Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume Two

"Well, I just got here and I am leaving until you decide to let us alone."

She turned to Frankie and told him that she would take a walk to the store and get some things for supper and be back in a little bit. She didn't know where she got her courage to leave them alone, but he was finally going to settle this thing with Gypsy once and for all, and she didn't want to be around. Just the very sight of Gypsy made her sick.

She buttoned up her coat and went down the hall to the self-service elevator and waited impatiently for it to appear. As the floors clicked away she had the strange feeling that maybe she had done the wrong thing, that maybe she should be back there with Frankie, but it was too late now.

The elevator stopped and she walked into the empty foyer, pausing again, debating whether or not to go back, but pushed the heavy door open and braced herself against the chill, strong wind. The streets were deserted, everyone was probably in their apartments eating dinner or in the restaurants. Not a soul was in sight.

The streetlights shed a dim, blurred light on the street as she walked trying to keep her mind off Frankie and what might be happening back in their apartment. She began to count the streetlights, saying the numbers out loud to herself, and when she reached fifty she started back again, hoping by this time Gypsy would be gone.

Her feet were cold and numb from walking so she decided to take a shortcut back to their apartment, praying that that would be the end of Gypsy and her alcoholic rages. It didn't take her very long and within fifteen minutes she found herself standing outside their apartment building.

She went back up in the elevator, feeling relieved and happy that it would all be over with Gypsy and walked eagerly down the hall, thinking only of Frankie's warm arms and passionate lips. Outside the door, she stopped and put her ear to the panel. There was no sound from within. Gypsy must really have left. She turned the key, opened the door and closed it behind her, calling out, "Frankie, I'm back!"

But instead of his cheerful voice, only an eerie silence greeted her. She paused, a cold, sickening stone of alarm and fear in her stomach and then ran toward the living room. As she entered, the acid scent of gunpowder stung her nostrils. Looking about the room, her eyes riveted with horror and unbelief; her legs became weak, she felt as though she were going to faint and she leaned feebly against the door-jam, clutching it for support.

With open eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, Frankie was crumpled on the floor. From a dark bole in his chest blood had seeped over his bathrobe, staining it a dark red, and spread out around him on the rug.

She choked out his name in a strangled voice, tottered over and knelt beside him. But he was already dead. Too numb with shock to cry or to realize that he was really dead, she looked beyond him to where Gypsy was lying on the floor, her chest slowly rising and falling in shallow breaths, the gun a foot away from her hand. She was either in a dead faint or in some kind of a coma.

Trembling, tense, her mind a blank, Cynthia started to get up, reeled dizzily and fainted. When she came to a few minutes later, she was panic-stricken, not knowing whether to call a doctor, to go for help or to call the police. The police! Vividly she remembered Gypsy's swearing the apartment would be raided that night. Perhaps Gypsy had been telling the truth. She had an overwhelming impulse to flee, blinded by the fear that she would be arrested, for she had met no one on her solitary walk, no one to prove she hadn't been here all the time and partaken in Frankie's murder. As she remembered the glare of hatred in Gypsy's eyes, she was suddenly sure that Gypsy would try to implicate her.

Stumbling as she ran, she made for the front door. Narcotic agents! A picture of the stock of drugs Frankie had hidden in the closet flashed across her mind. Knowing that it was a crazy idea, for what good would it do Frankie now not to have the heroin found in his possession, she nevertheless turned and ran into the bedroom. She quickly dumped the capsules in her purse and started back. A snapshot of Frankie propped up on the dresser arrested her flight. She paused before it, a cry of bitter despair and agony on her lips, swept it off the dresser into her purse and ran headlong out of the apartment as though she were being chased by demons.

Still struck with a nameless terror, instead of stepping into the elevator, she clattered down the six flights of stairs and rushed out into the cold night. She ran blindly down the street, not thinking where she was going. In front of her the glare of headlights swept around the corner and raked the opposite buildings. Instinctively she dodged into a doorway and pressed herself against the wall in the dark shadows as the car passed. It was a police car! Her heart thumping wildly, she peered out and saw it stop in front of their apartment building. Three men got out. When they had disappeared into the entrance she stepped out from the doorway. Hugging the shadows next to the building, she sidled cautiously to the corner and around it. She was reluctant to hail one of the few taxis which passed her for fear the driver would remember her and connect her with the murder, so she kept on walking, her heart a black, bottomless pit of sorrow.

She had already decided to go to Paul's. When she came to a street which was still brightly lit by bars and nightclubs and where enough people were on the street for her to be thought of as just another all-night reveler, she got into a cab and gave the driver the address of a building a block down the street from Paul's.

By the time she finally stood before his door she barely had enough energy left to ring the buzzer. After awhile she heard his step and then his sleepy voice calling through the door.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Cynthia," she answered weakly.

He quickly threw the door open. She had time only to see the look of surprise on his face before she fainted into his arms.

When she woke up she was lying on the couch. Paul was anxiously hovering over her.

"My God, Cynthia, what's happened?" he said.

She tried to speak, but her tongue couldn't seem to move in her dry mouth.

"Here, have some brandy." Cradling her head, he raised her up so she could take a sip. She coughed and sank back on the cushions.

"How do you feel? Better?"

She nodded.

"Tell me what's happened, darling!"

She looked up at him. As the memory of Frankie lying crumpled on the floor came back to her, her eyes filled with tears, she blurted out "Frankie's dead" and then broke into a wild sobbing, crying for the first time since she had walked into their apartment a lifetime ago.

Paul pressed her head against his shoulder and waited patiently until she had quieted down, then carried her into the bedroom, undressed her and put her to bed.

"If you don't feel like it, don't try to tell me about it tonight," he said. He made her take some sleeping pills and she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

When she woke up it was early the next afternoon. At first she didn't know where she was, but then she remembered the horrible events of the night before and she called out weakly for Paul.

He hurried into the bedroom, telling her not to stir, that he would bring her breakfast, but she was too upset to eat. As he sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, she told him what had happened and they discussed what to do next.

He scratched his head, sighed and said, "I think it might have been better, Cynthia, if you'd called the police right away. After all, you had been out while it happened and it was obvious that it was Gypsy who killed him. Running away like that might make you seem more suspicious to the police, that is, not to me, darling."