"Who pays it?"
"The Archdiocese of New York."
Allison paused, then said, "I'd like to get into this apartment-now!"
"I'm sorry," said the renting agent, shaking her head.
"Why not?"
"Because I cannot let someone into an apartment that's occupied, especially when the occupant is home." Her reply indicated that no further argument could change her mind. "Shall we go?" she added.
Allison walked slowly to the staircase. "Don't you find it peculiar," she asked, turning, "that the man should exist in such isolation?"
"No," replied Miss Logan. "I establish no criteria for the manner in which another should live his life." Dispassionately, she began to descend the stairs with Allison trailing behind.
They stopped in front of apartment 3A.
"I hope you're satisfied that no one has been in these apartments?" stated Miss Logan.
"Thank you for taking me around," said Allison, ignoring the question. She inserted her key into her apartment door.
"Perhaps-"
Allison interrupted. "I must apologize again for having been an inconvenience."
Miss Logan nodded icily, remaining silent.
Allison opened the door. "If you'll excuse me, I must make an urgent phone call."
"If you have any other problems, call me."
"Other problems? I think the one I have right now is more than enough!"
"Hmm"
"I suppose so."
"Thank you," said Allison. "I'll let you know if I see any of these people again." She smiled unconvincingly, entered the apartment and slammed the door.
She leaned against the door frame. She felt weak and tired and frightened. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Her head had begun to hurt; perhaps another migraine was beginning.
She walked into the hallway and down to the kitchen. After groping momentarily for the light switch, she flicked it, grabbed the vial of tranquilizers off the sink, removed three, one more than the recommended dosage, and downed them without the aid of anything to drink. They stuck in her throat. She choked and gulped frantically to force them down. In desperation she turned on the tap and gulped a mouthful of water. The pressure on her throat eased and the pills went down.
She walked into the living room, bolted the door securely and sat down on the sofa to think. But she could not. Instead, she cried.
Chapter XII
It was dark outside. The rain that had started about seven o'clock splattered against the glass walls of the phone booth, obscuring the view. Everything was blurred, the colors undefined and muted. She was uncomfortable, disquieted by the oppressively small space, the wet umbrella that continually dripped on the floor and the choking feeling she had experienced since early that afternoon when Miss Logan had questioned her sanity.
Thank God they had fixed the corner phone. The thought of walking to Ninety-fifth Street in the freezing rain had appalled her.
She held the receiver to her ear, dialed Michael's office and waited, licking her lips nervously; they were chapped and cracking. The rest of her face had fared no better; her complexion was sallow and her eyes were red from crying and fatigue.
Since early afternoon she had been terrified, and if necessity hadn't forced her to call Michael she would have locked herself in the apartment, secured the shutters, gone to bed and buried herself under the protection of her knitted quilt. But she had needed the comfort and assurance of his presence. And she needed his calm, logical mind.
The telephone rang in his office. Once, twice . . . ten times. No one was there. She angrily slammed the receiver, fished out the dime. She dropped it in the slot and dialed; the phone rang, this time in his apartment. Again no one answered.
She turned around in the cramped booth, wiped the clinging fog off the glass and looked through the window at the long tree-lined street that stretched before her and the now ominous brownstone that stood halfway down the block. West Eighty-ninth Street seemed darker than she had ever seen it. The shadows longer. If it had been this threatening the day she had first seen the brownstone, she would have looked elsewhere for an apartment. As it was, she wished she had.
She left the booth, opened the umbrella and walked up the street through the deepening puddles, invoking the resolution she had made several nights before on a similarly threatening street and listening to the splashing beneath her boots intermingled with the distant buzz of automobiles on the avenue behind her. She stopped, momentarily closed her eyes, laughed nervously, then climbed the stone staircase and looked up toward the fifth-floor windows. They were black and uninviting.
She had eaten supper behind securely fastened doors. To settle her nerves she had gulped an additional tranquilizer between the Russian-dressed salad and the mushroom-covered TV steak. And for an aperitif she had opened a bottle of rose.
Sipping from a wine glass-the clocks ticking quietly in the background-she walked across the carpet and kneeled beside the portable phonograph that sat in the corner. She selected the opening act of Verdi's La Forza del Destino, placed it on the turntable and set the arm.
The speakers cracked noisily as the needle settled into the grooves. She watched the record circle about the little knob that held it in place. An important invention, the automatic record player. A great advance over the hand-cranked gramophone. She would lend her machine to Mr. Chazen the next time he had a party so that he could spend more time on the dance floor.
She turned back to the sofa, lay down and listened,, rejecting any sounds that might have interfered with the music. Gradually, her eyes began to close. Soon she was asleep.
She opened her eyes. Without lifting her head, she glanced at one of the grandfather clocks. The hands lay on top of each other; it was a quarter past three. In the background the phonograph rasped noisily; the record had failed to reject.
She fumbled to the machine, shut it off, walked out of the living room and swayed down the darkened hallway to the bedroom.
She dropped her blouse at the doorway. Next her dark blue jeans fell to the floor. Ring and watch were placed on the night table and her stockings were thrown on the clothes horse.
She stood naked before the fourposter at the end of a trail of clothes. The bed was inviting, so much so that her body slipped effortlessly between the sheets. Within seconds she was sleeping again.
The rain continued to fall heavily on the darkened street. As the wind increased in velocity, it drove the torrent of water diagonally into the brownstone, pounding the walls. The drains ran at floor level; the water poured over the sides in cascades and spiraled downward, challenging the high winds that buffeted its descent.
The street was deserted. The night was black, the streetlights rendered ineffectual by the blanket of water that deadened their effect. A torrential stream punctuated by swirling eddies ran along the gutter toward the drains at either intersection.
A pair of feet sloshed through an alley where even from the rearmost point the stone staircase of the brownstone was visible. The figure remained in the dark, avoiding any possibility of detection. Slowly it moved among the shadows until it reached the alley entrance, where it stopped and raised a covered hand to ward off the wind and rain. It stood motionless for quite some time, watching, waiting. There were no lights burning in any of the immediate buildings. There were no cars. No unexpected sounds.
A pair of eyes glanced up and down the street. Satisfied, the figure hunched its shoulders and hurried across the flooded road into the protected abutment under the stone staircase where it shook the water off its shoulders before turning to the heavy iron gate that guarded the entrance to the basement. A rusted padlock sealed the gate. The figure jostled the lock with its gloved hand, then fumbled in the large pocket of its raincoat and removed a set of keys, the largest of which was forced into the keyhole. The lock would not open. Again the figure fumbled in the pocket and this time withdrew a small tube, after which it removed the key, squeezed some fluid into the hole, reinserted the key and tried again. It turned. The figure entered the cellar and closed the gate.
Once again her sleep was pained and uncomfortable, though at first not with the same intensity as the night before. She lay in bed completely nude, rolling from side to side, clawing at the pillows.
The visions of the previous night reappeared-Chazen, the lesbians and the other members of the party. She felt their presence, heard their voices. The singing. "Happy birthday, dear Jezebel, happy birthday to you."
The sheets dampened from the perspiration. The blanket fell off, propelled by a compulsive kick; the pillows followed.
And she heard the pounding.
At first it was barely audible, then almost ear-splitting.
Still sleeping, she raised her palms to her ears and tried to close out the noise. But the pounding increased in magnitude. Louder and louder, then mixed with the clanging sounds of metal.
She awoke disoriented, terrified. She switched on the bed light and glanced quickly around the room. There was no discernible movement. Her tense muscles relaxed; her spasmodic breathing subsided.
"No," she muttered, resting her head in her cupped hands. "What have I done? What have I done to deserve this?" She dried her eyes with her palms. "What have I done?" Her voice trailed off to a whisper. She looked up.
The slow, methodical and uneven advance of two pacing feet sounded overhead-left to right and then back across the floor. Once again she covered her ears. She couldn't stand it any more.
She jumped from the bed, picked up her clothes, quickly put them on, then pulled the shade on the rear window so that the bed light would remain undetected from above.
She moved hesitantly down the hallway to the kitchen, flicked on the small oven light and scanned the formica counter. The remnants of the TV dinner sat on the edge of the sink, the drained bottle of rose lay sideways on the meat board and a sheet of aluminum foil lay on the refrigerator. She reached out, clasped the bottle of tranquilizers and popped off the top; a little white pellet fell into her hand. Should she take it? She had to steady her nerves! More important, she had to summon as much courage as she could from her frail body. But the tranquilizers would not do that. Nor could they prime her for what lay ahead. She was determined to uncover the secret of the disappearing tenants, and she knew that whoever was upstairs probably held the key to the entire puzzle. In the soft yellow light that bathed the kitchen she weighed the alternatives. There were none; she had to go up to apartment 4 A and get in. The tranquilizers? Useless. She replaced the top and returned the vial to the counter.
She opened the drawer below the formica table and removed a butcher knife; it gave her comfort and protection. She would not be going upstairs alone.
From the utility pantry she withdrew a flashlight and pressed the button. The light fluttered and went out. She shook the flashlight violently; the beam flicked on and off. Determined, she unscrewed the back knob and jostled the batteries. She closed the flashlight and pressed the "on" button once more. It worked perfectly.
The wall light off, she walked to the living room, barefoot, and flashed the beam about. There was no one there. Nothing out of the ordinary. Turning toward the bedroom, she listened carefully. The footsteps continued. She took a deep breath, switched off the flashlight, stepped into the hall and shut the door.
The landing was dark; both the third and fourth stairwell lights were out. She inched her way along the wall to the staircase and twisted the solitary bulb. It remained dead. She jiggled the bulb violently, then turned away and began to climb. Slowly. The steps squeaking horribly. The sounds of the contrasting storm outside filling the air.
The perspiration poured from her body; her brain ached from the unrelenting strain.
Then, suddenly, she recoiled, smashing her head against the wall. She covered her mouth with the back of her palm to prevent an outcry. She whimpered, eyes closed, horrified. She had stepped on something.
Shaking violently, she tried desperately to pull herself together. She flicked on the flashlight and panned the steps at her feet. There was nothing there. She ran the light up the staircase, completely covering each step. The light came to rest on the edge of the fourth landing. In the full flush of the beam sat the cat, Jezebel, the cat that didn't exist. The frazzled body was motionless; the green eyes fixed. In her mouth was the parakeet, its head torn open and its feathers shredded from the tiny body, its once delicate form now battered carrion, dripping blood onto the floor.
Allison shook uncontrollably.
She was angry. That fool Miss Logan hadn't believed a damn word she had said. But here was incontestable proof! Jezebel. Spitting and ominous. Mortimer. Dead.
The cat showed her fangs over the shattered body. Allison steadied the knife and took a step upward. The cat put the bird down, arched her back and hissed. Another step. The cat arched her back even further; Allison took two quick steps. The cat shot out her paw, backed away with a menacing hiss, picked up the bird and ran off into the darkness.
There was silence again.
Allison turned off the flashlight; breathing deeply, she climbed the remaining steps to the fourth floor and slowly walked along the corridor to apartment 4 A. She leaned, immobile, on the door frame for several minutes, then tried the knob, expecting it to be locked. Surprisingly, the latch clicked and the door swung open. She looked behind her. There was no sign of Jezebel; the hall was empty. She squeezed her way through the small opening into the living room. She studied the darkness. It was too dark, unnaturally so. Almost as if she were looking through an infinite tunnel in an unmapped dimension. She could not even see the flashlight held ready in her left hand or the steel knife that she held tightly in the right. And if not for her highly tuned senses, she might have doubted her own existence.