Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

I started in too soon, he decided. I getter go back to where she does something that gets somebody after her. Then the chase can come in after that.

The cigarette was at an end, without having ignited anything other than itself. He started another one.

Now, let’s see. What would a beautiful, innocent, good girl do that would be likely to get somebody after her? She had to be good — Tartell was very strict about that. “I don’t want any lady-bums in my stories. If you have to introduce a lady-bum into one of my stories, see that you kill her off as soon as you can. And whatever you do, don’t let her get next to the hero too much. Keep her away from the hero. If he falls for her, he’s a sap. And if he doesn’t fall for her, he’s too much of a goody-goody. Keep her in the background — just let her open the door in a negligee when the big-shot gangster drops in for a visit. And close the door again — fast!”

He swirled a hand around in his hair, in a massage-like motion, dropped it to the table, pummeled the edge of the table with it twice, the way a person does when he’s trying to start a balky drawer open. Let’s see, let’s see... She could find out something that she’s not supposed to, and then they find out that she has found out, and they start after her to shut her up — good enough, that’s it! Now how did she find it out? She could go to a beauty parlor, and overhear in the next booth — no, beauty parlors were too feminine; Tartell wouldn’t allow one of them in his stories. Besides, Moody had never been in one, wouldn’t have known how to describe it on the inside. She could be in a phone booth and through the partition— No, he’d used that gambit in the July issue — in Death Drops a Slug .

A little lubrication was indicated here — something to help make the wheels go around, soften up the kinks. Absently, he picked up the bottle opener that Joe had left for him, reached down to the floor, brought up a bottle and uncapped it, still with that same one hand, using the edge of the table for leverage. He poured a very little into the tumbler, and did no more than chastely moisten his lips with it.

Now. She could get a package at her house, and it was meant for someone else, and—

He had that peculiar instinctive feeling that comes when someone is looking at you intently, steadfastly. He shook it off with a slight quirk of his head. It remained in abeyance for a moment or two, then slowly settled on him again.

The story thread suddenly dropped in a hopeless snarl, just as he was about to get it through the needle’s eye of the first line.

He turned his head, to dissipate the feeling by glancing in the direction from which it seemed to assail him. And then he saw it. A pigeon was standing utterly motionless on the ledge just outside the pane of the window. Its head was cocked inquiringly, it was turned profileward toward him, and it was staring in at him with just the one eye. But the eye was almost leaning over toward the glass, it was so intent — less than an inch or two away from it.

As he stared back, the eye solemnly blinked. Just once, otherwise giving no indication of life.

He ignored it and turned back to his task.

There’s a ring at the bell, she goes to the door, and a man hands her a package—

His eyes crept uncontrollably over to their extreme outer corners, as if trying to take a peek without his knowledge. He brought them back with a reprimanding knitting of the brows. But almost at once they started over that way again. Just knowing the pigeon was standing out there seemed to attract his eyes almost magnetically.

He turned his head toward it again. This time he gave it a heavy baleful scowl. “Get of~ of there,” he mouthed at it. “Go somewhere else.” He spoke by lip motion alone, because the glass between prevented hearing.

It blinked. More slowly than the first time, if a pigeon’s blink can be measured. Scorn, contempt seemed to be expressed by the deliberateness of its blink.

Never slow to be affronted, he kindled at once. He swung his arm violently around toward it, in a complete half circle of riddance. Its wing feathers erupted a little, subsided again, as if the faintest of breezes had caressed them. Then with stately pomp it waddled around in a half circle, brought the other side of its head around toward the glass, and stared at him with the eye on that side.

Heatedly, he jumped from his chair, strode to the window, and flung it up. “I told you to get off of there!” he said threateningly. He gave the air immediately over the surface of the ledge a thrashing swipe with his arm.

It eluded the gesture with no more difficulty than a child jumping rope. Only, instead of coming down again as the rope passed underneath, it stayed up! It made a little looping journey with scarcely stirring wings, and as soon as his arm was drawn in again, it descended almost to the precise spot where it had stood before.

Once more they repeated this passage between them, with identical results. The pigeon expended far less energy coasting around at a safe height than he did flinging his arm hectically about, and he realized that a law of diminishing returns would soon set in on this point. Moreover, he over-aimed the second time and crashed the back of his hand into the stone coping alongside the window, so that he had to suck at his knuckles and breathe on them to alleviate the sting.

He had never hated a bird so before. In fact, he had never hated a bird before.

He slammed the window down furiously. Thereupon, as though it realized it had that much more advance warning against possible armstrikes, the pigeon began to strut from one side to the other of the window ledge. Like a picket, enjoining him from working. Each time he made a turn, it cocked that beady eye at him.

He picked up the metal wastebasket and tested it in his hand for solidity. Then he put it down again, regretfully. He’d need it during the course of the story; he couldn’t just drop the cigarette butts on the floor, he’d be kept too busy stamping them out to avoid starting a fire. And even if the basket knocked the damned bird off the ledge, it would probably go over with it.

He picked up the phone, demanded the desk clerk so that he could vent his indignation on something human.

“Do I have to have pigeons on my window sill?” he shouted accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me there were going to be pigeons on my window sill?”

The clerk was more than taken aback; he was stunned by the onslaught. “I — ah — ah — never had a complaint like this before,” he finally managed to stammer.

“Well, you’ve got one now!” Moody let him know with firm disapproval.

“Yes, sir, but — but what’s it doing?” the clerk floundered. “Is it making any noise?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Moody flared. “I just don’t want it there!”

There was a momentary pause, during which it was to be surmised the clerk was baffled, scrubbing the side of his jaw, or perhaps his temple or forehead. Then he came back again, completely at a loss. “I’m sorry, sir — but I don’t see what you expect me to do about it. You’re up there with it, and I’m down here. Haven’t — haven’t you tried chasing it?”

“Haven’t I tried?” choked Moody exasperatedly. “That’s all I’ve been doing! It free-wheels out and around and comes right back again!”

“Well, about the only thing I can suggest,” the clerk said helplessly, “is to send up a boy with a mop or broom, and have him stand there by the window and—”

“I can’t work with a bellboy in here doing sentinel duty with a mop or broom slung over his shoulder!” Moody exploded. “That’d be worse than the pigeon!”

The clerk breathed deeply, with bottomless patience. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but—”