When the hall door closed she crossed to the communicating door, almost convinced that she would find an empty room. She turned the knob. April was there, lying in the middle of another big bed, covered with an eiderdown. Only the top of her head showed, like a doll’s wig on the pillow. She left the door open and went back to the rocking chair. She watched the clock.
Mrs Fister’s clock was a parlour piece, of china and hand-painted roses. The gilt circumference was latticed, and threaded with red silk ribbon. The hands stood at nine.
Nothing can make me stay, she said over and over; nothing that anyone can do. Not even death can make me. I don’t know why I’m here, but I had to come. Everything I’ve done since yesterday I’ve had to do. But nothing can make me stay. In two hours it will be eleven. From eleven to twelve it won’t be safe. But after twelve—
She rocked and listened for sounds in the other room. There were none. She’ll sleep until morning, she said, and I’ll never see her again. Maybe next year—
She dozed in the chair and jerked herself awake. That was bad, she couldn’t afford to sleep, not yet. She smoothed the blue with careful hands that lingered over the stain. It’ll clean, she reminded herself.
Nine-thirty. Someone came down the hall and passed the door, singing softly. It was an elderly voice and the song was a hymn. Two more went by, walking heavily on stout shoes. The maids, she decided, back from the movies, the early show. The first one hadn’t made any noise walking. That would be bedroom slippers, going to the bath… She went to the communicating door, but April hadn’t moved.
Ten o’clock. She was beginning to feel cold, although the room was stuffy. Ten o’clock was getting on, but still it wasn’t late. She got up and stood by the hall door. When Mrs Fister returned she wanted to hear her coming. She wanted to be standing by the door, ready to run.
At ten-fifteen she heard the steps she’d been waiting for. She had the door open before Mrs Fister reached it.
“There was no trouble?” Mrs Fister asked.
“Oh no,” she said, edging forward.
Mrs Fister tried to take her arm. “If you’ll wait, I’d like to give you—”
“No, thank you. Goodnight.” She never did know what Mrs Fister wanted to give her.
Back in her own room she locked the door and turned on every light. The ceiling light, the desk lamps, the lamp between the two beds. They would shine from the window down into the courtyard, articulate in the night. They’d tell a watcher in another window that she was there. But she wouldn’t be; she’d be gone.
She put on her hat and coat and went to the bathroom, groping to the window in the dark. There she stopped. The window was open as she had left it, but it might as well have been barred. Rain fell steadily, striking the narrow, iron platform, rebounding from the glistening skeleton steps. She couldn’t believe it, and put out her hand to touch the dripping rails. Her hand slipped as if she had touched grease. I can’t do it, she said; I’d break my neck. Why didn’t I notice the rain before? Then she remembered how Mrs Fister’s window had been heavily curtained. And she hadn’t gone near her own. She looked at the brick walls facing the court. There were too many squares of uncurtained light. She could see into some of the rooms, and even name their occupants. The fire escape coiled against the wall like a black serpent, beautiful with treachery.
She retrieved her wet suitcase and went back to her room. Although her door was less than three yards away, she ran. By this time she was frantic, and she walked the floor until she was calm enough to plan again. The fire escape had been a bad idea in the first place. Dangerous. The main entrance was still hopeless; at ten-thirty the lobby and the lounge would be occupied. They were good places to sit if you were watching and waiting for somebody.
Maybe later, just before midnight, she could try it. They said Miss Plummer sometimes helped the girls. She could ask Miss Plummer to let her out because she had to mail an important letter. It meant leaving her suitcase behind, but that was a small price to pay. Am I making too much of this? she asked herself. And she answered quietly, No, you’re not. No, you’re not, and you know he won’t call now.
Ten-forty. Still too early. What will I do, she wondered, if Miss Plummer refuses? She might. And she might have to put my name on a list, like a time sheet, and when I don’t come back it might make trouble for her. But I can’t help that, not now. If she says yes, I’ll go. But if she says no?
If she says no, I’ll go early in the morning, as early as six. I’ll put the blue in my suitcase, and if anybody says anything I’ll say I’m taking it to the cleaner’s. They all saw me spill the tea. Then I’ll go to Blackman’s for one day only, so if anybody checks on me I’ll be there, and it’ll look natural. As if I meant to come back here tomorrow night. I won’t go back to the store again, ever, and I’ll lose a day’s pay, but what’s a day’s pay.
At eleven o’clock she was thirsty, so thirsty that thinking about the cold water in the bathroom was almost unbearable. Shining nickel taps, beaded with cold moisture. Was it safe to go out in the hall at eleven? She wet her dry lips and figured her chances in the hall. She was in a blind alley, a dead end. Packrooms to the right, fire door to the left. Beyond the fire door, the stairs and elevator. If someone came down the hall on the other side of the door, would she hear the steps in time? Then, as she visualised the hall and saw the door, the bath, and the packrooms, she saw something else. The telephone. Black, shining, beautiful. The telephone!
She was not cut off from the world, the city, or people. She was not dependent on the call that hadn’t come. She had only to lift her hand and speak and girls she didn’t even know would give her voice safe-conduct.
I don’t care if they do keep a record, she told herself, I’ve got to have help; and it’s Miss Plummer on the board now, Miss Plummer is all right.
The police? No, she knew the police. They would talk to her nicely. They might even send a radio car and talk to her in the lobby. They’d talk to other people, too, and smile among themselves, and tell her to get a good night’s rest. They might advise a sedative. A sedative, a good night’s rest in her room alone, and no morning to wake to.
She stumbled over to the door. Call somebody, call anybody, call him. Pocket your pride, pride isn’t anything. She held the door open with one hand and reached for the receiver. If Mrs Sutton hadn’t gone away, if Mrs Sutton had waited another day—It almost made her laugh to think of that. It was the scheme again, pushing her on. The destiny. But she didn’t laugh, because, if she did, she knew she’d never stop.
There were millions of people at the other end of the telephone. The whole world was at the other end. Paris, London, New York, San Francisco, Chicago.
She gasped. Chicago! She threw a triumphant look about her. The fire door showed a bland, unmoving surface. In the other direction the sliding doors of the packrooms were in shadow, but they were still. Chicago!
Miss Plummer’s voice was sleepy, but she didn’t sound surprised.
“Miss Plummer,” she whispered, “Miss Plummer, this is Ruth Miller. I’ve got to make a very important call. It’s long distance, Miss Plummer, but do I have to pay for it right away?”
Miss Plummer said the call could be charged, and there was a new interest in her voice. “Go right ahead, dear,” she said.
“It’s to a Mr Norman Crawford, person to person, please. In Chicago. I don’t know the number or the address, but he’s very prominent in Chicago and I know you can find him. A Mr Norman Crawford in Chicago, the one who used to know a Ruth Miller.”
Miss Plummer said, “I’ll try, dear. But you’ll have to speak up louder than that.”
She leaned against the wall, one hand still on the door. Mr Crawford would know what to do. He was the one who’d given her the money and told her to go away. He’d remember. He’d realise how bad it was. He’d call a lawyer or a friend in New York, he’d call at once and in no time at all it would be over.
She heard Miss Plummer speak to the oper
ator and then Miss Plummer said, “We’re trying, dear, but it may take a little while.” She pressed the receiver close to her ear and listened to the distant voices. Far away someone spoke a number. She let go of the door while she wrote the number on the telephone pad. It would be a good thing to have, she might need it again. She slipped the paper into her pocket and listened eagerly. Voices came and went, a voice that was New York, a voice that was Chicago. Behind them was a sound of humming. She called it singing, she called it a singing wire. It was like music. Everything was working for her, looking for Mr Crawford who was halfway across the United States of America.
A new sound joined the others, a low grinding sound like a metal wheel turning. She had begun to wonder about it when Miss Plummer spoke again.
“I think we’re ready, dear,” Miss Plummer said. “Just a second, dear. Hello, Chicago.”
The low grinding sound grew. There’s interference on the line, she thought. It’s got to stop or I won’t be able to hear. I’ve got to hear. “Miss Plummer?” she said. “There’s something on the line.” Then she remembered how clear Miss Plummer’s voice had been, even while the grinding sound went on.
That meant the sound was outside the telephone.
She fought paralysis and turned her head. The heavy fire door was opening slowly, inching open as she watched. Then it stopped. She flung herself into her room and locked the door.
All night she sat in a chair before the door, watching the knob. She talked aloud in a gay, clear voice, and answered herself in a lower key.
“I’m awfully glad you’re spending the night with me,” she said to the door. “It’s lonely without April.”
She murmured a reply, and went on with her bright chatter. She kept it up. Hope House was lovely, everybody was so kind, she wished she’d known about it before.
The bell rang and she let it ring. “We won’t answer that,” she declared. “We’re having such fun we don’t want anyone else!”
Miss Plummer would think she had given up. She talked on.
Downstairs in the lobby Miss Plummer put the board in order for the night. She had made a note of the Chicago number, and now she looked at it curiously. There’s no use in me trying again, she thought, she’s gone to bed or changed her mind. All that excitement for nothing, and she wouldn’t even answer the bell. Maybe it’s just as well, though, seeing as the gentleman’s down with the flu and can’t talk. Old beau, sure’s you’re born, had a quarrel and felt sorry for herself. Wanted to tell him so and then thought better of it… Miss Plummer fingered the locket at her throat. She folded the call slip and put it under Kitty’s blotter, in case it should be wanted.
Upstairs the doorknob turned. Ruth laughed gaily. “Oh, I’ve never been anywhere,” she said clearly. “I’m a native of Philadelphia. I lived there all my life until I came here last year.”
3
Moke and Poke sauntered to the section manager’s desk and checked in. Ruth was behind her counter, dusting stock and making requisitions.
“Good morning, Mrs Blackman,” Moke said. “I see you spent the night in the store.”
“Oh I felt like getting up early,” Ruth said. “It’s such a nice day.”
“It’s such a nice day if you got fish blood… What’s the matter? You still sick?”
“Not me! I’m on top of the world!”
She watched their shining heads disappear as they clattered down a flight of stairs at the end of the counter.
The day moved as slowly as the night. She scanned the faces of the shopping crowds and they were all strange. That was good. At noon she ate in the cafeteria and bought a sandwich to take out in her handbag. The way things are, she thought, I can’t really count on dinner.
Only one person had been in the lobby when she left at six-thirty, an elderly maid who was using a vacuum cleaner and who hadn’t even looked up. That was good too. But at four o’clock she began to worry. Suppose Moke and Poke waited for her at the employees’ door? What excuse could she give for not walking home? Suppose someone else was waiting too?
She closed her aching eyes. I’ll try the doctor again, she decided. I’ll put my pride in my pocket. And if he isn’t there I’ll go to the Travellers’ Aid. They helped me once before and I paid them back. I’ll ask Mr Benz for an early pass and tell him about seeing the doctor. He knows about my eyes, so I won’t have to argue. I’ll tell him I have an appointment for five o’clock. That will give me a good start.
Mr Benz was sympathetic. He told her he was glad she was doing something about her eyes. “You run right along,” he said, writing out the pass. “Do you want somebody to go with you? He may use drops, you know, and sometimes it’s hard to see with those drops.”
She thanked him and said she’d be all right. He was nice, they all were. She tried not to think of the next day and what he would say when she didn’t come back. I’ll write him, too, she promised herself, later, when I write to April and Moke and Poke.
Down in the locker room she collected her coat, hat, and good umbrella. Better leave the work shoes and old umbrella. It would look more natural if Moke and Poke came to find her. She got her suitcase from the parcel room, checked out with the doorman, and climbed the stairs to the street.
There was only one pedestrian on the street, a woman under a large umbrella, walking toward her. She started out, struggling with the suitcase and fighting the wind and rain. The woman ran into her and stopped to apologise.
“I’m so sorry—why, Ruth!”
It was Miss Brady.
“What are you doing out so early?” Miss Brady asked.
“I’m going to the doctor’s, about my eyes. It’s very important, so they let me off.” She tried to move on.
“I’ll go with you,” Miss Brady said. “Silly to go alone when you can have company. Where is this doctor? Near here?”
“Yes, Miss Brady, he’s quite near. I can go alone, I don’t mind.”
“I mind.” Miss Brady looked at the suitcase. “What’s that for?”
“I took my suit to the cleaner’s,” she said evenly. “My blue. I upset my tea, everybody saw me do it.” A cab cruised by and she raised her hand. It wouldn’t cost much for a block or two, she needn’t go all the way. “Taxi, please! I’ll see you later, Miss Brady.” She opened the door and pushed her suitcase in. “Over to Sixth,” she said.
Miss Brady got in with her.
“I think we’ll skip the doctor,” Miss Brady said. “This doesn’t strike me as the right time for it. You didn’t have an appointment, did you?”
She didn’t answer. Be careful, she told herself; let her think anything she wants to. Don’t give his address, you could be traced through that.
“No appointment,” Miss Brady agreed. “So if he doesn’t know you planned to come, you won’t be missed.” She gave the Hope House number to the driver, and leaned back. “That was quick thinking, that one about the doctor. Spur of the moment, or did you use it in the store to get away?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Brady.”
“Well, we won’t bother with that now.” She locked Ruth’s arm in hers.
The bell in the ceiling rang for dinner. This time she would eat. She used the stairs again, walking slowly, rearranging the hours ahead, dividing the night into minutes.
Miss Small had been at the desk when she and Miss Brady came in. Only Miss Small at the desk and Kitty behind the switchboard. It was still too early for the others. Miss Small had said something about the weather and told her the dining room would close at seven because of the party. She had looked at the suitcase and then at Miss Brady, raising her eyebrows.
I can be out of the dining room by six-thirty, she figured. Talk to April until seven, if April is around. My wool dress under the costume, no coat, no hat, no suitcase. This time, the police… Maybe the police would lock her up. No hat, no coat, in the driving rain, of course they’d lock her up. The costume thrown in a gutter somewhere, and she’d hate to do that. The long-slee
ved, shapeless garment was going to save her life. It was her only ally. Dozens of girls, all alike, all with identical faces; white sacks to cover tell-tale hair, thick white gloves to hide familiar hands. Rag dolls crowding and pushing, disguising their own voices, imitating each other. Out the front door, down the street, money pinned in her dress pocket.
She was the first girl in the dining room, and for some minutes she was alone. When her food came she ate quickly. The room was filling rapidly when she left. She walked upstairs and found April having milk toast on a tray.
“Mrs Fister brought it up herself,” April said. “She thinks I’m well enough to come back here. I was awfully sick but she says I can go to the party if I sleep first. So I’m going to sleep.” She put the tray on the floor and got under the covers. “Wake me up when it’s time to dress, will you, Ruthie?”
She sat by the window and watched the lights go on in the court rooms. Other girls had begun to dress. She could see them running back and forth, laughing.
At seven-thirty she woke April. April was noisy with excitement, clowning like a little monkey; she tried on Ruth’s mask and her own. “Now I look like everybody else,” she boasted. They rode down together in the crowded elevator, with four other dolls who posed and postured silently and threatened to fall.
The lobby was already filled. Someone had started the phonograph in the lounge and the dancing had begun. Miss Brady and Miss Small were wearing grey sharkskin suits, exactly alike. Miss Brady stood halfway up the stairs and watched the milling figures with a smile. Miss Small moved from doll to doll, making wrong guesses and leaving a trail of laughter when she moved on. Miss Plummer, railed in at desk and switchboard, looked harassed and pleased in wrinkled chartreuse satin. Mrs Marshall-Gill, in purple velvet with matching orchids, sat in a chair by the lounge door and bowed right and left, happily unaware of snubs. Dolls everywhere, leaning against each other, flopping, falling.
Dolls like herself, cut from the same pattern, identical. Someone brushed by and whispered, “Get a load of Fister guarding the punch.” Moke or Poke. They know me, she thought in a panic, but then she remembered Moke’s provident mole. Outside the dining-room door Mrs Fister loomed over the table that held the punch.
Death of a Doll Page 5