FOUR NOVELLAS OF FEAR: Eyes That Watch You, The Night I Died, You'll Never See Me Again, Murder Always Gathers Momentum

by Cornell Woolrich

  The barman saw the gesture, closed in on him with a grunted “I thought so!” that might have meant nothing or everything.

  He was no Burroughs to handle; he was an ox of a man. He pinned Paine back against the wall and held him there more or less helpless. Even so, if he’d only shut up, it probably wouldn’t have happened. But he made a tunnel of his mouth and bayed: “Pol-eece! Holdup! Help!”

  Paine lost the little presence of mind he had left, became a blurred pinwheel of hand motion, impossible to control or forestall. Something exploded against the barman’s midriff, as though he’d had a firecracker tucked in under his belt.

  He coughed his way down to the floor and out of the world.

  Another one. Two now. Two in less than an hour. Paine didn’t think the words; they seemed to glow out at him, emblazoned on the grimy washroom walls in characters of fire, like in that biblical story.

  He took a step across the prone, white-aproned form as stiffly as though he were high up on stilts. He looked out through the door crack. No one in the bar. And it probably hadn’t been heard outside in the street; it had had two doors to go through.

  He put the damned thing away, the thing that seemed to be spreading death around just by being in his possession. If he hadn’t brought it with him from Burroughs’ house, this man would have been alive now. But if he hadn’t brought it with him, he would have been apprehended for the first murder by now. Why blame the weapon, why not just blame fate?

  That money, all over the floor. He squatted, went for it bill by bill, counting it as he went. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty. Some of them were on one side of the corpse, some on the other; he had to cross over, not once but several times, in the course of his grisly paper chase. One was even pinned partly under him, and when he’d wangled it out, there was a swirl of blood on the edge. He grimaced, thrust it out, blotted it off. Some of it stayed on, of course.

  He had it all now, or thought he did. He couldn’t stay in here another minute; he felt as if he were choking. He got it all into his pocket any old way, buttoned it down. Then he eased out, this time looking behind him at what he’d done, not before him. That was how he missed seeing the drunk, until it was too late and the drunk had already seen him.

  The drunk was pretty drunk, but maybe not drunk enough to take a chance on. He must have weaved in quietly, while Paine was absorbed in retrieving the money. He was bending over reading the list of selections on the coin phonograph. He raised his head before Paine could get back in again, and to keep him from seeing what lay on the floor in there Paine quickly closed the door behind him.

  “Say, itsh about time,” the drunk complained. “How about a little servish here?”

  Paine tried to shadow his face as much as he could with the brim of his hat. “I’m not in charge here,” he mumbled, “I’m just a customer myself—”

  The drunk was going to be sticky. He barnacled onto Paine’s lapels as he tried to sidle by. “Don’t gimme that. You just hung up your coat in there; you think you’re quitting for the night. Well, you ain’t quitting until I’ve had my drink—”

  Paine tried to shake him off without being too violent about it and bringing on another hand-to-hand set-to. He hung on like grim death. Or rather, he hung on to grim death—without knowing it.

  Paine fought down the flux of panic, the ultimate result of which he’d already seen twice now. Any minute someone might come in from the street. Someone sober. “All right,” he breathed heavily, “hurry up, what’ll it be?”

  “Thass more like it; now you’re being reg’lar guy.” The drunk released him and he went around behind the bar. “Never anything but good ole Four Roses for mine truly—”

  Paine snatched down a bottle at random from the shelf, handed it over bodily. “Here, help yourself. You’ll have to take it outside with you, I’m—we’re closing up for the night now.” He found a switch, threw it. It only made part of the lights go out. There was no time to bother with the rest. He hustled the bottle-nursing drunk out ahead of him, pulled the door to after the two of them, so that it would appear to be locked even if it wasn’t.

  The drunk started to make a loud plaint, looping around on the sidewalk. “You’re a fine guy, not even a glass to drink it out of!”

  Paine gave him a slight push in one direction, wheeled and made off in the other.

  The thing was, how drunk was he? Would he remember Paine; would he know him if he saw him again? He hurried on, spurred to a run by the night-filling hails and imprecations resounding behind him. He couldn’t do it again. Three lives in an hour. He couldn’t!

  The night was fading when he turned into the little courtyard that was his own. He staggered up the stairs, but not from the two drinks he’d had, from the two deaths.

  He stood outside his own door at last—3-B. It seemed such a funny thing to do after killing people—fumble around in your pockets for your latchkey and fit it in, just like other nights. He’d been an honest man when he’d left here, and now he’d come back a murderer. A double one.

  He hoped she was asleep. He couldn’t face her right now, couldn’t talk to her even if he tried. He was all in emotionally. She’d find out right away just by looking at his face, by looking in his eyes.

  He eased the front door closed, tiptoed to the bedroom, looked in. She was lying there asleep. Poor thing, poor helpless thing, married to a murderer.

  He went back, undressed in the outer room. Then he stayed in there. Not even stretched out on top of the sofa, but crouched beside it on the floor, head and arms pillowed against its seat. The drums of terror kept pounding. They kept saying, “What am I gonna do now?”

  The sun seemed to shoot up in the sky, it got to the top so fast. He opened his eyes and it was all the way up. He went to the door and brought in the paper. It wasn’t in the morning papers yet; they were made up too soon after midnight.

  He turned around and Pauline had come out, was picking up his things. “All over the floor, never saw a man like you—”

  He said, “Don’t—” and stabbed his hand toward her, but it was already too late. He’d jammed the bills in so haphazardly the second time, in the bar, that they made a noticeable bulge there in his back pocket. She opened it and took them out, and some of them dribbled onto the floor.

  She just stared. “Dick!” She was incredulous, overjoyed. “Not Burroughs? Don’t tell me you finally—”

  “No!” The name went through him like a red-hot skewer. “I didn’t go anywhere near him. He had nothing to do with it!”

  She nodded corroboratively. “I thought not, because—”

  He wouldn’t let her finish. He stepped close to her, took her by both shoulders. “Don’t mention his name to me again. I don’t want to hear his name again. I got it from someone else.”

  “Who?”

  He knew he’d have to answer her, or she’d suspect something. He swallowed, groped blindly for a name. “Charlie Chalmers,” he blurted out.

  “But he refused you only last week!”

  “Well, he changed his mind.” He turned on her tormentedly. “Don’t ask me any more questions, Pauline; I can’t stand it! I haven’t slept all night. There it is; that’s all that matters.” He took his trousers from her, went into the bathroom to dress. He’d hidden Burroughs’ gun the night before in the built-in laundry hamper in there; he wished he’d hidden the money with it. He put the gun back in the pocket where he’d carried it last night. If she touched him there—

  He combed his hair. The drums were a little quieter now, but he knew they’d come back again; this was just the lull before the storm.

  He came out again, and she was putting cups on the table. She looked worried now. She sensed that something was wrong. She was afraid to ask him, he could see, maybe afraid of what she’d find out. He couldn’t sit here eating, just as though this was any other day. Any minute someone might come here after him.

  He passed by the window. Suddenly he stiffened, gripped the curtain. “What’s th
at man doing down there?” She came up behind him. “Standing there talking to the janitor—”

  “Why, Dick, what harm is there in that? A dozen people a day stop and chat with—”

  He edged back a step behind the frame. “He’s looking up at our windows! Did you see that? They both turned and looked up this way! Get back!” His arm swept her around behind him.

  “Why should we? We haven’t done anything.”

  “They’re coming in the entrance to this wing! They’re on their way up here—”

  “Dick, why are you acting this way, what’s happened?”

  “Go in the bedroom and wait there.” He was a coward, yes. But there are varieties. At least he wasn’t a coward that hid behind a woman’s skirts. He prodded her in there ahead of him. Then he gripped her shoulder a minute. “Don’t ask any questions. If you love me, stay in here until they go away again.”

  He closed the door on her frightened face. He cracked the gun. Two left in it. “I can get them both,” he thought, “if I’m careful. I’ve got to.”

  It was going to happen again.

  The jangle of the doorbell battery steeled him. He moved with deadly slowness toward the door, feet flat and firm upon the floor. He picked up the newspaper from the table on his way by, rolled it into a funnel, thrust his hand and the gun down into it. The pressure of his arm against his side was sufficient to keep it furled. It was as though he had just been reading and had carelessly tucked the paper under his arm. It hid the gun effectively as long as he kept it slanting down.

  He freed the latch and shifted slowly back with the door, bisected by its edge, the unarmed half of him all that showed. The janitor came into view first, as the gap widened. He was on the outside. The man next to him had a derby hat riding the back of his head, a bristly mustache, was rotating a cigar between his teeth. He looked like—one of those who come after you.

  The janitor said with scarcely veiled insolence, “Paine, I’ve got a man here looking for a flat. I’m going to show him yours, seeing as how it’ll be available from today on. Any objections?”

  Paine swayed there limply against the door like a garment bag hanging on a hook, as they brushed by. “No,” he whispered deflatedly. “No, go right ahead.”

  He held the door open to make sure their descent continued all the way down to the bottom. As soon as he’d closed it, Pauline caught him anxiously by the arm. “Why wouldn’t you let me tell them we’re able to pay the arrears now and are staying? Why did you squeeze my arm like that?”

  “Because we’re not staying, and I don’t want them to know we’ve got the money. I don’t want anyone to know. We’re getting out of here.”

  “Dick, what is it? Have you done something you shouldn’t?”

  “Don’t ask me. Listen, if you love me, don’t ask any questions. I’m—in a little trouble. I’ve got to get out of here. Never mind why. If you don’t want to come with me, I’ll go alone.”

  “Anywhere you go, I’ll go.” Her eyes misted. “But can’t it be straightened out?”

  Two men dead beyond recall. He gave a bitter smile. “No, it can’t.”

  “Is it bad?”

  He shut his eyes, took a minute to answer. “It’s bad, Pauline. That’s all you need to know. That’s all I want you to know. I’ve got to get out of here as fast as I can. From one minute to the next it may be too late. Let’s get started now. They’ll be here to dispossess us sometime today anyway; that’ll be a good excuse. We won’t wait, we’ll leave now.”

  She went in to get ready. She took so long doing it he nearly went crazy. She didn’t seem to realize how urgent it was. She wasted as much time deciding what to take and what to leave behind as though they were going on a weekend jaunt to the country. He kept going to the bedroom door, urging, “Pauline, hurry! Faster, Pauline!”

  She cried a great deal. She was an obedient wife; she didn’t ask him any more questions about what the trouble was. She just cried about it without knowing what it was.

  He was down on hands and knees beside the window, in the position of a man looking for a collar button under a dresser, when she finally came out with the small bag she’d packed. He turned a stricken face to her. “Too late—I can’t leave with you. Someone’s already watching the place.”

  She inclined herself to his level, edged up beside him.

  “Look straight over to the other side of the street. See him? He hasn’t moved for the past ten minutes. People don’t just stand like that for no reason—”

  “He may be waiting for someone.”

  “He is,” he murmured somberly. “Me.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “No, but if I put it to the test by showing myself, it’ll be too late by the time I find out. You go by yourself, ahead of me.”

  “No, if you stay, let me stay with you—”

  “I’m not staying; I can’t! I’ll follow you and meet you somewhere. But it’ll be easier for us to leave one at a time than both together. I can slip over the roof or go out the basement way. He won’t stop you; they’re not looking for you. You go now and wait for me. No, I have a better idea. Here’s what you do. You get two tickets and get on the train at the downtown terminal without waiting for me—” He was separating some of the money, thrusting it into her reluctant hand while he spoke. “Now listen closely. Two tickets to Montreal—”

  An added flicker of dismay showed in her eyes. “We’re leaving the country?”

  When you’ve committed murder, you have no country any more. “We have to, Pauline. Now, there’s an eight o’clock limited for there every night. It leaves the downtown terminal at eight sharp. It stops for five minutes at the station uptown at twenty after. That’s where I’ll get on. Make sure you’re on it or we’ll miss each other. Keep a seat for me next to you in the day coach—”

  She clung to him despairingly. “No, no. I’m afraid you won’t come. Something’ll happen. You’ll miss it. If I leave you now I may never see you again. I’ll find myself making the trip up there alone, without you—”

  He tried to reassure her, pressing her hands between his. “Pauline, I give you my word of honor—” That was no good, he was a murderer now. “Pauline, I swear to you—”

  “Here—on this. Take a solemn oath on this, otherwise I won’t go.” She took out a small carnelian cross she carried in her handbag, attached to a little gold chain—one of the few things they hadn’t pawned. She palmed it, pressed the flat of his right hand over it. They looked into each other’s eyes with sacramental intensity.

  His voice trembled. “I swear nothing will keep me from that train; I’ll join you on it no matter what happens, no matter who tries to stop me. Rain or shine, dead or alive, I’ll meet you aboard it at eight-twenty tonight!”

  She put it away, their lips brushed briefly but fervently.

  “Hurry up now,” he urged. “He’s still there. Don’t look at him on your way past. If he should stop you and ask who you are, give another name—”

  He went to the outside door with her, watched her start down the stairs. The last thing she whispered up was: “Dick, be careful for my sake. Don’t let anything happen to you between now and tonight.”

  He went back to the window, crouched down, cheekbones to sill. She came out under him in a minute or two. She knew enough not to look up at their windows, although the impulse must have been strong. The man was still standing over there. He didn’t seem to notice her. He even looked off in another direction.

  She passed from view behind the building line; their windows were set in on the court that indented it. Paine wondered if he’d ever see her again. Sure he would; he had to. He realized that it would be better for her if he didn’t. It wasn’t fair to enmesh her in his own doom. But he’d sworn an oath, and he meant to keep it.

  Two, three minutes ticked by. The cat-and-mouse play continued. He crouched motionless by the window; the other man stood motionless across the street. She must be all the way down at the corner by no
w. She’d take the bus there, to go downtown. She might have to wait a few minutes for one to come along; she might still be in sight. But if the man was going to go after her, accost her, he would have started by now. He wouldn’t keep standing there.

  Then, as Paine watched, he did start. He looked down that way, threw away something he’d been smoking, began to move purposefully in that direction. There was no mistaking the fact that he was looking at or after someone, by the intent way he held his head. He passed from sight.

  Paine began to breathe hot and fast. “I’ll kill him. If he touches her, tries to stop her, I’ll kill him right out in the open street in broad daylight.” It was still fear, cowardice, that was at work, although it was almost unrecognizable as such by now.

  He felt for the gun, left his hand on it, inside the breast of his coat, straightened to his feet, ran out of the flat and down the stairs. He cut across the little set-in paved courtyard at a sprint, flashed out past the sheltering building line, turned down in the direction they had both taken.

  Then as the panorama before him registered, he staggered to an abrupt stop, stood taking it in. It offered three component but separate points of interest. He only noticed two at first. One was the bus down at the corner. The front-third of it protruded, door open. He caught a glimpse of Pauline’s back as she was in the act of stepping in, unaccompanied and unmolested.

  The door closed automatically, and it swept across the vista and disappeared at the other side. On the other side of the street, but nearer at hand, the man who had been keeping the long vigil had stopped a second time, was gesticulating angrily to a woman laden with parcels whom he had joined. Both voices were so raised they reached Paine without any trouble.

  “A solid half-hour I’ve been standing there and no one home to let me in!”

  “Well, is it my fault you went off without your key? Next time take it with you!”

  Nearer at hand still, on Paine’s own side of the street, a lounging figure detached itself from the building wall and impinged on his line of vision. The man had been only yards away the whole time, but Paine’s eyes had been trained on the distance; he’d failed to notice him until now.