"Go ahead," said the woman harshly, as if she washed her hands of the whole thing.
"Oh, thank you."
"Don't mention it"
The door drew shut slowly. Tyl thought, She'll go to a window. She's watching, remember.
Slowly, she went across the narrow strip of lawn and peered on the ground along the edge of the border of mock orange and straggly overgrown lilac and shabby privet. She bent her head to appear to look at the ground, but her eyes were directed higher.
She looked up under her brows to inspect the shabby white frame house, so near, actually, in distance, although the fact of the shrubbery border set it apart from where she stood. There was only a driveway and then a narrow strip of ground with rhododendrons,
and then the white house wall, the stone foundation.
Shades were drawn in the stingy bay of the front room on this side. The next window was high—on the stairs, probably. Two windows farther back would be the kitchen, and that would be dangerous.
She stepped within the shrub border, moving slowly, stirring leaves and sticks with her foot, but watching next door. She was disappointed. There really was no way to see in from this side. The bay was high and the shades were drawn close. She wouldn't dare
to try to see into the kitchen, and besides, it was too high. The stair window would be no good at all without a ladder. In the stonework, however, below, there was a little window, down back of the rhododendrons.
She thought, So my little boy's ball might have gone into the rhododendrons. Mightn't it? Do I dare? She thought, I must. They won't see me. Nobody sits on the stairs. The kitchens too far back.
She went stooping through the shrubs, crossed the invisible boundary line between the lots, moved quietly across the hard-surfaced driveway, kept her head down, kept her movements tentative, groping, wandering, but edging herself to that cellar window.
Francis was lying on his right side now. When Mrs. Press had brought him food, he had wiggled around. She had crouched over him, feeding him carelessly, not caring much whether he got the food in his mouth or on his vest. His mouth was stiff and sore. It was agony to try to eat, but he did try. He didn't speak to the woman. She didn't speak either. He felt about her as he might have felt about a sleeping dog. He didn't want to awaken her to being aware of him. He wanted her to feed him carelessly, as if it were only another chore. He didn't want that look back in her eye. So she had put the gag back in efficiently and gone away, and now he was lying on his right side, which was a change.
Press himself had not been down. If only Press could be reached. What if he knew that Grandy, too, was a murderer already? For Press was a murderer already and Grandy knew it. That much was clear to Francis now. Press was one of the unsuspected, perhaps the one the old man had in his mind that day on the radio. That was why he had to do what Grandy said.
But what if Press knew they were even? Would he obey then? If only Press could be told. But how, even if the man did come, could Francis explain all this, lying, as he was, speechless and gagged? The light was flickering.
What light? Daylight. That was the only light at all. Murky daylight from the dirty little window, and it flickered. He rolled his eyes. He saw a hand on the glass. Someone was crouching down outside the window, trying to see in. He lifted both heels from the
cement floor and dropped them with a thud. He did it again. Again. The fingers curled. They tapped twice. He made the thud with his heels twice. He nearly choked, forgetting to breathe.
The fingers went away and came back. They expressed emotion, somehow. Whoever it was knew now. He could make out the shadows of arm movements. Fur. A woman.
The little window was nailed tightly shut.
Outside, Mathilda crouched behind the rhododendrons. She couldn't see clearly at all, only the barest glimpse of a bare floor where a little light fell. The window was too dirty. The place inside too dark.
But she had heard. She had signaled. She had been answered. The little window was locked tightly, nailed shut. She took off her shoe and struck the glass with the heel. It tinkled on the floor inside, so faint a sound she was sure it couldn't have been heard. She put her mouth up close to the opening, "Francis?"
Francis strained at the gag. His throat hurt with the need to answer. He tapped with his heels. It was all he could do.
"Francis? Can you hear?"
Tap again. Raise your ankles and let the heels fall.
"Can't you talk?"
Tap again. Tap twice.
"Tap twice for 'no,'" she whispered. "Once for yes.'"
He didn't tap at all.
"Can't you talk?"
He tapped twice for "no."
"But you're Francis?"
He tapped once for "yes."
"Thank God!" she said. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"What shall I do?"
No taps. How could he answer?
"Can I get in?"
"No."
"I'd better go for help?"
"Yes."
"Are you in danger?"
"Yes." Oh, Mathilda, so are you. Go away, quickly. All he could do was tap once for "yes."
"I'll get help. I'll get the police."
"Yes!"
Tyl, he wanted to cry, don't get Grandy. Of all people, keep away from him. Don't even tell him you've found me. Tyl, if you really do thank God, then hurry. Go to the police, the public authorities, to someone safe. Go away now, before that woman sees you. Go
silently. Don't run yourself slam bang into danger. Don't run. Oh, Tyl be careful. Take care of yourself.
“I'll hurry," she said. He had an illusion that she'd heard him thinking. He raised his heels, tapped "yes."
"Don't worry," she said.
He couldn't answer that one. Worry! God, would he worry. Oh, clever Tyl. She'd followed the trail. She d found it. But he couldn't talk, he couldn't warn her, he couldn't say— If only she would go now, silently, quickly, straight to the public authorities. If only he
could have told her so.
There was hope now—too much hope. It was terrifying. Hope and fear. He was afraid for her. He almost wished she hadn't found him. He rolled his head on the floor painfully. He groaned beneath the gag. He almost wished for the peace of hopelessness.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mathilda went back through the shrubbery border. She stooped once, remembering, and pretended to pick up something, in case the woman next door should still be at a window somewhere.
Then she let herself move faster, went out onto the lawn and the street. She walked a little way. Then she began to run, gasping, heart pounding. Only get far enough away and then find a telephone. She was a little deaf and blind with excitement and haste. She didn't see or hear the rattling old car until it honked a surprised little squawk at her and pulled up at the curb. "Tyl! Tyl!" Her body didn't want to stop running. She had to will the brakes on.
"Tyl, what is the matter? Darling!"
And there was Grandy, tumbling out of his car, fumbling at his pince-nez to keep them on. Dear Grandy! He would know what to do! She'd forgotten everything but that she was in haste and Francis must be saved, and here was Grandy, to whom she had told all her troubles all her remembered life.