Frank De Felitta - Audrey Rose

The taller officer stepped up to the door and, raising his nightstick, beat a quick, sharp tattoo against the metal panel.

“Mr. Hoover!” His voice was shrill with authority. “I am a police officer! Open the door!”

He waited the prescribed interval of time for a reply, then turned to Bill.

“Is there another entrance to the apartment?”

“Of course.” Bill slapped his head, angry at his own stupidity. “The service entrance, around by the fire stairs!”

They were running—Bill, the policemen, Dominick (fiddling with his keys), and Janice, loping after them in great awkward strides, the sound of neighbors’ whispers and buzzings closing fast behind her.

It was all useless, Janice knew, and as Bill surely must know, the chain lock was never left unhooked on the service door.

Dominick inserted the key, twisted, and pushed. The door opened inward, unencumbered.

Janice froze. A thought too awful to contemplate tantalized her mind. He would not be there, nor would Ivy; he would have left and taken with him—Ivy? No, not Ivy. Audrey Rose, his child.

A deep sigh rumbled out of Bill as he led the policemen and Dominick through the door on the run. Janice lagged behind, in no hurry to confirm her suspicions. The neighbors remained in the service hallway, eagerly curious, wishing to enter, but questioning the propriety of doing so.

Janice heard Mrs. Carew solemnly call after her, “I do hope Ivy’s all right, dear.”

Janice arrived in the living room in time to see the file of men clumping grimly down the staircase. Bill’s face was chalk white.

“They’re gone!” he informed Janice flatly, then raised his voice. “He’s kidnapped Ivy!”

Without breaking stride, they hurried through the living room and to the front door, Dominick advising the policemen, “If you’re talking about Mr. Hoover, he just sublet Mr. Barbour’s suite on the fifth floor.”

As they approached the elevator, the door of the second elevator slid open and discharged Dr. Kaplan. Janice noted his startled expression as the human stampede bore down on him.

“Ivy’s been kidnapped, Dr. Kaplan!” Bill yelled at him. “Come with us!”

“Yes, certainly,” the doctor murmured in complete bewilderment and allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of bodies plunging ahead into Dominick’s elevator.

As the door clanged shut, Janice saw the covey of concerned neighbors, led by Mrs. Carew, pile into the other car.

The trip down was made in tense silence. Janice’s head throbbed painfully as her eyes critically studied the dry, scuffed leather of Dr. Kaplan’s medical bag, worn and battered from years of faithful service, not unlike the binding of Elliot Hoover’s diary.

What happened then was to be forever recorded in Janice’s mind as a series of flickering images—a speeded-up old-time movie, with the nightstick rapping sharply against Mr. Barbour’s door the curtain raiser.

“Mr. Hoover, I am a police officer! Open this door!”

No verbal reply, yet the sound of scurrying footsteps within, clearly heard by all.

“Mr. Hoover, I will ask you once more to open this door!”

The belated reply, distant, muffled: “No.”

Bill shouting, “Open up, you son of a bitch!”

The shorter policeman cautioning, “That’ll do, sir.” Then turning to Dominick and nodding.

—Inserting the key—

—Opening the door—

—Chain bolt snapping—

—Revealing a thin slice of foyer and Elliot Hoover, partially seen, standing by a Grecian column, grim-faced, resolute—

—The policeman thrusting his badge through the opening—

“Will you please open this door, Mr. Hoover?”

“No. There’s been enough insanity for one night.”

—The policeman turning to Bill: “What’s your name, sir?”

“William Templeton.”

—The policeman addressing Hoover: “Do you have Mr. Templeton’s child secreted on your premises?”

—Hoover, flustered, replying angrily: “They tied her to the bed—!”

—The policeman simplifying: “Is there a child on your premises?”

“A child is sleeping upstairs—peacefully.”

“Does the child belong to Mr. Templeton?”

—A pause, Hoover’s gaze holding theirs implacably. Then: “No. It is my child who is sleeping.”

—The policeman, confused, whispering to Bill: “What does he mean?”

—Bill spluttering: “He’s a nut! Break down the door!”

—The policeman consulting Dominick: “Does Mr. Hoover have a child?”

—Dominick shaking his head: “He didn’t have any yesterday when he moved in.”

—The policeman’s stentorian voice booming through the slit: “I will give you thirty seconds to open this door. If you do not comply, I will send for the riot squad to break it down!”

—Mrs. Carew’s sharp intake of breath—

—Ten seconds—

—A smothering hush of anticipation—

—Twenty seconds—

—Another moment of dogged resistance; then Hoover giving way, slowly approaching the door—

—Twenty-five seconds—

—The door closing—

—The chain disengaging—

—The door opening gradually—

—A sigh of relief, generally exhaled—

—Hoover standing mutely in defeat, in the center of Mr. Barbour’s Grecian spa—

—Bill pouncing through the door with an animal cry, pushing Hoover roughly aside, running up the narrow staircase, followed by the shorter policeman—

—The taller policeman guarding Hoover, watchfully, his right hand near his gun holster—

—Bill descending, carrying Ivy (thank God), sleeping soundly, freshly cleaned, her hands rebandaged—

—Dr. Kaplan’s knowing hand feeling Ivy’s forehead—

—The shorter policeman stalking up to Hoover, sober-faced: “My name is John Noonan, police officer first class, Badge number 707325. I am placing you under arrest for the suspected felony of kidnapping.”

—Hoover’s eyes seeking and finding Janice’s, probing them sadly and with accusation—

—The taller policeman removing the handcuffs from his belt, as his partner produces a booklet and reads from it: “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you, without charge, during questioning.…”

—Applause—

Was it really applause Janice heard in the surrounding hubbub of neighborly approval, as Elliot Hoover was led, manacled, down the hallway to the elevator, in the grip of the two policemen?

Applause?

“You have been a practicing Catholic all your life, Miss Hall?”

“I go to church on Sunday.” The pretty blonde smiled.

“And what is the name of the church you currently attend?”

The lean, sparrowy figure of the young defense attorney listed at a relaxed, somewhat rakish angle toward the young woman.

“St. Timothy’s in the Village,” she replied.

Brice Mack’s boyish, ingenuous smile maintained the precise degree of harmless innocence as he carefully selected and put his questions to the twelfth prospective juror, constantly aware of the danger of antagonizing the other jurors by any word or gesture that might be construed as being offensive.

For three weeks the process had continued as the lawyer for the defense and the lawyer for the people delicately scoured among the impaneled veniremen for a jury as prejudiced to its own side of the case as possible.

For Bill, it was a time of sheer hell.