And the feeling, the bad dreams? They didn’t mean a thing, baby. Just nerves, like battle fatigue. Then Hank had chattered away glibly about the mental reactions of the boys in the service. It made Lois feel better to realize that she wasn’t going crazy after all, that other people had felt this way.
Then Hank began to talk about Melissa, about his plan for a little accident that might happen to her at their summer cottage, when summer came.
It didn’t sound bad to Lois. It wasn’t any worse than the talk about Merton had been. They weren’t people to her. They were just cardboard figures who had to be pushed out of the way before she could have what she wanted.
She felt hopeful, very much herself, after Hank left. She sat there in her ice-green dress with the full skirt and continued to drink highballs in slow sips. Hank had advised that, too.
Get sleepy, baby. Scotch is better than a pill. You need a good night’s rest. You’ll get it, if you just listen to old Doc Hanky-Panky!
It was working. She was getting pleasantly numb, and the tight, drawn feeling across her shoulders was beginning to go away. The past days seemed like a nightmare that had never happened.
Then, at midnight, she heard it. The stealthy turning of her doorknob, a faint sound that was more ominous because of its quietness.
Her stomach quivered; the tight steel bands jumped across her shoulders again. She crept on tiptoe into the reception hall, in a panic to see if she’d remembered to slide the bolt after Hank left. They’d been drinking a lot. Had she forgotten? Oh, dear Lord! The bolt was tight — she’d have to wiggle it to get it across...
A board creaked under her own foot and her heart began to pound against her ribs, choking her.
But the bolt was fastened. She had remembered! She stood there trying to keep still, and her heart kept pounding. She could see the knob on the inside twisting, ever so slowly. Then she saw the lock give, heard the door being pushed inward. The steel bar stopped it, and she stared at the little quarter item in fascination, telling herself that it would hold, that Joe couldn’t get to her.
The knob twisted again and the lock clicked back into place. Then there was a soft tapping on the panel. Fingers drummed enticingly, saying:
Wake up, Lois. Wake up gently and come to the door, still half-asleep, and let me in before you realize what you’re doing. This is a lover’s knock, like a pebble thrown at a window. Come and open the door, thinking it’s a pleasant rendezvous. This is a friendly sound, Lois.
That’s what the softness of the knock was saying to her. She felt like screaming at the hidden figure on the other side of the door. Just a panel between them! A painted gray panel between her and the death she had been waiting for...
Chapter Three
Dress Up for Death!
At last the knocking stopped, and the shadow that had been across the crack of light, between the door and its frame, moved silently away.
She touched the bolt with damp fingers, like a religious person touching a holy relic in gratitude. Then she went back to the living room and sank into a chair, pressing her hands over her heart, as if holding it would quiet the violent pounding.
Joe had made it to her apartment. Joe had come, as she had known he would. Joe wasn’t as stupid as Hank thought he was!
She went to the front windows and stared down at the street, turning out the lamp so she couldn’t be seen looking through the slats of the Venetian blind.
There was a couple, parked in a car across the street, saying good night the long way. There was the usual traffic. There was a man walking a dog.
Then he came out of her building and stood there like anybody else, waiting for a break in the stream of cars, so he could get to the other side of the street.
He dipped his head into cupped hands to light a cigarette, then threw the match aside and looked up briefly at the windows. She drew back instinctively, even though she knew he couldn’t see her.
Joe Hilton! She’d know the tilt of his shoulders from any angle, the audacious shape of his jaw.
She watched until he walked on down the next cross street into the darkness.
What now? What was his next move? That brief, backward glance at her window had seemed to say: Don’t go away, Lois. I’ll come again.
He knew about the bolt now. Did he also know some trick of the trade for breaking it? Had he gone off after some tool that he needed, with some plan for a second try?
She left the windows and crossed the room to the phone, staring at it. She turned the lights back on. She felt better in the light.
She could call the police. She could tip them off and they’d have him in ten minutes. But she wasn’t supposed to be mixed up with Joe Hilton. They would ask questions.
How did she know Hilton was the man she saw? What had Hilton been to her? Where had she gotten the mink coat in her closet? If Hilton took the risk of gunning for her, there must be a reason for his grudge. What’s Hilton got against you, lady? Maybe we ought to check and see just where you fit into the pictures Hilton drew at prison.
She backed away from the phone, her face pale, just as though the instrument had barked out the questions she didn’t want to answer.
She couldn’t call the police!
But she couldn’t stay here and wait for Joe to come back and break the bolt, either! Joe had looked so solid, so sure of himself down there in his stolen clothes. Joe was coming back; his eyes had flicked the message up to her. Joe had gone through a lot to get here. He wouldn’t give up now.
It was one in the morning when she looked up Hank’s number. She’d never called him at home before. He would be in bed, asleep probably. He would be with Melissa.
Well, let Melissa find out! So what? Her days were numbered, anyway. And let Hank be angry. What did she care? She certainly wasn’t going to stay here and be caught by a fool of a convict with murder in his heart. She wasn’t going to bet her life on a quarter bolt, when Joe had gone off to manage a way of breaking it!
She dialed and a woman answered.
“Mr. Irby, please.” She remembered to make it sound cold, crisply businesslike.
The reply was even colder.
“I’m sorry. He has retired. Is there any message?”
Damn her, anyway! Who did she think she was? Mrs. Henry Irby. Ha! Mrs. Corpse next summer, that’s who she was! She felt secure tonight, didn’t she? My big, strong man has gone to sleep, but anything you have to say to him, you can say to me. Any message? That was a laugh.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Irby tonight,” said Lois firmly. “It’s very Important.”
“I’m sorry,” Melissa persisted.
Then Lois could hear steps. She heard Hank say: “What’s wrong, darling?” It sounded just the way it sounded when he said it to her.
“Just some woman for you.” Melissa gave a twist to that as she said it, implying that it would be a horrible bore for Hank. There was an intimacy in her voice that infuriated Lois. There was a cozy, possessive quality in the statement that seemed to stem from perfect understanding.
“Well, you run along and get comfy, sweet. I’ll see what it is. Secretary must be in a jam, or something.”
The receiver barked as it changed hands and Lois heard a sound that might have been a kiss. Then she heard Hank saying, smooth as sint: “Yes? This is Mr. Irby.”
“No kidding! Well, this is your secretary, Mr. Irby. Just calling to find out how things are, Mr. Irby. And I must say, Mr. Irby, that things seem quite lovey-dovey at your end... Has that old crow left the room yet?”