Sylvia King
Bertha Heilman
Esther Miller
Linda Regan
Betty Dokes
And every one but the last one, my own, was crossed off by a red line! Horrible mists from nowhere suddenly seemed to swirl around me, blotting out the room. I couldn’t see a thing. But I could hear — I could hear Ritchie’s voice coming through them! Vibrant, remorseless, inexorable: “The name of the last one was Linda Regan. Linda Regan. Linda Regan.” Booming like a fog-horn.
It was only when I was struggling to my feet again, picking myself up from the floor, that I realized I must have fallen to it without knowing it. But the mists were gone now, there was a diamond-like clarity to the air, that had invaded my faculties too. The faint, if it was a faint, had refreshed me; nature is kind that way. Not a shadow of a doubt remained. I knew the one, the only thing there was for me to do — and I knew how quickly it had to be done! I was whimpering aloud, “I’ve got to get out of here! Oh, let me out of here!” but that was only the nervous reaction to the shock, not helplessness. I knew enough not to waste a moment, a precious fraction of a second. Even though it meant tramping the sand-dunes in a silver evening-dress and high heels, even though the steak was already filling the kitchen with black smoke. No time, no time, no time! I had to get out of this house of death, back to where life was.
I fled from that room like one possessed, turned the corner into the hall, scampered down its dark length to the solid, oak-paneled front door, and as my face came flush with the diamond-shaped inset of thick glass set in the upper half of that — there he was out there, coming up toward the house in a straight line from the beach! Too late.
I screamed shrilly, unheard behind that thick door, and doubled back, like some silver-smooth little wild animal caught in a trap. There was no back door — I knew now that was one of his many reasons for selecting this house — but there were windows there I might climb out of, we were on the ground floor. Even as the thought occurred to me, I knew how futile it would be. There was nothing around the house to hide me, only sand. I could never reach the next house to ours in time, it was too far away. Even if I did, I might find it vacant. Or if it wasn’t, the people might refuse to interfere; he was my husband, how could I get them to take any stock in my story? No, he’d see me from where he was, in that flashing silver dress of mine, and only come after me, overtake me, drag me back inside again.
The clothes-closet door, standing ajar as I streaked past it, showed me where my only hope lay! I doubled back a second time, skidded and all but fell on the waxed floor, tore it open, snatched at the phone, and on my knees there, like someone saying their prayers, pleaded: “The St. Charles Hotel! The St. Charles Hotel! Life-and-death, no time for Information — you must know the number!”
Chapter VII
End of the Chase
The crack of the closet-door, which now stood out at right-angles to the wall, gave me a threadlike view of the front door. The diamond-shaped pane in that was already darkened by his looming head and shoulders, blotting out the twilight from outside. He was standing there on the other side of it, getting out his key.
She did know the number; I heard her say it to herself, and a second voice cut in: “Good evening, St. Cha—”
“Richard Dokes, quick, Richard Dokes!” I yammered. I was almost incoherent with terror by now. I had no presence of mind just when I needed it most. I should have relayed the message to the exchange operator while I still had time, instead of waiting on the line as though this was an ordinary call. Four words would have done it, “His sister wants him!” But his very nearness had robbed me of all reasoning power; in my panic, it didn’t seem enough to give a message to some anonymous girl, I wanted the sound of my brother’s voice.
The other’s key was scraping into the keyhole; I could hear the intermittent humming over the wire that showed they were ringing his room — unsuccessfully. It kept breaking off, but it went right on again each time. I shook the phone in despair, as though that would bring him on any quicker!
The key turned, clashed, the ponderous door heaved inward. He was a black silhouette against the dying day, and a long ominous shadow fell before him down the hall, almost to where I crouched half-concealed.
The door closed behind him. He was in, now. He could have heard me, now, even if Ritchie had answered; could make an end to me, now, long before Ritchie could get here. Too late for this too, now! I was doomed—
I breathed his name twice over, “Ritchie! Ritchie!” and then I put it down softly on the floor, just the way it was, and bit the back of my own hand, to keep back the scream that was pleading to burst from me.
“Betty,” he called in a honeyed voice, which only made my skin crawl and struck fresh terror to my heart, and then he whistled playfully for me. “Phzveet, hoo. Where are you?”
I was doomed, yes. I was cut off, both from escape and from any means of summoning help. The old Victorian phrase they used to use came to me, I was in his power, but I didn’t laugh. Would you have, in my place?
But there was just one dim ray of hope left for me. It pointed, not toward immunity but toward delay, postponement. If I didn’t let him see how frightened I was, it mightn’t happen right away, I might be able to gain a little time. But I saw clearly what this depended upon: he must not know that I already knew. If he found me cowering there in the closet, eyes dilated, he’d probably finish me off then and there. If I seemed to be still the same happy-go-lucky little sap he’d left in the house an hour ago, he might just possibly wait awhile, take his time. Might even let me live the night through, and in that case, in the morning maybe—
He put his key in the door a second time, on the inside, and locked it. Then I heard it hit a coin as it fell into the depths of his pocket. But hands clenched, steeling myself, fighting myself at every nerve, I was already rising shakily to my feet, like a ghost reborn from the shriveling terror that had consumed my former self. I was panting like something that has run for miles, nature trying to get enough air to my ticking heart. I knew just what sort of an ordeal I faced; this was going to be worse by far than any sudden physical onslaught from him could possibly have been. Just one slip, one momentary lowering of my guard, and — goodbye. But life is sweet. It seemed cheap even at the price I was willing to pay for just one hour more of it.
He took a step away from the door. I tottered around to the outside of the open closet-door, showed myself to him, swayed there briefly — then all at once was moving toward him erect, firm-footed, a gash on my face for a smile, arms out to meet his embrace. The closet-door folded shut behind him, with the slight backward push I’d given it, lest he look in and discover the telephone.
“Oh, there you are!” he beamed. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”
He meant — had I heard him lock the door on the inside?
“No,” I said, “I was hanging up some things in there—”
I stepped in between his arms; I felt them fold around my back like boa constrictors. My heart stopped, then went on again. “I must, I must,” I told myself, “I did this same thing when he left, didn’t I?” Our lips met; then he lifted me from the floor, held me there helpless in the air. I saw a funny light kindle in his eyes, not love or passion, something that distended the irises, like a tiger’s eyes in the dark. I never knew until then how much it could hurt to keep a steady smile on your face, looking down into twin pools of death from above. I could feel his breath hot on my throat, like invisible steam. The vise he was holding me in began to tighten—