Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

I heard Joan’s knock at the door, and the first thing she said when I let her in was: “Something happen to your car last night? I saw a mechanic drive up to the door with it just now, as I was coming in. He got out, walked off, and left it standing there!”

There went my just-a-dream defense. She saw me rear back a little, but didn’t ask why. I went over to the window and looked down at it. It was waiting there without anyone in or near it.

“Were you in a smash-up?” she demanded. “Is that why you stood me up? Is that why you were shaking so when I found you?”

I grabbed at the out eagerly. “Yeah, that’s it! Bad one, too; came within an inch of winding up behind the eight-ball. Gave me the jitters for hours afterwards.”

She looked at me, said quietly: “Funny kind of a smash-up, to make you say ‘Little pipes coming up through the ground.’ That’s all you said over and over. Not a scratch on you, either. No report of any smack-up involving a car with your license number, when I checked with the police after you’d been three hours overdue at my house.” She gave me an angry look, at least it tried to be. “All right, I’m a woman and therefore a fibber. But I sewed you up pretty this time. I asked that grease-monkey what it was just now, and he said only a cut ignition-wire!”

Her face softened and she came over to me. “What’re you keeping from me, honey? Tell Joan. She’s for you, don’t you know that by now?”

No, it was just a dream, I wasn’t going to tell her. And even if it wasn’t a dream, I’d be damned if I’d tell her! Worry her? I should say not! “All right, there wasn’t any smash-up and there wasn’t anything else either. I’m just a heel, I got stiff and stood you up, that’s all.”

I could tell she didn’t believe me; she left looking unconvinced. I’d just about closed the door after her when my phone rang.

“You’re to be complimented, Brother,” an anonymous voice said. “We’re glad to see that you’re to be relied on,” and then the connection broke.

Eyes everywhere, ears everywhere. I stood there white in the face, and calling it a dream wouldn’t work any more.

The summons to attend came three weeks later to the day. A large white card such as formal invitations are printed on, inside an envelope with my name on it. Only the card itself was blank. I couldn’t make head or tail of it at first, didn’t even connect it with them. Then down in the lower corner I made out the faintly-pencilled word “Heat.”

I went and held it over the steam radiator. A death’s head slowly started to come through, first faint yellow, then brown, then black. And under it a few lines of writing, in hideous travesty of a normal social invitation.

Your Presence Is Requested

Friday, 9 P.M.

You Will Be Called For

F. O. D.

“Call away, but I won’t be here!” was my first explosive reaction. “This goblin stuff has gone far enough. The keepers ought to be out after that whole outfit with butterfly-nets!”

Then presently, faint stirrings of curiosity began to prompt me: “What have you got to lose? Why not see what it’s like, anyway? What can they do to you after all? Pack a gun with you, that’s all.”

When I left the office late that afternoon I made straight for a pawnshop over on the seamy side of town, barged in through the saloon-like half-doors. I already had had a license for some time back, so there was not likely to be any difficulty about getting what I wanted.

While the owner was in the back getting some out to show me, a down-and-outer came in with a mangy overcoat he wanted to peddle. The clerk took it up front to examine it more closely, and for a moment the two of us were left standing alone on the customer’s side of the counter. I swear there was not a gun in sight on the case in front of me. Nothing to indicate what I had come in for.

An almost inaudible murmur sounded from somewhere beside me: “I wouldn’t, Brother, if I were you. You’ll get in trouble if you do.”

I looked around sharply. The seedy derelict seemed unaware of my existence, was staring dejectedly down at the glass case under him. Yet if he hadn’t spoken who had?

He was turned down, took back the coat, and shuffled disheartedly out into the street again, without a glance at me as he went by. The doors flapped loosely behind him. A prickling sensation ran up my spine. That had been a warning from them.

“Sorry,” I said abruptly, when the owner came back with some revolvers to show me, “I’ve changed my mind!” I went out hurriedly, looked up and down the street. The derelict had vanished. Yet the pawnshop was in the middle of the block, about equally distant from each corner. He couldn’t have possibly—! I even asked a janitor, setting out ashcans a few steps away. “Did you see an old guy carrying a coat come out of here just now?”

“Mister,” he said to me, “nobody’s come out of there since you went in yourself two minutes ago.”

“I suppose he was an optical illusion,” I said to myself. “Like hell he was!”

So I went without a gun.

A not only embarrassing but highly dangerous contretemps was waiting for me when I got back to my place a few minutes later. Joan was in the apartment waiting for me, had had the landlady, who knew her quite well, let her in. Tonight of all nights, when they were calling for me! I not only had to stay here, but I had to get her out of the way before they showed up.

The first thing my eye fell on as I came in was that damned invitation, too. It was lying about where I’d left it, but I could have sworn I’d put it back in its envelope, and now it was on the outside, skull staring up from it as big as life. Had she seen it? If so, she gave no sign. I sidled around in front of it and pushed it out of sight in a drawer with my hands behind my back.

“Take a lady to supper,” she said.

But I couldn’t, there wouldn’t be time enough to get back there again if! did; they were due in about a quarter of an hour, I figured. It was an hour’s ride out there.

“Damn! I just ate,” I lied. “Why didn’t you let me know—”

“How’s for the movies then?” She was unusually persistent tonight, almost as though she’d found out something and wanted to force me to break down and admit it.

I mumbled something about a headache, going to bed early, my eyes fixed frantically on the clock. Ten minutes now.

“I seem popular tonight,” she shrugged. But she made no move to go, sat there watching me curiously, intently.

Sweat was beading my forehead. Seven minutes to go. If I let her stay any longer, I was endangering her. But how could I get rid of her without hurting her, making her suspicious — if she wasn’t already?

“You seem very tense tonight,” she murmured. “I never saw you watch a clock so closely.” Five minutes were left.

They helped me out. Eyes everywhere, ears everywhere. The phone rang. Again that anonymous voice, as three weeks before.

“Better get that young woman out of the way, Brother. The car’s at the corner, waiting to come up to your door. You’ll be late.”

“Yes,” I said, and hung up.

“Competition?” she asked playfully when I went back.

“Joan,” I said hoarsely, “you run along. I’ve got to go out. There’s something I can’t tell you about. You’ve got to trust me. You do, don’t you?” I pleaded.

She only said one thing, sadly, apprehensively, as she got up and walked toward the door. “I do. But you don’t seem to trust — me.” She turned impulsively, her hands crept pleadingly up my lapels. “Oh, why can’t you tell me!”

“You don’t know what you’re asking!” I groaned.

She turned and ran swiftly down the stairs, I could hear her sobbing gently as she went. I never heard the street-door close after her, though.