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Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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to come when it’s safe.” He added, “It had better be when you’re here. I’m not opening up today.”
She nodded. He stood hidden behind the door while she opened it. She picked up the morning paper, handed it in to him. She said, “Stay in bed.”
The door closed at once, closed tight. She rang for the elevator. The day operator was a small dark man, a paid performer not a friend. She wouldn’t have to explain to Richards and Franz. They’d believe Gavin left after they went off duty. Late as that had been. She said, “Good morning, Clarence.”
He returned, “Good morning.”
There were no questions. The day doorman was another uniform, correct, detached. He said, “Good morning, Miss Williams.”
“Good morning, Davis.” The rain poured down this second day, flat, leaden rain. And in the Park on a bench facing the house sat a man. She drew back from the door. “I believe I’ll take a cab, Davis. Do you think you could get me one?”
“Yes, Miss Williams.”
He stepped out under the canopy. She saw his mouth shaped in a whistle. It might take a few moments but there were always cabs near the Square. She didn’t want to pass that rain-drenched shape on the Park bench.
A yellow cab was brightness at the curb. She ran out, called, “You’re wonderful, Davis,” as she climbed in.
The driver remarked paternally, “Late again?”
She saw his name card, Tomasi. A square yegg-like face. She’d ridden with him before. Frequently, those first weeks of work when she overslept.
She settled back. “No one should have to go to work in such filthy weather.”
The cab turned at the northwest corner. She glimpsed the man on the bench. He hadn’t moved.
“It makes the trees to grow,” Tomasi informed her. “And all the green things we eat. And the flower carts. You hadn’t ought to gripe about rain.”
“If I were a cab driver I wouldn’t.” She lit a cigarette, relaxed. They were out of the Square, heading up Fifth. She could relax. For these few safe moments with Tomasi.
As he jockeyed past a lumbering bus, she pushed out the cigarette in the ashy container. That man on the bench wasn’t watching for her. She wasn’t known in this; she was accidental. It was Gavin he was waiting for. Gavin knew; he’d seen from the window. As long as the man was rooted on the bench, Gavin couldn’t come out. Not until he was able to protect himself.
The driver turned east on Forty-sixth street, north again on Madison and stopped in front of her office building. She paid him, said, “You’re a life saver, Tomasi. I’m not terribly late. And I’m dry as Sahara.” She didn’t put up her umbrella for the swift cross into the building. Waiting for the elevator, she had almost unbearable reluctance to go up to the office. It wasn’t fear. This wasn’t last night; it was today. The building was modern as antisepsis. Danger couldn’t be lurking in the upper corridor, in the office luxury of Bryan Brewer.
It wasn’t fear, it was an unwillingness to face Bry, to be questioned by him. To lie to him. Because she couldn’t answer his questions. Because she had no intention of allowing Gavin Keane to see him until she and the Imp were safely away.
She walked forward up the twelfth floor corridor to the chaste lettering on the opaque window. Bry was there before her, the door was unlocked.
He lunged up from where he was sitting in her chair at her desk. He said, “You’re late. I was afraid something had happened to you.”
He didn’t look as if he’d been to bed. His hair was in place but there was weariness under his eyes, his jaw was shadowed.
She said, “I’m always careful crossing streets,” as if that interpretation were the right one. “It was raining so hard I waited for a cab.” She hung her coat, hat and umbrella. The routine of a secretary. She closed the closet, came casually to her desk. She could maintain the pose but it wasn’t easy in the face of his penetration.
He asked,
She nodded. He stood hidden behind the door while she opened it. She picked up the morning paper, handed it in to him. She said, “Stay in bed.”
The door closed at once, closed tight. She rang for the elevator. The day operator was a small dark man, a paid performer not a friend. She wouldn’t have to explain to Richards and Franz. They’d believe Gavin left after they went off duty. Late as that had been. She said, “Good morning, Clarence.”
He returned, “Good morning.”
There were no questions. The day doorman was another uniform, correct, detached. He said, “Good morning, Miss Williams.”
“Good morning, Davis.” The rain poured down this second day, flat, leaden rain. And in the Park on a bench facing the house sat a man. She drew back from the door. “I believe I’ll take a cab, Davis. Do you think you could get me one?”
“Yes, Miss Williams.”
He stepped out under the canopy. She saw his mouth shaped in a whistle. It might take a few moments but there were always cabs near the Square. She didn’t want to pass that rain-drenched shape on the Park bench.
A yellow cab was brightness at the curb. She ran out, called, “You’re wonderful, Davis,” as she climbed in.
The driver remarked paternally, “Late again?”
She saw his name card, Tomasi. A square yegg-like face. She’d ridden with him before. Frequently, those first weeks of work when she overslept.
She settled back. “No one should have to go to work in such filthy weather.”
The cab turned at the northwest corner. She glimpsed the man on the bench. He hadn’t moved.
“It makes the trees to grow,” Tomasi informed her. “And all the green things we eat. And the flower carts. You hadn’t ought to gripe about rain.”
“If I were a cab driver I wouldn’t.” She lit a cigarette, relaxed. They were out of the Square, heading up Fifth. She could relax. For these few safe moments with Tomasi.
As he jockeyed past a lumbering bus, she pushed out the cigarette in the ashy container. That man on the bench wasn’t watching for her. She wasn’t known in this; she was accidental. It was Gavin he was waiting for. Gavin knew; he’d seen from the window. As long as the man was rooted on the bench, Gavin couldn’t come out. Not until he was able to protect himself.
The driver turned east on Forty-sixth street, north again on Madison and stopped in front of her office building. She paid him, said, “You’re a life saver, Tomasi. I’m not terribly late. And I’m dry as Sahara.” She didn’t put up her umbrella for the swift cross into the building. Waiting for the elevator, she had almost unbearable reluctance to go up to the office. It wasn’t fear. This wasn’t last night; it was today. The building was modern as antisepsis. Danger couldn’t be lurking in the upper corridor, in the office luxury of Bryan Brewer.
It wasn’t fear, it was an unwillingness to face Bry, to be questioned by him. To lie to him. Because she couldn’t answer his questions. Because she had no intention of allowing Gavin Keane to see him until she and the Imp were safely away.
She walked forward up the twelfth floor corridor to the chaste lettering on the opaque window. Bry was there before her, the door was unlocked.
He lunged up from where he was sitting in her chair at her desk. He said, “You’re late. I was afraid something had happened to you.”
He didn’t look as if he’d been to bed. His hair was in place but there was weariness under his eyes, his jaw was shadowed.
She said, “I’m always careful crossing streets,” as if that interpretation were the right one. “It was raining so hard I waited for a cab.” She hung her coat, hat and umbrella. The routine of a secretary. She closed the closet, came casually to her desk. She could maintain the pose but it wasn’t easy in the face of his penetration.
He asked,
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