by Frances
“0237—door buzzer,” the police stenographer wrote on a pad, in longhand. He poised the pencil over his notebook.
“Damn,” Bill Weigand said. “I hope they have sense enough to—” He stopped, because the door across the hall was opening. It opened only a few inches, evidently was stopped by the chain.
“Yes?” Liza O’Brien said. Her tone held just the planned combination of surprise, minor irritation, tentative rejection. She looked through the door’s opening at the broad, the substantial, man standing in the corridor. “Why,” she said. “Mr. Whiteside.”
Whiteside did not seem matter-of-fact now. There was anxiety on his face and in his voice.
“You’re all right?” he said, and then, before she could answer, “Thank God for that.”
“What is it?” she said, and kept, carefully kept, the note of surprised enquiry in her voice. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve got to talk to you,” Whiteside said. “I came as soon as I could. Before—” He stopped, as if he had almost said too much. “Before anyone else,” he said. He looked at her, looked at the door. “You must listen,” he told her, and put his hand on the door.
“Well,” she said, “it’s terribly late.” Now there was hesitancy in her voice, uncertainty. But when he looked at her and waited, she slipped the chain from the door and opened it, slowly. Raymond Whiteside looked up and down the hall; he went in quickly. Inside he closed the door, he looked around the room rapidly, as if making sure they were alone.
“No one’s come?” he said. “You’re sure? Or—or tried to reach you?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“And the police?” he said. “They’re not watching you? Doing anything to—to take care of you?”
Now there was a note of incredulity in his voice and as she shook her head, he said, slowly, “My God! Don’t they realize?”
Again she said she did not know what he meant.
“You know something,” he said. “At least, the police are certain you do and so is sh—so is the one who’s—responsible for all this. All this—” He stopped and shook his head slowly. “And the lieutenant—this Weigand—does nothing to protect you.”
“But I don’t know anything,” Liza said. “I keep telling everyone that.”
She had drawn back into the room, but was still standing, holding the blue robe about her. Yet she was oddly unafraid, and it was not only because Brian was in the bedroom, was near, could come quickly. It was chiefly that there was nothing frightening about Lieutenant Colonel Whiteside, standing in front of her, not trying to move nearer her, a look on his face which was more of concern, of anxiety, than, remotely, of threat.
“Perhaps you don’t,” he said. “I realize that, Miss O’Brien. Or—perhaps you have already told the police?” He waited for her to answer.
“What?” she said. “What could I? I don’t know anything. What does everybody think I know?”
“Sneddiger must have known something,” Whiteside said. “That was why my—why he was killed. And you were with him. It would be natural for him to tell you what he knew. To hint at it.”
She shook her head again. She made the gesture weary.
“You told the police everything you knew?” he insisted. “Or—everything you remembered?”
“Yes,” she said, and sighed as if she had said all this too often before.
He looked at her steadily.
“I almost believe you,” he said. “I’d—I’d like to, Miss O’Brien. There’s been so much of this already. But you see what a chance it would be. How dangerous.” He moved his head slowly, doubtfully. “For you, I mean, of course,” he said. “Because, whatever I believed, it would never be possible to be sure that—that others would believe you. You see what I mean?”
“No,” she said.
“I want to stop all this,” Whiteside said. “I’ve been trying to without—” He broke off again. “It’s very difficult,” he said. “You can’t understand how difficult, Miss O’Brien. How much is involved. But I can’t let things go on. I realized that tonight.” He seemed to interrupt himself. “I mean, of course, that you were in danger as long as you were thought to know something. And that nothing you said would convince her.”
“Her?” Liza said.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” he said. “The—the one who killed poor Halder. And then Sneddiger.” He looked at her steadily. “Whatever you guess, Miss O’Brien, I can’t—it’s hard enough. Desperately hard.” He seemed to try to smile. “You’re very young, my dear,” he said. “You see things differently. More simply. But I can’t be the one. And I have to try—” He seemed to find talking very difficult. He was no longer, Liza thought, the substantial man he had been, the assured man. He was, she thought, very troubled, and now, slowly, it had become clear why he was so desperately troubled, why he tried to imply so much and yet avoid the words, and most of all the name, which would be irretrievable.
“We haven’t a right to ask anything,” he said. “Not that you conceal anything. I realize that. But—” he shook his head sadly—“one always wants time. Keeps on hoping for something. That’s partly why I came, I suppose. But chiefly it was for your sake. To see that you aren’t harmed. You see—the one I’m talking about isn’t home now. I don’t know where she is. I was afraid—”
Once again he broke off; once again he started over.
“Won’t you go away for a time?” he said. “For your own safety? To give me time? Perhaps, later, you’ll remember there was something—something Sneddiger said, something you saw. Then, of course, I’d expect you to come back at once, go to the police. I’d—I’d be able to see that nothing happened to you. Will you do that?”
He seemed to be entreating her. She seemed to hesitate.
“Only for a few days,” he said. “Until I—can make certain arrangements. Of course, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Put you on a train—a plane. You’ll be safe tonight.”
Now for the first time he moved toward her. Then he stopped and looked beyond her and, from behind her, Brian Halder spoke. She turned at the sound of his voice.
“It won’t be necessary, Raymond,” Brian said. His voice was harsh again. “You and I together can—take care of Miss O’Brien.”
And then, as if the words were spoken at that instant, not hours before—now, not when she and Brian were in the shop, with Halder’s body still twisted in the pen—she heard Brian Halder say, “I’ll take care of Sneddiger.” No, not quite that. “I’ll take care of Felix.”
It was at almost the moment their taxicab stopped in front of the Murray Hill apartment house that things fell into place for Pamela North; it was as if, she thought, I dropped something and, instead of breaking, it came together. As if I dropped the pieces and got the whole.
“Jerry!” Pam said. “They don’t yelp!” There was triumph in her voice, and she turned to look at Jerry. He halted in the movement of pulling his billfold from his hip pocket and looked at her, his face blank. “Don’t you see?” Pam demanded. Jerry started to shake his head. But Pam was reaching for the door handle.
“Soon’s that other hack pulls out I can—” their driver said, but by that time Pam had the door open and was starting to get out. By that time, Jerry was pushing a bill at the driver.
They were just in time to see Mrs. Raymond Whiteside, bareheaded, her white hair still coifed high, still undisturbed, go into the apartment house door. The cab which had brought her, which momentarily had stopped the Norths’ cab, pulled out.
“Jerry,” Pam said, and began to walk very rapidly toward the entrance. “Hurry.”
But the bill had been a five; the driver was slow with change. Pam, not hearing Jerry’s steps, stopped, turned back. “Oh,” she said. “Hurry!” Jerry hurried.
But when they were inside the lobby, Mrs. Whiteside was just closing behind her the door of the automatic elevator. As they hurried toward it, it started to ascend, the indicator above it moving slowly, majes
tically, toward the right of its arc.
There was another elevator. But the door was wedged open, the inner metal gate locked closed.
“Well have—” Jerry began, but Pam was already hurrying toward the stairs.
“No time,” she said. “Come on!”
Jerry North went on.
“What floor?” Pam called back, her heels clicking on metal treads of the fire stairs.
Jerry had remembered to look up the suite number before they left. He remembered it now.
“Five J,” he said. “My God!”
The stairs turned at a landing. The Norths climbed, Pam still leading. To Jerry, following, she seemed to be clicking as rapidly as ever. They reached another landing, this one with a door marked “2”—freehandedly, in white paint—and Jerry said, “Pam!” It was as much gasp as speech; the m-sound escaped in a small, helpless puff. Pam North kept on going. At the next landing Jerry gained a little; could almost reach out and touch her. But then the steps began again, and Pam still clicked brightly. What I need, Jerry thought, is—but then he found that even thinking in words winded him.
The third floor landing was crucial, Jerry decided. If he couldn’t reach her then, stop this mad clicking ascent, he would merely have to lie down and wait—wait presumably, until Pam, unconscious from her exertions, rolled down on top of him. And on the third floor landing, one hand reached Pam’s shoulder. She looked around; she was breathing quickly; her eyes were bright.
“Jerry!” she said. “Are you all right?”
Jerry held on; told her he was not all right; more by pushing than by directions he was able to gasp out, got her through the door into a third floor corridor. It took them a time, then, to find the elevator. But, pressed for, the elevator came almost at once, and almost at once carried them up. Jerry tried to tell Pam he had tried to tell her. For the most part, he devoted himself to breathing.
The elevator stopped and Pam popped out and said rapidly, “A-B-C-D-E-F-G—” She looked up and down the corridor. “This way,” she said, with enthusiasm and confidence, and started off. Jerry tried to ask her to wait a minute, and started after her.
He caught her standing in front of a door, looking at it. The door said “5-M.”
“A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J we’ve come too far,” Pam said, with great rapidity. “What comes before M? A-B-C-D—”
“For heaven’s sake,” Jerry said. “L.”
“What?” Pam said, in surprise. “Oh—I thought you said—”
“I know,” Jerry said. “Why do you go all the way through it each time?”
“I always do,” Pam said. “I have to get a running start. Otherwise—Jerry. We can’t just stand here! It must be the other way.”
She started off the other way. They went rapidly past the automatic elevator, which remained where they had left it. It seemed to Jerry North that, behind its glass-panelled door, the elevator was leering at them.
“A,” Pam said, looking at the first door. “Now we’re—” She started off without finishing. She reached the end of the corridor and “B” and turned sharply right.
“Pam,” Jerry said. “Wait a minute. We were right before. L next and then K and then—”
But Pam was going on, passing doors, saying in a low, hurried voice, “A-B-C-D-E—” After a time it was necessary to turn right again and then there were merely windows on their left and no doors of any kind. Pam stopped.
“They’ve run out!” Pam said. “This is the maddest thing, Jerry.”
“Go on,” Jerry said. “It runs around the elevator shafts, probably around a court. Only, if we’d gone down the alphabet instead of up.”
“What on earth?” Pam asked him.
It had sounded clear enough to Jerry when he said it; now he realized that it baffled explanation—that some time, in the quiet future, if they had one, it would continue to baffle explanation, that—in some strange and uncanny fashion—they had now, finally, managed to become hopelessly entangled in the alphabet.
“Go on,” Jerry said, and gave Pam a slight push. “It’ll be all right. Incidentally—where are we going? I mean, why are we going?”
“The dog wouldn’t have yelped,” Pam said. “It’s as clear as anything. Whimpered, maybe; even growled. His name didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Oh,” Jerry said. But Pam had started on.
“A-B-C-D-E—” Pam North said, came to the end of the corridor and turned sharply to the right. “Oh, good—F. A-B-C-D-E-F—”
“G-H-I—” Jerry said, entering into the spirit of it.
“So of course he was kicked,” Pam said, and then, suddenly slowing, suddenly making her voice small, “Here’s I.”
“Here’s—” Jerry began, and then said, “Oh, of course.” His voice, also, was lowered. Apartment 5-J was, clearly, next. Pam had stopped. She turned to Jerry, looked up at him. “You see,” she said, “Bill isn’t here. So—come on.”
She went on. As she pushed open the door of Apartment 5-J—pushed confidently, as if inevitably it would open—Jerry tried to get ahead of her. He did not succeed. But he went into the living room almost as she did, and stopped as quickly.
Pam North stopped because Mrs. Raymond Whiteside, still a dowager for dignity, her piled white hair still unruffled, was standing a little apart from the others in the room—from her husband, from Liza O’Brien, from Brian Halder, standing tall with his face darkly angry, near the small, frightened girl. Liza’s face was white, her eyes enormous; looking at her, one could see her trembling.
The three of them were gazing at Mrs. Whiteside who had in her right hand a rather substantial black automatic. The gun was incongruous in her hand; the lacquered nails ridiculous against its butt. As the Norths came in the two men looked at them quickly, startled, then back at Mrs. Whiteside. Liza did not seem to be looking at anything.
“Well,” Mrs. Whiteside said. “Really!” Her tone questioned the propriety, the good breeding, of so abrupt an entrance. She moved the automatic so that they would be sure to see it; would notice that they, too, were in its range.
“Well,” Mrs. Whiteside said, making no further comment on the Norths, “are you coming?”
It was difficult to tell which of the three she was addressing. She seemed to speak to all of those who had been in the room when the Norths entered.
“Barbara!” Whiteside said. His voice had risen almost an octave. “Barbara. You mustn’t try—”
“Be quiet, Raymond,” Mrs. Whiteside said. “There’s been enough of this. Are you coming?”
And now it was apparent that she was speaking not to Liza O’Brien, not to the tall young man who had, imperceptibly, moved closer to the girl, but to her husband. And it was apparent that the tension, the attention drawn remorselessly taut, was between the two.
Jerry felt a hand pressing hard against his side, making him move away from the door, and moved in response to the command, without finding it surprising, almost without knowing that he moved. He had eyes—they all had eyes—only for the slowly lifting automatic. And then—
Then Brian Halder moved suddenly, had Liza in his arms, whirled with her there so that his back was to the white-haired woman, his body between the girl and the gun. Liza started to scream as he touched her, then seemed to go limp in his arms. Then Raymond Whiteside, moving more quickly than seemed possible, lunged toward his wife, grabbing for her hand, for the automatic in her hand. He moved so rapidly that Mrs. Whiteside seemed only astonished; the expression on her face was, in the instant before he closed with her, began to struggle with her, one of unutterable surprise.
She did not seem to struggle, to make any great effort to retain the weapon. That Jerry North thought, as he moved again—was moved, this time by a strong hand against his shoulder, heard Bill Weigand’s voice say, loudly, “All right, drop it!”
But Whiteside did not seem to hear Weigand. He fought, with a kind of desperation, for the automatic in his wife’s hand and then, when it seemed he almost had the
gun free, it was discharged and the little room roared with the sound. He stepped back as his wife fell, let the automatic fall between them.
Then, almost at the same instant, he was on the floor beside Barbara Whiteside, saying her name over and over, his voice uncertain, anguished. For the first moments he was oblivious to everyone; then he looked up.
“Get someone,” he said. “For God’s sake—she didn’t mean—”
His suffering was terrible to watch, Pam thought. Whatever his wife had done, he had loved her. To have it end thus, so terribly, so differently than he had planned when he had risked his life to keep her from again—oh, Pam thought, we were such fools; so slow.
She touched her cheekbones with her fingertips, in an involuntary gesture, as if she were about to cry. She watched Bill move into the room, put a hand on the shoulder of the broken man. There was little, now, one could do for him, but Bill was doing all—
“Get up, Whiteside,” Bill Weigand said, and his voice was cold, without expression. “You can quit that now and get up.”
Raymond Whiteside turned, looked up at Bill Weigand.
“Right,” Weigand said. “That’s the way it is, Colonel. You’re all washed up. You can save this sort of thing for the jury.”
Raymond Whiteside’s face seemed slowly to gape open. And mine must be, Pam North thought, and the fingers of her left hand moved, of themselves, to touch her lips.
“Right,” Bill Weigand said again, and now he seemed to be lifting the substantial lieutenant colonel to his feet. “Halder—Sneddiger—perhaps your wife, Colonel. The attack on Miss O’Brien. It’s quite a list, Colonel.” Weigand put both hands on Whiteside’s shoulders and completed lifting him with a sudden jerk. “Get the hell out of the way,” Weigand said. “Let them get to her.”
But Mullins was already kneeling beside Mrs. Whiteside, working quickly, deftly. He looked up after a moment. “Maybe,” he said.
“I wonder if she’ll want to,” Bill Weigand said, slowly. “Come on, Whiteside. Let’s get going’.”
“Oh!” said Pamela North.