end of their conversation, and Barney was even now emerging into the public corridor, preparing to fit his key into my door. And then?
With inconceivable bitterness, I remembered Roger’s words: “Dreadful things can happen to young women.” I also remembered my inward laughter.
Is there anything more humiliating than to realize, far too late, that someone else was right and you were wrong? Heaven help me, I needed a caretaker. Fool that I’d been, not to wonder about my own safety!
She’ll never say a word. Even a person who’s been successfully duped remains a menace. Leave it to him; he’d take care of that! The dead can’t talk. You can’t hang twice.
And if he planned to kill me, what a perfect setup! Who was to bear witness that I’d ever arrived at this apartment house on the night of February 14? Nobody had seen me except the two in 4-B, and a drunken landlord who had presumably passed out after an evening of alcoholic dreams.
Sunk without a ripple; that was what they said of persons who disappeared. A woman walked out of the bus terminal and vanished like rain in the ocean.
—Here, with a shock
of relief, my groping hand discovered the edge of the platform around the scuttle hole. I’d got this far, anyway. Thank Heaven for stockinged feet that made no noise on the rungs of a ladder, and for the remnant of control that made my hands lift the square of boards and fit it quietly into place above my head.
I was shaking violently when at last I stood on the solid hall floor. If the ladder could be replaced in the kitchen without disturbance, nobody need know when I’d retrieved my belongings—but I couldn’t handle it now, until this trembling was subdued.
I stood there calling up the reserves, and what came to my aid was a wave of burning anger that stiffened my spine faster than a shot of whisky.
I’d been completely and handsomely fooled. How smart and cocky I had felt, trying to beat a crook at his own game instead of calling the police—and how cleverly he had played on a mind made too confident by that minor triumph! After that first failure he had changed his tactics, working conciliation and frankness and charm for all they were worth. Charm and honesty weren’t inseparable, not by a long shot; some of the worst criminals in history had found it easy to enslave women.
He’d been doing all right, too.
Damn, oh, damn! How nearly I had given way entirely, how much I had wanted to lean forward those few inches when he knelt beside my chair—He’d chosen exactly the right approach, after he’d sized me up and figured that a cruder one would not do. And how much, all the time, he must have been wanting to laugh at the ease with which my defenses had fallen.
Well, by Heaven, they hadn’t fallen all the way; I could still close the breach, there was that to console me.
But—he mustn’t know that it was closed!
That could be thought out later. In the meantime, I had to wrestle in silence with the unhandy length of the ladder, to close it and get into the kitchen with it. With the fiendishness of inanimate objects, the ladder did nothing to help me; I tried to lower it edgeways onto my shoulder, and nearly got an ear scraped off for my pains. The thing seemed to be twenty feet long, and to have more legs and points than a swastika. Grappling with it in sulphurous speechlessness, I swore I’d never set up a ladder again, if I had to climb a knotted rope for the rest of my days.
Remove all traces—My hands and face were filthy; I scrubbed them hurriedly and brushed the plaster out of my hair. Then, with a conscious effort at composure, I turned to the mirror.
Thank goodness, I thought, rage doesn’t make me pale. I looked much the same as I had looked just after he’d left; perhaps there wasn’t quite the same hopeful light in the eyes—
I could hear his voice, after that first failure, saying, You gave me the cue yourself. And I’d gone right on doing it! I could hear O’Shea: You enjoy great success with women.
Of course that would be what hurt the most. I had no doubt of it either, considering how nearly I had been convinced by that little scene in the dark, the last careful touch in a masterpiece of deception. Instinct had told me that he couldn’t mean it—but I hadn’t had the wit to guess why it had been played. It was the only way he could get my mind off those awkward questions that were coming too close to the truth. He thought he had succeeded, too; he thought he had me in his pocket.
—And must continue to think so. That was the only way I could gain time—time to escape, somehow to outwit him. Why, that plan had worked before! I could do it again—
Things were different now. It would be harder, since in those few hours we had reached what might be called intimacy. He must see no change in my manner, I must still be his partner in adventure, trusting, thrilling to excitement, even counterfeiting the undercurrent of emotion.
Savagely I got out my lipstick and used it, needing every aid to morale that could be pressed into service. I suppose that was funny, too, only I didn’t see it at the time; my hand was steady enough, but my wits were scattered, for when I dropped the lipstick and it rolled under the door on which the bed hung, I tried my best to crawl through the crack after it. A full minute elapsed before I had sense enough to go round into the other room.
I dropped the lipstick into my pocket instead of putting it away. It clinked against metal. That would be the key to the broom closet, I remembered suddenly: the closet where Bassett was imprisoned. Bassett was the one menace to Barney’s scheme, and there had been no time to cajole him. He’d had to be put out of the way, immobilized, and I had helped to do it.
You have to know just where to hit them.—How could I have been so dense? That remark pointed straight to another one: The same motif has run through this whole affair—the blow on the head. Mangam had died of a head injury, Mrs. Ulrichson might not survive her fractured skull, the nurse Patsy Gavin had been knocked out by a rabbit punch.—Her unconsciousness had lasted only a few minutes. He’d want to be gentle with her, because unconsciously she had given him, her old friend, all the details he needed for the smooth commission of the kidnapping. Maybe they’d worked it together; who should be less likely as a suspect than a trusted employee?
But Bassett was the immediate problem. He might be too frightened and sick to protect me physically, but he was the only ally I could count on. Nobody else was within call—except Mr. O’Shea. If somehow I could let Bassett out, revive him, he could at least go for help without the knowledge of the crooks who held me as hostage. I had the key. Two long flights of stairs, one long dark corridor, lay between me and this one feeble chance.
Barney hadn’t returned. Doubtless he and O’Shea, confident in the knowledge that I was meekly waiting in my own apartment, were still conferring next door. If I could get past that creaking board, I’d be safe. More than that, I realized suddenly; I could get clean away.
I didn’t dare put on a coat, or look as if I were going outdoors. The corridor was dark as I slid through the door, and no sound came from 4-B. There were two spiders in there now, waiting for more flies to buzz happily into their trap. If I didn’t hurry, I might meet Jay and Fingers too.
All my subconscious memory must be called into play; where was the telltale creak? I stood still for a moment and made myself remember, walk in retrospect along the red and green carpet, looking idly at the number of my neighbors’ door. Yes, that was it: the board was exactly opposite the far side of the frame.
My fingers brushed along the wallpaper, struck the wood, the panels of the door. Now, one long step, let down my weight as lightly as possible—there was a faint creak like an echo of the loud protest usually given out by the board. I was past it, I was safe. Don’t trip on the stair; the evidences of Mrs. Ulrichson’s faked accident might still be a hazard. Third floor; third-floor landing, second floor—
Out of the darkness an arm caught me from behind, and a hand was clamped over my mouth. A wild convulsive twist was all the resistance I could make, and it got me nowhere; my arms were pinned to my sides.
The hand over my mouth moved, its fingers brushed my cheek. A whisper like a mere breath sounded in the dark.
“Cameron!” Barney said. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay—”
It was no use, no use at all; my feeble try at escape had never had a chance.
I let myself be propelled up the stairs. I’d been a fool to think I could elude his vigilance. To struggle now, or protest, would only hurry the end.
In silence we moved along the upper corridor, and came to the door of my apartment. It looked to me as if there were bars on it.
But if I could deceive my captor, with an attitude as false as his own? Now was the moment.
“You—you weren’t gone long,” I said, walking away from him into the lighted room.
“I didn’t go across the Bay,” his deep voice said soberly behind me. “There was a mix-up down below. Garwood was across the street; he saw Jay and Fingers come out of the alley and thought they were carrying the baby. The man at the corner, who could get a closer view, said no; they had a bundle, but it wasn’t big enough. He let them go.”
“And what about Mr. Cleveland?” I turned to f
ace him; I had to see his expression.
“Garwood’s gone out there. We agreed that I’d better stay here.—For the Lord’s sake, Cameron, don’t look so frightened.”
“Well, I am frightened,” I said. “That is, I was. You jumped at me out of the dark, and I didn’t know who it was.”
“I didn’t recognize you either, with your hair down; might have been Gertie. It was only when I felt your skin that I knew.” He looked at the palm of his hand and grinned. “First time I’ve ever had lipstick there.”
Then his eyes came up to mine again, and he added, “And will you please tell me what you were doing, wandering around the halls?”
He suspects already, I thought, giddy with panic. How was I to explain—and then the one possible answer flashed like a message into my mind.
I looked straight at him, a serious look of alliance, and breathed, “I thought I heard something crying.”
“Where? Not on the first floor?” His eyes gleamed from between narrowed lids.
“I couldn’t tell. It was somewhere in the light well—maybe it was a cat. But since I thought you weren’t here, I had to see if I could find out—”
“A cat. Probably that’s all it was.” He drew a deep breath and frowned. “I’d been down to make another search—in the landlord’s apartment this time. No one was there. But I swear the baby must be in this building still.”
I bit my lip. “You thought it had been hidden in Bassett’s rooms? Maybe, if I could go in there and look around, I might be able to tell.” Would he let me go? If he agreed, perhaps there’d be a chance—
“How could you tell?”
“Let’s be delicate,” I said, and managed a smile. “Babies do leave signs of their presence, signs that can’t be seen. After you’ve been around them as much as I have, you can detect it.”
He met my eyes, and slowly shook his head. The forlorn hope died.
The 9 Dark Hours Page 13