Read Online You're All Alone (illustrated) by Fritz Leiber - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fritz Leiber
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struck a match and, holding it close to the paper, made out the name—Jane Gregg; and the city—Chicago; and noticed that the postmark was at least a year old.
The address, lying in a crease, took him longer to decipher.
1924 Mayberry St.
The footsteps were closer. He looked up. Beyond the fence an elderly couple was passing. He guiltily whipped out the match, but they walked by without turning their heads. After a minute he slipped out and walked west.
The streetlights winked on. The leaves near the lights looked an artificial green. He walked faster.
The houses shouldered closer together, grew smaller, crept toward the street. The trees straggled, gave out, the grass sickened. Suddenly the houses coallesced, reached the sidewalk with a rush, shot up in towering brick combers, became the barracks of the middle classes.
His mind kept repeating a name. Jane Gregg. He’d half believed all along she was the girl loony Tom Elvested had talked about—the girl he’d made a date with, through Tom, this very afternoon.
A bent yellow street sign said, “Mayberry.” He looked at the spotty gold numerals on the glass door of the first apartment. They were 19S4-S8. As he went down the street he had the feeling that he was walking back across the years.
The first floor of 1922-24 was lighted on the 24 side, except for a small dark sunporch. Behind one window he saw the edge of a red davenport and the head and shoulder of a gray-haired man in shirt-sleeves reading a newspaper. Inside the low-ceilinged vestibule he turned to the brass letter boxes on the 24 side. The first one read: “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gregg.” After a moment he pushed the button, waited a moment, pushed It again.
He could hear the bell clearly, but there was no response, neither a mumble from the speaking tube, nor a buzz from the lock of the door to the stairs.
Yet the Gregg apartment ought to be the one in which he had seen the old man sitting.
Beyond the inner door, in the darkness of the stair well, he thought he saw something move. He couldn’t tell what it was. When he stepped closer and peered in, he saw nothing.
He went outside. He craned his neck. The old man was still sitting there. An old man—perhaps deaf?
Then, as Carr watched, the old man put down his paper, settled back, looked across the room, and from the window came the opening triplets of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata.
Carr felt the wire that fenced the tiny, nearly grassless plot press his calf, and realized that he had taken a backward step. He reminded himself that he’d heard Jane play only the third movement. He couldn’t know she’d play the first just this way.
He went back into the vestibule, again pushed the button, heard the bell. The piano notes did not falter.
He peered once more through the inner door. A little light trickled down from the second landing above. He tried the door. Someone must have left it off the buzzer, for it opened.
He hurried past the blackness of the bottom of the stair well. Five steps, a turn, five steps more. Then, just as he reached the first landing, he felt something-small and silent come brushing up against his ankle from behind.
THE NEXT moment his back and hands were pressed to the plaster wall across the landing, where it was recessed about a foot.
Then he relaxed. Just a cat. A black cat. A black cat with a white throat and chest, like evening clothes.
And a very cool cat too, for his jump hadn’t even fazed it. It walked suavely toward the door of the Gregg apartment.
But about two feet away it stopped. For several seconds it stood there, head upraised, making no movement except that its fur seemed to thicken a trifle. Then, very slowly, it looked around.
It stared at Carr.
Beyond the door, the piano started the sprightly second movement.
Carr edged out his hand. His throat felt dry and constricted. “Kitty,” he croaked.
The cat arched its back, spat, made a twisting leap that carried it
The address, lying in a crease, took him longer to decipher.
1924 Mayberry St.
The footsteps were closer. He looked up. Beyond the fence an elderly couple was passing. He guiltily whipped out the match, but they walked by without turning their heads. After a minute he slipped out and walked west.
The streetlights winked on. The leaves near the lights looked an artificial green. He walked faster.
The houses shouldered closer together, grew smaller, crept toward the street. The trees straggled, gave out, the grass sickened. Suddenly the houses coallesced, reached the sidewalk with a rush, shot up in towering brick combers, became the barracks of the middle classes.
His mind kept repeating a name. Jane Gregg. He’d half believed all along she was the girl loony Tom Elvested had talked about—the girl he’d made a date with, through Tom, this very afternoon.
A bent yellow street sign said, “Mayberry.” He looked at the spotty gold numerals on the glass door of the first apartment. They were 19S4-S8. As he went down the street he had the feeling that he was walking back across the years.
The first floor of 1922-24 was lighted on the 24 side, except for a small dark sunporch. Behind one window he saw the edge of a red davenport and the head and shoulder of a gray-haired man in shirt-sleeves reading a newspaper. Inside the low-ceilinged vestibule he turned to the brass letter boxes on the 24 side. The first one read: “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gregg.” After a moment he pushed the button, waited a moment, pushed It again.
He could hear the bell clearly, but there was no response, neither a mumble from the speaking tube, nor a buzz from the lock of the door to the stairs.
Yet the Gregg apartment ought to be the one in which he had seen the old man sitting.
Beyond the inner door, in the darkness of the stair well, he thought he saw something move. He couldn’t tell what it was. When he stepped closer and peered in, he saw nothing.
He went outside. He craned his neck. The old man was still sitting there. An old man—perhaps deaf?
Then, as Carr watched, the old man put down his paper, settled back, looked across the room, and from the window came the opening triplets of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata.
Carr felt the wire that fenced the tiny, nearly grassless plot press his calf, and realized that he had taken a backward step. He reminded himself that he’d heard Jane play only the third movement. He couldn’t know she’d play the first just this way.
He went back into the vestibule, again pushed the button, heard the bell. The piano notes did not falter.
He peered once more through the inner door. A little light trickled down from the second landing above. He tried the door. Someone must have left it off the buzzer, for it opened.
He hurried past the blackness of the bottom of the stair well. Five steps, a turn, five steps more. Then, just as he reached the first landing, he felt something-small and silent come brushing up against his ankle from behind.
THE NEXT moment his back and hands were pressed to the plaster wall across the landing, where it was recessed about a foot.
Then he relaxed. Just a cat. A black cat. A black cat with a white throat and chest, like evening clothes.
And a very cool cat too, for his jump hadn’t even fazed it. It walked suavely toward the door of the Gregg apartment.
But about two feet away it stopped. For several seconds it stood there, head upraised, making no movement except that its fur seemed to thicken a trifle. Then, very slowly, it looked around.
It stared at Carr.
Beyond the door, the piano started the sprightly second movement.
Carr edged out his hand. His throat felt dry and constricted. “Kitty,” he croaked.
The cat arched its back, spat, made a twisting leap that carried it
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