Disappointment so bitter that it was sour in his mouth overwhelmed him and he dropped back on the couch numbly. The table, too, was bolted down. It was an hour before he remembered the water pitcher, and then he had dost an hour’s worth of the water.
He had nothing to make a noise with. Nothing to use as a tool. The skylight was many feet above his head, and just barely open, even if he had anything to throw through it. He checked it off, mentally.
Slowly it became apparent to him that Morton had thought of every action he might try.
Then he really began to feel frightened. Until now he had felt chiefly bewilderment and anger. Now fear replaced these emotions.
What was Morton up to?
When would Morton come back?
In an effort to quiet his fears He stared at the television set. Program gave way to program, all of them peopled by clean, smiling people who looked well groomed even when they wore Western clothes and shot at each, other. When a program ended he could not remember what it had been about.
At last even the television ceased to live. The screen became a flickering white blank. The room was lit only by the glow from the picture tube. Then at last Davis slept. While he slept, a concealed peephole in the door slid silently back and Morton looked at him and then silently withdrew.
He slept late the next morning and woke hungry and thirsty. His leg hurt. For a moment he lay half asleep, half awake, wondering where he was. Then recollection returned and he sat up.
Nothing had changed. A pint of water had accumulated in the plastic pitcher. The television set was presenting an interview between a chatty woman with prominent teeth and a tweedy man who had written a novel.
Davis reached for the water, then stopped. Instead he ate some bread. Five or six slices. Then he drank, letting himself swallow only half the pint.
He judged that the dripping of the water was timed so that: about a quart a day accumulated.
He studied the tank from which the rubber tube ran. It held perhaps seven or eight gallons. Did it hold — thirty quarts? Thirty quarts of water — thirty loaves of bread. Thirty days!
Dear God, did that mean Morton would not return for thirty days? Or did it mean—
Davis started to scream, and shouted and yelled for half an hour before he collapsed, exhausted.
But no one came. He tried shouting for help again that evening. Still no one came.
No one came the next day.
Nor the day after. Nor the day after that did anyone come to the air-conditioned dungeon at the top of a luxury apartment building in a great modern city, where Davis was chained to the wall by his ankle...
The small man in the gray suit glanced at his watch and stood up.
“I have to catch a plane,” he said. “Hope I haven’t bored you.”
“Wait!” I said. “What happened?” He shook his head slowly.
“I really can’t say. I suppose after thirty days the water stopped. And of course the bread must have been gone. Then—” He shrugged.
“But—” I began, and stopped.
“No one has entered that room for two years,” the grey man said. “The bills are all paid promptly by a lawyer and the superintendent and the rental agent get annual Christmas remembrances from the same source. They understand that Morton is in Europe and may be gone several years more. They don’t mind, as long as the rent is paid. Of course, some day the apartment will be entered. It may be years, however, unless Morton decides to stop paying the rent.”
He glanced at me from the corners of his eyes.
“It would be interesting to know what the men who finally enter that studio room make of what they find,” he said, and turned toward the door. “I don’t imagine they will find any clews to Morton’s true identity, nor to Davis’ either.”
Then he smiled and went out. I stared after him stupidly for a moment, then ran out to the street after him. But he was gone, lost in the crowd of passersby.
I stood for a moment looking up. For blocks in all directions tall buildings loomed around me, many of them with penthouses. And this was only one of at least eight large cities within a two-hour plane ride.
I went back into the bar and asked the bartender if he knew the man I had been talking to. But the small man was a stranger who had never been in there before.
Another Chance for Sally
by James M. Ullman
The term juvenile delinquent is a general one, applied to those whose behavior troubles their elders... yet for misbehaving adults no such all-embracing phrase has yet been coined.
Juvenile Officer McMahon telephoned me at the recreation center.
“Pat,” he said glumly, “it’s Sally again.”
“What’s she done this time?”
“She was with three boys who roughed up the manager of a ten-cent store. He caught them shoplifting. We’ve got her at the precinct.”
“Thanks, Dan.”
“We can’t keep her out of court for this sort of thing forever, you know,” he added wearily, hanging up.
I waited a moment and then called my wife.
“Hello, hon. Listen, Sally’s in jail.”
“What for?”
“Same as last time. Hanging around with the wrong friends.”
“Oh, Pat. I think it’s hopeless. That makes four times in the last year. She’s absolutely unmanageable.”
“We’ve got to give her another chance,” I argued. “Any kid who went through what Sally did is bound to be a little haywire. If people like us aren’t willing to help her, she’s lost.”
“All right,” my wife said slowly. “If you say so.”
“Just remember,” I went on. “It isn’t every child that’s orphaned by an axe murderer.”
I left Bill Barlow in charge of the Center. The Welfare Agency had hired him right out of college the year before. Like me, Bill came from this neighborhood, a near-slum inhabited mostly by families of very modest means. That’s the way our agency operates. We want workers who are known and respected by the kids we’re trying to help. Bill had been an all-city halfback, a neighborhood hero, while in high school, and he could get tough kids to confide in him in a way no outsider ever could. I had pitched for the Dodgers once, and that didn’t hurt my standing any either.
I walked the six blocks to the police precinct. It was a hot, humid day, with a layer of muggy clouds throttling the city. On a day much like the one, two years earlier, Sally’s father and stepmother had been hacked to death, when the thick, stifling air could fray even a placid man’s temper and turn anger into blind rage.
Dan McMahon, burly and stoops shouldered and wearing civilian clothes, lounged beside the Sergeant’s desk, his lined face reflecting years of disillusionment in trying to keep kids out of trouble. But for my benefit, he managed a kindly smile.
“Hello, Pat. She’s in the conference room.”
I started toward the back of the station. Then McMahon put a hand on my arm.
“Just a minute. She’s not alone.”
“Who’s with her?”
“That newspaper reporter. Jake Greb. He was here when we brought her in.”
“Great,” I snapped. “That’s all she needs. Somebody trying to get her to talk about the murders at a time like this.”
I brushed by McMahon and strode to the conference room. Greb was there, all right. A pot-bellied little man wearing an ancient Palm Beach suit. The suit didn’t fit him very well and was unpressed and spotted. He looked up and frowned.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said brusquely, “but the interview is over.”