They slowly melted into relaxation, each in the pose in which she had surprised them. The girl, with her back to the billboards, stayed that way, slumped a little lower, buckled at the knees now. He leaned deflatedly against a chewing gum slot machine at hand beside him. She could almost see the recent fell purpose oozing out of him at every pore. Finally he turned away from his nearness to her with a floundering movement. Nothing had been said, the whole thing had been in pantomime from beginning to end.
That would never come again. She had the upper hand once more.
The train came flickering in like sheet lightning, and they both boarded the same car, at opposite ends. They sat the full car length away from one another, still recuperating from their recent crisis; he huddled forward over his lap, she with her spine held convex, staring upward at the ceiling lights. In between there was no one but the colored girl, who continued to scratch at intervals and scan the station numbers, as though waiting to pick one at random to alight at.
They both left the car at the Twenty-Eighth Street station, again at opposite ends. He was aware of her coming down the stairs in his wake. She could tell that he was, although he didn’t look back. The inclination of his head told her that. He seemed passively acquiescent now to letting her have her way, follow him the short rest of the way, if that was her intent.
They both went down Twenty-Seventh Street toward Second, he on one side of the street, she on the other. He maintained a lead of about four doorways, and she let him keep it. She knew which entrance he would go into, and he knew that she knew. The stalk had now become a purely mechanical thing, with its only remaining unknown quantity the why. But that was the dominant factor.
He went in, was inked from sight, within one of the black door slits down near the corner. He must have heard that remorseless, maniacally calm tick-chick, tick-chick behind him on the other side of the street to the very last, but he refrained from looking back, gave no sign. They had parted company at last, for the first time since early evening.
She came on until she had used up the distance there had been between them, stood even with the house. Then she took up her position there, and stood in full sight on the sidewalk opposite, watching a certain two of the dozen-odd darkened windows.
Presently they had lighted, as in greeting at someone’s awaited entry. Then within a moment they blacked out once more, as if the act had been quickly countermanded. They remained dark after that, though at times the grayish film of the curtains would seem to stir and shift, with the elusiveness of a reflection on the glass. She knew she was being watched through them, by one or more persons.
She maintained her vigil steadfastly.
An elevated train wriggled by like a glowworm up at the far end of the street. A taxi passed, and the driver glanced at her curiously, but he already had a fare. A late wayfarer came by along the opposite side of the street, and looked over at her, trying to discern encouragement. She averted her face angularly, only righted it again after he was well on his way.
A policeman suddenly stood at her elbow, appearing from nowhere. He must have stood watching, undetected, for some little time before.
“Just a minute, miss. I’ve had a complaint from a woman in one of the flats over there that you followed her husband home from work, and have been standing staring at their windows for the past half hour.”
“I have.”
“Well, y’d better move on.”
“I want you to take hold of my arm, please, and walk me with you until we get around the corner, as though you were running me in.” He did, rather half-heartedly. They stopped again when they were out of sight of the windows. “Here.” She produced a piece of paper, showed it to him. He peered at it in the uncertain light of a near-by lamppost.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Homicide Squad. You can call him and check on it, if you want to. I’m doing this with his full knowledge and permission.”
“Oh, sort of undercover work, hunh?” he said with increased respect.
“And please ignore all future complaints from those particular people about me. You’re apt to get a great many of them during the next few days and nights.”
She made a phone call of her own, after he had left her.
“How is it working out?” the voice on the other end asked.
“He’s already showing signs of strain. He broke a glass behind the bar. He nearly gave in to an impulse to throw me off the elevated platform just now.”
“That looks like it. Be careful, don’t go too close to him when there’s no one else around. Remember, the main thing is don’t give him an inkling of what the whole thing’s about, of what’s behind it. Don’t put the question to him, that’s the whole trick. The moment he finds out what you’re after, it goes into reverse, loses its effect. It’s the not knowing that keeps him on edge, will finally wear him down to where we want him.”
“What times does he start out for work, as a rule?”
“He leaves the flat around five, each afternoon,” her informant said, as though with documentary evidence at his fingers to refer to.
“He’ll find me on hand tomorrow, when he does.”
The third night the manager suddenly approached the bar to one side of her, unasked, and called him over.
“What’s the matter, why don’t you wanna wait on this young lady? I been watching. Twenty minutes she’s been sitting here like this. Couldn’t you see her?”
His face was gray, and the seams were shiny. It got that way whenever he had to come this close to her now.
“I can’t—” he said brokenly, keeping his voice muted so that others wouldn’t hear it. “Mr. Anselmo, it’s not human — she’s torturing me — you don’t understand—” He coughed on the verge of tears, and his cheeks swelled out, then flattened again.
The girl, less than a foot away, sat looking on at the two of them, with the tranquil, guileless eyes of a child.
“Three nights she’s been in here like this now. She keeps looking at me—”
“Sure she keeps looking at you, she’s waiting to get waited on,” the manager rebuked him. “What do you want her to do?” He peered closer at him, detected the strangeness in his face. “What’s the matter, you sick? If you’re sick and want to go home, I’ll phone Pete to come down.”
“No, no!” he pleaded hurriedly, almost with a frightened sob in his voice. “I don’t want to go home — then she’ll only follow me along the streets, stand outside my windows all night again! I’d rather stay here where there are people around me!”
“You quit talking crazy, and take her order,” the manager said brusquely. He turned away, with a single verifying glance at her to confirm how well-behaved, how docile, how harmless she was.
The hand that set down the drink before her shook uncontrollably, and some of it spilled.
They neither of them said anything to one another, though their breaths all but mingled.
“Hello,” the station agent said friendlily through the wicket, as she came to rest just outside it. “Say, it’s funny, you and that guy that just passed through ahead of you always seem to get here at about the same time, and yet you’re never together. Did y’ notice?”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she answered. “We both come out of the same place, each night.”
She maintained contact with this shrine of his by resting the point of her elbow on the slab outside the wicket, as though there were some sort of protective virtue to be derived from the touch of it, while she chatted desultorily with him, whiling her train wait away, “Nice night, isn’t it?... How’s your little boy getting along?... I don’t think the Dodgers stand a chance.” Occasionally she would turn her head and cast a glance at the platform outside, where a lone figure paced, or stood, or was lost to view at times, but she never ventured out on it herself.