refrigerator was but a trifle more noisy. Elsewhere there was stillness, except inside Sarah, for her pulse was hammering in an erratic way, like an animal coughing. The old man giggled. “Looks all right to me, Mrs. Lineyack!” he said shrilly.
Sarah came woodenly toward him and past him and on to the elevator. A silly grin rode the janitor’s face; he swiveled to watch her. He tittered. “Nothin’s wrong as I can see. Whassa matter? You just get scared?”
But in a moment his grin lost its reasons for being—relief, inane glee—it was only a shape on his tired, sleep-dulled old face. For Sarah had gone into the elevator and the elevator descended, leaving Mr. Cline behind.
In the street there were small foxtails of darkish smoke drifting from the exhaust pipe of her rented car to remind Sarah that she had not shut off the engine. She got behind the wheel and pulled the shift lever toward her and down for low gear. But before the machine had gone more than a few feet she caught a sound, an alarming whimper, eerie in the night-gripped city. She stopped the car and listened…. The sound was a police siren. Approaching.
Here, suddenly, was dilemma. She stood confronted with the need for a decision. Take her chances with the police now? I am the victim of a strange thing. A dark plan had closed on her. And it seemed logical that, since there was a plot, it would have foreseen—planned on—the logical fact of the police arresting her. Ergo, to confute the enemy, she must avoid arrest. She would talk to her lawyer before she did anything. She drove on.
The police car came into the street three blocks behind Sarah. Two white eyes and a single red one, its lights reeled into view. Sarah made sure that it was going to curb itself at her apartment building. After that she turned the first corner and drove carefully a little under the speed limit.
Attorney Calvin Brandeis Brill had his office in the Biscayne Center Building, a few blocks from Miami’s impressive skyscraper county offices building. Sarah had been there twice. In all, she’d had seven personal interviews with Brill. The two at his office, three at her apartment, two on what might be called dinner dates. That seemed a lot for the few days since Mr. Arbogast’s employee, Lida Dunlap, had introduced her to Brill.
The Biscayne Center Building, encased in gaudy brick that was just a shade less white than it had once been, seemed empty of life. The cigar stand stood hooded; wall-cases were shuttered and padlocked. Chipped and scarred floor tiles had that slippery air of having been recently scrubbed.
Sarah’s footsteps, driven in haste, made quick whetting sounds in the sour cavity of the lobby. She reached the elevators. There were four. One waited, holding open a large empty dark mouth. She began ringing, a finger on the call button hard and continuously. A fitful clucking began in the shaft behind the wired-glass doors, and by fits and starts another cage came and the doors opened awkwardly. A crone face peered out at her suspiciously.
“Attorney Brill’s office,” Sarah requested, stepping into the elevator.
The woman was about fifty, sloppy-fat, with hair like the mane of a gray mule. She peered owlishly. “Ain’t nobody here.”
“Please take me to the fifth floor!” Sarah said impatiently.
Sullenness touched the woman and she used a large dusting rag for gesturing. “Ain’t a soul around, I tell you.”
Sarah shook her head. “No… I’m sure Mr. Brill would return to his office. He would be expecting—well—he is surely here.”
“Brill, huh? And what floor you say, dearie? Fifth?” The charwoman snuffled and scrubbed her nose with the back of a hand. She complained, “I tell you there ain’t no use—”
Sarah’s tension drove an angry edge against the woman’s disgruntlement.
“Take me to the fifth floor, please. And hurry,” she commanded.
The other shrugged, her mouth corners got a sullen warp, and she banged the
Sarah came woodenly toward him and past him and on to the elevator. A silly grin rode the janitor’s face; he swiveled to watch her. He tittered. “Nothin’s wrong as I can see. Whassa matter? You just get scared?”
But in a moment his grin lost its reasons for being—relief, inane glee—it was only a shape on his tired, sleep-dulled old face. For Sarah had gone into the elevator and the elevator descended, leaving Mr. Cline behind.
In the street there were small foxtails of darkish smoke drifting from the exhaust pipe of her rented car to remind Sarah that she had not shut off the engine. She got behind the wheel and pulled the shift lever toward her and down for low gear. But before the machine had gone more than a few feet she caught a sound, an alarming whimper, eerie in the night-gripped city. She stopped the car and listened…. The sound was a police siren. Approaching.
Here, suddenly, was dilemma. She stood confronted with the need for a decision. Take her chances with the police now? I am the victim of a strange thing. A dark plan had closed on her. And it seemed logical that, since there was a plot, it would have foreseen—planned on—the logical fact of the police arresting her. Ergo, to confute the enemy, she must avoid arrest. She would talk to her lawyer before she did anything. She drove on.
The police car came into the street three blocks behind Sarah. Two white eyes and a single red one, its lights reeled into view. Sarah made sure that it was going to curb itself at her apartment building. After that she turned the first corner and drove carefully a little under the speed limit.
Attorney Calvin Brandeis Brill had his office in the Biscayne Center Building, a few blocks from Miami’s impressive skyscraper county offices building. Sarah had been there twice. In all, she’d had seven personal interviews with Brill. The two at his office, three at her apartment, two on what might be called dinner dates. That seemed a lot for the few days since Mr. Arbogast’s employee, Lida Dunlap, had introduced her to Brill.
The Biscayne Center Building, encased in gaudy brick that was just a shade less white than it had once been, seemed empty of life. The cigar stand stood hooded; wall-cases were shuttered and padlocked. Chipped and scarred floor tiles had that slippery air of having been recently scrubbed.
Sarah’s footsteps, driven in haste, made quick whetting sounds in the sour cavity of the lobby. She reached the elevators. There were four. One waited, holding open a large empty dark mouth. She began ringing, a finger on the call button hard and continuously. A fitful clucking began in the shaft behind the wired-glass doors, and by fits and starts another cage came and the doors opened awkwardly. A crone face peered out at her suspiciously.
“Attorney Brill’s office,” Sarah requested, stepping into the elevator.
The woman was about fifty, sloppy-fat, with hair like the mane of a gray mule. She peered owlishly. “Ain’t nobody here.”
“Please take me to the fifth floor!” Sarah said impatiently.
Sullenness touched the woman and she used a large dusting rag for gesturing. “Ain’t a soul around, I tell you.”
Sarah shook her head. “No… I’m sure Mr. Brill would return to his office. He would be expecting—well—he is surely here.”
“Brill, huh? And what floor you say, dearie? Fifth?” The charwoman snuffled and scrubbed her nose with the back of a hand. She complained, “I tell you there ain’t no use—”
Sarah’s tension drove an angry edge against the woman’s disgruntlement.
“Take me to the fifth floor, please. And hurry,” she commanded.
The other shrugged, her mouth corners got a sullen warp, and she banged the
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