doors shut and slapped the control over. The cage jumped unpleasantly. “I ain’t supposed to do this!” she snapped.
Sarah remembered Lawyer Brill’s office door. A neat pastel-green steel door with an opaque glass and the gold-lettered words: CALVIN BRANDEIS BRILL , Attorney-at-Law.
The number was 540. Sure of the door, positive of it, she went straight to it. But at once she sensed the absence of something that should have been here. There was no name. The lawyer’s shingle was no longer on the door. Sarah took this fact unwillingly, incredulously—actually wanting physically to back away from it.
No name. No shingle. The opaque glass in the door had no light behind it. Yet this was Brill’s office. It was the right number, 540. The number was 540…. When she had been here before, Brill’s name had been conspicuous and resplendent on the door where now there was nothing.
Sarah had the feeling of standing on no foundation at all, with the sense of being robbed of reason. She felt her control drawing apart at the seams, and suddenly, able to do nothing against hysteria, she threw herself at the door. “Mr. Brill!” she cried. “Mr. Brill!”
The charwoman had been standing with hands planted on hips. Now the old woman’s arms dangled; her face jutted forward in surprise. She didn’t look sorry. Quite the contrary. The only thing this meant to her was that here was a pretty, well-dressed woman with trouble. The monotony of a night filled with scrub brushes was broken.
“Dearie,” she said, “that’s an empty office.”
Sarah did not turn and gave no sign that she had heard. But her hands no longer pounded, but merely rested, against the door.
“ ’S empty, I tell you.” The old woman was shuffling close now, sounding like something being dragged on the floor, and she added, “I oughta know! I give it a sweep when I done this floor.”
“It can’t be!” Sarah said in a tight, far voice.
The charwoman sniffed gleefully. “Okay, don’t believe me, then.”
“You only mean there’s no one in there, don’t you?”
“Nope, I mean there ain’t nothing, dearie. Nothing! Nothing but the bare walls.”
“But that can’t be true!”
The old woman’s head was tossed; she had been insulted. And she liked it because it was more excitement. The old woman flourished the dust rag so that it popped noisily.
“Sister, I’ll just show you. I got a key. I’ll show you—we’ll see!” she said indignantly.
In a moment the door sprang open under the grimy hand, and Sarah stumbled through. She faced blank walls, bare flooring, and windows without blinds. A naked empty suite consisting of reception room and inner sanctum.
Blue! She stared at the walls. Blue. Brill’s office walls had been this shade. There was no question now about this being Brill’s place. It was.
“Did Mr. Brill move to another office in the building?” Sarah demanded. “He must have?”
The charwoman had reached a conclusion of her own. She leered and asked, “Some guy give you the slip, huh?”
Sarah ignored this and wheeled and went into the inner office. Here the emptiness was not complete to the last detail. A telephone, a handset, stood on a Miami directory on the bare floor. She sank beside these.
The old woman was being ignored and she resented it. She slapped the rag about vigorously. “Well?” She made the word ring out in triumph like a rooster crowing on a fence. “Well, are you satisfied, dearie?”
Sarah took up the telephone.
“Hey! I ain’t so sure,” said the woman, “that I’m gonna let you use that phone.”
Sarah turned slowly and slowly took a step toward the woman. She said, “I think I’ve had enough.” And the woman fell back and lost her grin, along with most of her pleasure in the situation. She watched wordlessly, her face twisting into various expressions, monkey-like.
Sarah’s finger moved the telephone dial. She had a good memory and it yielded Mr. Arbogast’s phone
Sarah remembered Lawyer Brill’s office door. A neat pastel-green steel door with an opaque glass and the gold-lettered words: CALVIN BRANDEIS BRILL , Attorney-at-Law.
The number was 540. Sure of the door, positive of it, she went straight to it. But at once she sensed the absence of something that should have been here. There was no name. The lawyer’s shingle was no longer on the door. Sarah took this fact unwillingly, incredulously—actually wanting physically to back away from it.
No name. No shingle. The opaque glass in the door had no light behind it. Yet this was Brill’s office. It was the right number, 540. The number was 540…. When she had been here before, Brill’s name had been conspicuous and resplendent on the door where now there was nothing.
Sarah had the feeling of standing on no foundation at all, with the sense of being robbed of reason. She felt her control drawing apart at the seams, and suddenly, able to do nothing against hysteria, she threw herself at the door. “Mr. Brill!” she cried. “Mr. Brill!”
The charwoman had been standing with hands planted on hips. Now the old woman’s arms dangled; her face jutted forward in surprise. She didn’t look sorry. Quite the contrary. The only thing this meant to her was that here was a pretty, well-dressed woman with trouble. The monotony of a night filled with scrub brushes was broken.
“Dearie,” she said, “that’s an empty office.”
Sarah did not turn and gave no sign that she had heard. But her hands no longer pounded, but merely rested, against the door.
“ ’S empty, I tell you.” The old woman was shuffling close now, sounding like something being dragged on the floor, and she added, “I oughta know! I give it a sweep when I done this floor.”
“It can’t be!” Sarah said in a tight, far voice.
The charwoman sniffed gleefully. “Okay, don’t believe me, then.”
“You only mean there’s no one in there, don’t you?”
“Nope, I mean there ain’t nothing, dearie. Nothing! Nothing but the bare walls.”
“But that can’t be true!”
The old woman’s head was tossed; she had been insulted. And she liked it because it was more excitement. The old woman flourished the dust rag so that it popped noisily.
“Sister, I’ll just show you. I got a key. I’ll show you—we’ll see!” she said indignantly.
In a moment the door sprang open under the grimy hand, and Sarah stumbled through. She faced blank walls, bare flooring, and windows without blinds. A naked empty suite consisting of reception room and inner sanctum.
Blue! She stared at the walls. Blue. Brill’s office walls had been this shade. There was no question now about this being Brill’s place. It was.
“Did Mr. Brill move to another office in the building?” Sarah demanded. “He must have?”
The charwoman had reached a conclusion of her own. She leered and asked, “Some guy give you the slip, huh?”
Sarah ignored this and wheeled and went into the inner office. Here the emptiness was not complete to the last detail. A telephone, a handset, stood on a Miami directory on the bare floor. She sank beside these.
The old woman was being ignored and she resented it. She slapped the rag about vigorously. “Well?” She made the word ring out in triumph like a rooster crowing on a fence. “Well, are you satisfied, dearie?”
Sarah took up the telephone.
“Hey! I ain’t so sure,” said the woman, “that I’m gonna let you use that phone.”
Sarah turned slowly and slowly took a step toward the woman. She said, “I think I’ve had enough.” And the woman fell back and lost her grin, along with most of her pleasure in the situation. She watched wordlessly, her face twisting into various expressions, monkey-like.
Sarah’s finger moved the telephone dial. She had a good memory and it yielded Mr. Arbogast’s phone
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