Francis Nevins - Night and Fear

But it didn’t deter him; Eddie was yellow about a lot of little things, but he wasn’t yellow when it came to a big thing like this.

There was the locked cigar store just ahead. He cut diagonally across Franklin Avenue without waiting to get to the corner, and groaned as his eyes sought out the top floor windows of the flat. They were dark. Only for a minute, though, until he realized that might be a good sign, that might mean everything was all right instead of otherwise. If it had happened already, the place would be blazing with light, wouldn’t it?

But ominous or reassuring, the blank windows had flashed past over his head already and he was in the dimly-lit vestibule. He danced back and forth in front of the mailboxes. Top-floor front, there it was — Adams. He ground the bell in with the ball of his thumb, leaned on it with his whole weight. They must be hearing that, anyone would hear that, he wasn’t giving the battery a minute to breathe. Why didn’t somebody answer?

And then he looked down and saw that it didn’t ring. The card that he or somebody before him had displaced lay there under his shoe where it had fallen. He could read it from where he was. “Bell out of order.”

He gave a whimper like a small animal caught in a trap, flung himself against the thick glass inner door, began to pound on it with the heels of both hands. He visualized the man Adams lying there in the dark, reaching out to the side of his bed, picking up a cigarette, striking a match — and him down below here, unable to get to him. Wait a minute, the janitor or superintendent, should have rung his bell, that must be working!

Just as he turned to do it, the street door opened behind him and a man came in, key in hand. One of the other tenants. But he was very drunk and very loquacious, and he dropped the key once before fitting it into the lock and twice more after he’d already had it in.

Eddie gave him a maddened push that sent him sprawling back, jammed the key in with force enough to break it, opened the door with a sweep, and went hurtling up the inside stairs. The drunk’s indignant remonstrance pursued him up the stairwell.

“You sure must be henpecked — ish only a little after one!”

Eddie was already pummeling Adams’ door far above with both fists and one knee.

“Lemme in!” he called. “Lemme in, can’t you hear me! For God’s sake, open this door!”

A chain clashed faintly, the door edged narrowly open, and Adams’ nose showed, two frightened eyes alongside of it. At least they were living eyes! Eddie nearly folded up with relief for a minute, he had to open his mouth to let all the air out before he could say a word.

The man inside spoke first.

“Get away from here, what is this, a hold-up?” the man behind the door rapped out sharply. “I’m warning you I’ve got a gun. Who are you anyway, what d’ya want?”

“On the street just now — you remember?” Eddie panted. “I gave you a coupla cigarettes! I come to tell you — not to smoke ’em — not to touch ’em — you better let me have ’em back!”

“What’re you driving at anyway?” said the man suspiciously.

“I found out something about ’em — never mind, give ’em back, I tell you!” He wrung his hands together frantically. “For Pete’s sake, open up. Can’t you see I’m alone out here; this is not a stick-up! Hand me those cigarettes back.”

Adams said, “I’m going to telephone the hospital and have ’em come around and get you.”

“There’s something the matter with the cigarettes. Don’t you understand English?” Eddie shouted. He brushed a hand before his eyes trying to think clearly; mustn’t tell him the whole story. “They were given to me by a doctor. Somep’n got on ’em, one of ’em anyway — it’ll kill you if you touch ’em. He warned me and I come chasing all the way back to find you—”

A woman inside the flat gave a yip of fright. The chain clanged loose and Adams flung the door open; his face was green. He put his hand to his throat. “I... I—”

“No, you’re all right If you’d smoked the poisoned one it wouldn’t take this long to happen,” Eddie said impatiently, brushing by him. “Where’s the other cigarette?”

Adams pointed limply toward a bedroom door behind him. His wife was just inside in a kimono, trying to make up her mind whether to scream or just faint. Eddie reached in back of her, snapped on the light. Next to the disturbed bed, just as he’d visualized it in his headlong rush over here was a stand, on the stand a tray, on the tray a pinched-out butt lying on a brown little bed of ashes. He picked it up, slit it open with his thumbnail. Nothing but brown tobacco fell out.

“I told you were all right. You smoked the good one — but you don’t know how lucky you are!” He held out his hand impatiently. “Where’s the second one — hurry up, let me have it! Don’t leave it lying around loose!”

Adams hadn’t quite gotten over the shock yet, he kept running his hand through his tangled hair over and over again as if he was trying to think.

“Mildred,” he appealed to his wife in a scared voice, “you were here when I came in that time, you must have seen me — what’d I do with it?”

This time she did scream, then choked it off with both hands. “You gave it to Fred! I saw you! Oh Lord! Don’t you remember, they were just leaving when you came in; he said he didn’t have any either. You said something about sharing the wealth, and I remember you handed one to him at the door—”

“Then he got the bum one,” groaned Eddie. He grabbed Adams by the shoulder and tried to shake some presence of mind into him. “Tell me where he lives. Maybe I can still head him off!”

“It’s too late already,” Adams told him. “They live way out. It’s a long drive. He’d smoke it in the car — he told me he wanted it for that, now that I think of it!”

His wife exclaimed: “The telephone!” and darted over to it, began to dial.

“It can’t be too late. Where does he live?” shrilled Eddie.

“Forty-seven Palmer Road,” Adams stuttered, “that’s out near Westbury.”

His wife said, “They don’t answer; that means they haven’t gotten in yet. Maybe you can still catch up with them on the road — it’s only a Ford.”

Eddie nearly turned her completely around getting out of the flat. “Keep phoning, his life depends on it!” he said over his shoulder.

Eddie was nearly run over by a taxi passing the door. Another of those breaks, like with Adams. “47 Palmer Road,” he shouted as he stumbled in. “And don’t slow up until you see a Ford heading the same way we are!”

He sat back for awhile and coughed until he thought his lungs would burst; too much exertion. The spasm wore itself out and he edged forward, watching the road ahead across the driver’s shoulder.

It occurred to him he didn’t even know the guy’s name, had forgotten to ask them — just “Fred,” that was all.

The houses had petered out long ago; they were in open country already.

“That it?” said the driver suddenly. A Ford was running along meekly in front of them, hugging the outside of the road.

“Get up next to ’em,” said Eddie, “and I’ll find out.”

The taxi drew abreast, swerved in, hubs nearly interlocking with those of the other car.

Eddie leaned his head out, shouted, “Fred? Your name Fred?”

The Ford, two wheels off the concrete, began to wobble crazily. Its five occupants all squalled in alarm.

“Iss no Fred,” the man at the wheel jabbered excitably, “iss Antonio! What you make?”

The taxi veered off again, shot ahead.

The suburb of Westbury showed up, in clumps of little bungalows.

“Palmer Road,” the driver said, and turned down a side thoroughfare. It had arc lights only every half mile or so.