We stood there in a hesitant group, waiting for Mrs. Garr to come back. Mrs. Halloran’s nervousness obviously doubled every minute of the six or seven it took before the door clicked again and Mrs. Garr came out.
“The storeroom, that’s where he was,” she said. She was stronger now, angry instead of terror-stricken. She stood thinking a moment, then turned to Mr. Kistler.
“You see him?”
“No. No one saw him except Mrs. Dacres, as far as I know.”
“Mr. Grant might have,” I remembered. “Mr. Grant was waiting in your parlor to pay his rent when I came in.” Should I say more? After all . . .
“Mr. Grant? He paid his rent yesterday.”
“Oh, look here,” Mr. Kistler broke in. “Don’t get suspicious about that poor old guy. I’ll ask him if he saw anything.”
He bounded upstairs. Mrs. Garr turned to me.
“You saw him.” It was almost an accusation.
“Yes, I—”
“Wha’d he look like?”
“He wasn’t a tall man, just about medium. He looked sneaking and furtive. He was wearing a gray cap and a gray topcoat, open but belted in back. I think there was a sweater under the coat, no suit coat. His face was thin and red; a big nose; I’d say he had brownish-gray hair. And when he ran down the hall I thought what a funny countrified haircut he had in back, cut straight across. I’ll describe him to the police if you—”
“No, you don’t have to. I ain’t calling no police.”
Mrs. Garr had quit looking at me. She was looking at Mrs. Halloran. Mrs. Halloran was standing pinched and trembling, with a terrified look on her face.
“You had to stop for ice cream,” Mrs. Garr spat at her. She shoved Mrs. Halloran ahead of her into the parlor and slammed the door.
I was standing alone in the hall when Mr. Kistler came leaping down the stairs again, calling out:
“He says he didn’t see any—Well, where’s the party gone?”
“It looks as if it’s over as far as we’re concerned,” I said. “But I’d like to know what the heck it means.”
5
FOR ONCE, WHAT WENT on in that front parlor was too low to reach my ears. It was a good two hours before the parlor door opened again; I heard Mrs. Halloran rush out of the house. After that I didn’t see her for two weeks.
I had a streak of luck. One of the copywriters at Benson’s got sick; they took me on until she could return. During that time I was at Mrs. Garr’s house only through the evenings and at night, so I heard only the night activities of the house.
And I heard plenty of those. If that house had seemed to stay tensely awake, listening, before, it seemed to do so doubly then, when I knew it only at night. I’d wake up, not once, but five or six times a night. I even told Mr. Kistler about it; he took me out to dinner or to a movie a few times, and once I asked him for Sunday dinner. He was hard to keep down, but he was fun when he wasn’t being too obstreperous.
He laughed about the listening, but the next morning before I went to work he knocked at my door and swore at me.
“Now you’ve got me started. I heard the damn thing listen last night. You’re going to have to come up and stay with me nights; I’m afraid to sleep alone.”
“You might ask Mrs. Garr to let you borrow Rover.”
“No heart.”
“Good ears, though. I can tell you everything that happened last night from midnight to dawn. You came in at midnight, reeling.”
“Weariness, that was. The Buyers’ Guide is distributed to its waiting public today.”
“Around one thirty Mr. Buffingham and another man came in. At two Mrs. Garr got up and began prowling again . . .”
I was there when the doorbell rang, when Mrs. Tewman went to answer it.
“You got a guy named Buffingham living here?” asked a big voice, held low.
Mrs. Tewman made only a frightened squeak.
“What the . . . !” began Mr. Kistler. “Say your prayers, baby, it’s cops.”
He left me for the newcomers.
“Good morning, Officer. Anything I can do?”
“Yeah. Guy named Buffingham in this joint?”
“Yes, sir. Upstairs.”
The bluecoat came in, and behind him five more like him. They came into the hall with revolvers drawn, tense, watchful. Mrs. Tewman squeaked again, dashed for the cellar stairs. Mrs. Garr popped out, cowered back when she saw the police. I stood startled in my doorway as they came on, Mr. Kistler pointing the way.
“First door to your right toward the front of the house,” he told the leader.
The policeman in charge reconnoitered at the foot of the stairs, ran lightly up, leaving his men below. A moment, and he was down again, arranging two men on the stairs, going ahead with the other three. They were unbelievably quiet in motion; there was quiet above, too.
Then a sudden knock, loud but muffled, as sounds were in that house.
The big voice yelled, “Put down the gun, Buffingham, and come on out here!”
A shot answered, two shots, splintering wood. The house was no longer quiet; the two shots seemed to echo, and heavy breathing stirred.
“You can’t get us that way! We’ve got you, Buffingham, six to two, even if your father’s fool enough to stick with you. We aren’t dumb enough to stand in front of that door. Come on out!”
I don’t know why it made me turn. The sound was so very small.
It was the first window of the bay at the left side of my living room that drew my eyes.
Two legs dangled outside the upper sash.
I screamed.
Even as I screamed the man dropped. I saw him for an instant, falling, his face distorted.
But even in that time I could see that it wasn’t Mr. Buffingham. It was a younger man, heavier, shorter.
“He’s out the window!” I cried.
I think the policemen came down the
