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

He saluted her grimly by flicking his index finger at his temple. The door closed after him. A moment later the empty sandwich-plate shattered against it. Then the other one. She was beside herself. She kept saying “Get out!” over and over long after he was gone. Then the sobs came, dry sobs like hiccoughs, like the rustling of dead leaves on a windy day. They brought no relief; they stopped again.

She was still dressed in the tawdry satin thing she wore at work, that she’d come home in tonight. She bent close to the glass, made a horrid scar with lipstick over her mouth as though she was going out again. She was, but not by the door, not to dance any more. She threw up the window as wide as it would go, looked out, looked down on Fifty-first Street four stories below. Everything was dark, the sky was dark, the street was dark, the world was dark, her soul was dark. What was that she had said to herself? No sun anywhere, no blue skies, no love, nothing good and decent anywhere in the world — if this went wrong. Well, it had.

She slipped sidewise across the sill, brought her legs over, took her hand off the window-sash above her head. She felt like a little girl dabbling her feet in cool water on a very hot day. That cool water was eternity; when she slipped into it altogether, it would refresh her, wash her clean.

A piercing scream welled up from the dark street. Someone had seen her, sitting on a fourth-floor window-ledge in a dance frock at four in the morning.

“Faith! Fa-a-aith!” It was like a nail-head scratching glass. She looked down. A cab was parked at the door of the house and Trixie was standing there directly under her. You could hear everything she said — how strange! “No — wait, wait! Don’t jump! Just give me a minute; let me tell you some—”

Faith only shook her head and smiled down at her. The light coming from the window behind her showed the smile. She’ll go in, try to run up the stairs, thought Faith; then I’ll do it before she gets up here.

But Trixie craftily stayed where she was, directly under her, and cleverly changed her plea. “Don’t! You’ll hit me; you’ll kill me! Don’t. You’ll fall on top of me!”

“Then get out of the way!” warned Faith. Arms suddenly whipped around her from in back, around her slim waist, around her throat, pulled her back into the room. The door stood open. The landlady and a male tenant held her between them, slamming down the window.

“Now you quit carrying on, young lady, or I’ll call the police!” warned the landlady tersely.

“Why couldn’t you mind your own business?” Faith sobbed. Trixie came hurtling in, collapsed into a chair as though it was she who had just been rescued.

“Thank God you two heard me!” she panted. “I was afraid to budge away from there.” And then to Faith, ferociously: “What’s the idea? You trying to frighten the wits out of everyone?” She thumbed the other two to the door. “She’ll be all right. Just let me talk to her. I’ve come to take her some place.” And when they had gone: “Now, honey, listen to me very closely and pay attention to what I say.”

It wasn’t long after that the two passed the other pair still lingering at the front door to talk over what had happened. The taxi Trixie had come in was still waiting there. Trixie ushered Faith into it; the latter was docile now but still acted as though she were sleep-walking.

“Where you going with her?” whispered the landlady curiously.

“You won’t believe me,” answered Trixie, “but I’m taking her to a chop-suey joint.”

The landlady nearly fell over. “These dance-hall girls!” she bleated. “Well, see that she stays there; she can’t stay in my house any more.”

“She won’t have to!” snapped Trixie, banging the cab door. “She’ll probably have a little flat of her own in Flatbush before the week’s out and be darning her husband’s socks a mile a minute! Let that hold you, poison-face!”

They walked into the Chinese restaurant a few minutes later, a very frightened girl with her arm around a very dazed one. Trixie was the frightened one. Then she saw him still there at the table and she wasn’t frightened any more. He was a gentleman to the end; he’d intended ditching as soon as they left, but he’d had the decency not to leave without her, was still waiting there for her. So many things could have gone wrong; one of the waiters could have tipped him off that she, Trixie, always left like that and never came back. But he hadn’t asked and he hadn’t been told, so he was still there. God had smiled down on a little taxi-dancer tonight.

“Go over there, darling,” she urged tenderly. “See him? That’s him. Go over there — you’ve got a little back happiness coming to you; go over there and collect.”

“But what’ll I say?” whispered Faith.

“You don’t have to say anything; just look at him, and he’ll look at you — and you’ll both know. They tell me,” Trixie added wistfully, “that love is like that. They tell me that love is — pretty swell. I wouldn’t know personally.” She gave Faith a little push forward and then she turned and walked slowly out to Broadway again — alone.

“And another thing I’ve got against these non-stop shindigs,” orated the chief to his slightly bored listeners, “is they let minors get in ’em and dance for days until they wind up in a hospital with the D.T.’s, when the whole thing’s been fixed ahead of time and they haven’t got a chance of copping the prize anyway. Here’s a Missus Mollie McGuire been calling up every hour on the half-hour all day long, and bawling the eardrums off me because her daughter Toodles ain’t been home in over a week and she wants this guy Pasternack arrested. So you go over there and tell Joe Pasternack I’ll give him until tomorrow morning to fold up his contest and send his entries home. And tell him for me he can shove all his big and little silver loving-cups—”

For the first time his audience looked interested, even expectant, as they waited to hear what it was Mr. P. could do with his loving-cups, hoping for the best.

“—back in their packing-cases,” concluded the chief chastely, if somewhat disappointingly. “He ain’t going to need ’em any more. He has promoted his last marathon in this neck of the woods.”

There was a pause while nobody stirred. “Well, what are you all standing there looking at me for?” demanded the chief testily. “You, Donnelly, you’re nearest the door. Get going.”

Donnelly gave him an injured look. “Me, Chief? Why, I’ve got a red-hot lead on that payroll thing you were so hipped about. If I don’t keep after it it’ll cool off on me.”

“All right, then you, Stevens!”

“Why, I’m due in Yonkers right now,” protested Stevens virtuously.

“Machine-gun Rosie has been seen around again and I want to have a little talk with her—”

“That leaves you, Doyle,” snapped the merciless chief.

“Gee, Chief,” whined Doyle plaintively, “gimme a break, can’t you? My wife is expecting—” Very much under his breath ho added: “—me home early tonight.”

“Congratulations,” scowled the chief, who had missed hearing the last part of it. He glowered at them. “I get it!” he roared. “It’s below your dignity, ain’t it! It’s too petty-larceny for you! Anything less than the St. Valentine’s Day massacre ain’t worth going out after, is that it? You figure it’s a detail for a bluecoat, don’t you?” His open palm hit the desk-top with a sound like a firecracker going off. Purple became the dominant color of his complexion. “I’ll put you all back where you started, watching pickpockets in the subway! I’ll take some of the high-falutinness out of you! I’ll— I’ll—” The only surprising thing about it was that foam did not appear at his mouth.