She looked all around him on the floor, her face inches away from the worn floor boards. There was a tiny, crushed, white thing there beside him. That was the cigarette he’d smoked before dropping off to sleep. She didn’t want that. Then she saw them. They were on the other side of him, in the narrow little lane left between his body and the door. Just a little fiat square, a folder, with white showing around the edges. He’d left them out. The little sack of tobacco that she’d seen him use, with a drawstring, that was buried somewhere in his rolled-up coat, underneath his head. She couldn’t get at that. But this was what she wanted; this was what she had to have.
Three times her arm reached out tremblingly, trying to arch over him and then go down on the inside, to reach it and gather it up. The angle was too severe, she couldn’t bend it right. And, quivering with fear, it was fractions of inches above his sleeping bulk, it was all but brushing against him. If he’d made the slightest move in his sleep... She tried again, this time hovering over him with her whole head and shoulder. Her fingertips touched it, drew it up. Then she almost lost her balance, for there was only one hand supporting her against the floor now while the other one was doing this. She could feel her taut muscles threatening to collapse, drop her flat on top of him. She writhed back and averted the toppling fall just in time, then had to stay there a moment and rest, huddled beside him. Then slowly she turned and trailed back again the way she’d come. Her door seemed far away, but finally she reached it, undetected. She crawled through and on the other side of it pulled herself up to a standing position once more. Then she softly guided it closed and leaned there on the inside with her head against it, exhausted.
In her hand she held a package of cigarette papers. That was all she’d wanted; that was all she’d gone out there to get, where death lay sleeping.
He kept reaching into his pockets all the time and bringing his hand out empty. “I thought sure I had some,” she heard him mumble. “I musta dropped ’em when I ran back here so fast to get in again.”
He’d forgotten about the one he’d rolled before falling asleep on the floor.
He started to walk back and forth, behind the windows with the shades carefully pulled down. She stood at the stove, with her back to him, appearing not to notice. She could wait. She had all day.
Finally he couldn’t stand it any more. “I’ve gotta have some cigarette papers or I’ll go crazy. Go out to the store and buy your groceries like you do, and slip in some. Tell them it’s for the old geezer, if they say anything.”
She’d been waiting for that for hours past. She moved unhurriedly toward the door, keeping her face averted, trying not to show too much eagerness.
Suddenly his hand fell heavily on her shoulder, pinning her where she stood. “Wait a minute.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do I know I can trust you? You warned me you’d be on their side if I came back here again...”
She stood there passive in his grasp.
Suddenly something seemed to occur to him. He grinned. “I’ve got it. Bring me that prayer book you’ve got in your room.”
She brought it.
He took it from her with a leer. “Now put your hand on this and take an oath that if I let you out of here you won’t open your mouth to anyone you meet, no matter who it is, cops or otherwise, about me being here. You’ll just buy your stuff and come straight back, without stopping.”
She could feel her heart dropping inside of her.
He packed a fist, backed it threateningly. “Go ahead, I say!” he growled.
She put her hand on the book and looked him unflinchingly in the eye. “I swear I won’t open my mouth to anyone about your being here. I’ll just buy my things and come straight back without stopping.”
“That’ll hold you.” He pitched the book aside. “I know you. You’re strict about religion and stuff like that.”
She moved quietly to the front door and stood there waiting. He came after her and freed the bolt, with his other hand on his gun. She stepped out, and he closed it behind her again. She walked slowly up the street, shopping basket on her arm, just as she did other days at this same hour. She rounded the corner and was out of sight of the house, but even then she didn’t hurry. She went up a block the other way and into the store she always dealt at.
There were two men standing at the counter talking to the proprietor when she came in. They weren’t buying anything; they were just standing there talking in low voices, as though they were asking questions. She’d never seen them before. They were both in ordinary clothing, but there was something keen and piercing and police-like in the stares with which they turned to greet her. They looked like professional hunters of men.
One of them signaled permission to the proprietor, and he sidled over to wait on her, while they stayed where they were, waiting for him to finish.
“Morning, Mrs. Collins,” he greeted her.
She spoke more loudly than she usually did, in a voice that carried from end to end of the store. “..and a can of soup. And — oh yes — a package of cigarette papers.”
The storekeeper chuckled. He had to have his little joke.
“Don’t tell me you’ve taken to rolling your own, Mrs. Collins!”
“No, of course not,” she answered with quiet dignity.
His smile faded and a look of surprise appeared on his face, as an afterthought. “Come to think of it, I didn’t know Mr. Davis smoked either. First time I ever heard of it. I always understood he was an abstainer—”
“He is,” she said in a clear ringing voice. “He never touches it.”
The storekeeper scratched the back of his neck. “Then if he doesn’t, and you don’t... Who else is there in the house but you two?”
She didn’t answer that. She didn’t have to. She turned and stared hard at the two men further along the counter, who were drinking in every word. They stared back at her equally hard.
Suddenly they both moved swiftly, brushed past her on their way out of the store and into the street. She heard a whistle blow faintly somewhere off in the distance while she was waiting for the storekeeper to wrap her purchases. Heavy footsteps sounded, running back and forth along the board sidewalk out there, but she didn’t turn to look.
When she emerged herself a minute or two later, a detaining hand fell on her shoulder. One of the two men who had just been inside the store was standing out there. “You better wait here until it’s over,” he said to her. “You better not go right back there. You might get hurt, Mrs. Collins.” He seemed to know her name and to know where she lived. She didn’t answer him. He must be a detective, and she’d taken an oath not to open her mouth to any of them. A vow was a vow; that was what made you different from murderers and criminals — your obligation to keep your word once you’d given it. Even if it was to one of them you’d given it.
He called the storekeeper outside and turned her over to him. “See that she stays here for the next couple minutes, will you? There’s liable to be some trouble, down there around the corner—”
There were some men down there at the corner. They were acting strangely. They were moving forward one behind the other, close up against the wall. They were moving forward half-crouched, as if they were getting ready to spring. He went down and joined them.