Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

I fled from that room like one possessed, turned the corner into the hall, scampered down its dark length to the solid, oak-paneled front door, and as my face came flush with the diamond-shaped inset of thick glass set in the upper half of that — there he was out there, coming up toward the house in a straight line from the beach! Too late.

I screamed shrilly, unheard behind that thick door, and doubled back, like some silver-smooth little wild animal caught in a trap. There was no back door — I knew now that was one of his many reasons for selecting this house — but there were windows there I might climb out of, we were on the ground floor. Even as the thought occurred to me, I knew how futile it would be. There was nothing around the house to hide me, only sand. I could never reach the next house to ours in time, it was too far away. Even if I did, I might find it vacant. Or if it wasn’t, the people might refuse to interfere; he was my husband, how could I get them to take any stock in my story? No, he’d see me from where he was, in that flashing silver dress of mine, and only come after me, overtake me, drag me back inside again.

The clothes-closet door, standing ajar as I streaked past it, showed me where my only hope lay! I doubled back a second time, skidded and all but fell on the waxed floor, tore it open, snatched at the phone, and on my knees there, like someone saying their prayers, pleaded: “The St. Charles Hotel! The St. Charles Hotel! Life-and-death, no time for Information — you must know the number!”

Chapter VII End of the Chase

The crack of the closet-door, which now stood out at right-angles to the wall, gave me a threadlike view of the front door. The diamond-shaped pane in that was already darkened by his looming head and shoulders, blotting out the twilight from outside. He was standing there on the other side of it, getting out his key.

She did know the number; I heard her say it to herself, and a second voice cut in: “Good evening, St. Cha—”

“Richard Dokes, quick, Richard Dokes!” I yammered. I was almost incoherent with terror by now. I had no presence of mind just when I needed it most. I should have relayed the message to the exchange operator while I still had time, instead of waiting on the line as though this was an ordinary call. Four words would have done it, “His sister wants him!” But his very nearness had robbed me of all reasoning power; in my panic, it didn’t seem enough to give a message to some anonymous girl, I wanted the sound of my brother’s voice.

The other’s key was scraping into the keyhole; I could hear the intermittent humming over the wire that showed they were ringing his room — unsuccessfully. It kept breaking off, but it went right on again each time. I shook the phone in despair, as though that would bring him on any quicker!

The key turned, clashed, the ponderous door heaved inward. He was a black silhouette against the dying day, and a long ominous shadow fell before him down the hall, almost to where I crouched half-concealed.

The door closed behind him. He was in, now. He could have heard me, now, even if Ritchie had answered; could make an end to me, now, long before Ritchie could get here. Too late for this too, now! I was doomed—

I breathed his name twice over, “Ritchie! Ritchie!” and then I put it down softly on the floor, just the way it was, and bit the back of my own hand, to keep back the scream that was pleading to burst from me.

“Betty,” he called in a honeyed voice, which only made my skin crawl and struck fresh terror to my heart, and then he whistled playfully for me. “Phzveet, hoo. Where are you?”

I was doomed, yes. I was cut off, both from escape and from any means of summoning help. The old Victorian phrase they used to use came to me, I was in his power, but I didn’t laugh. Would you have, in my place?

But there was just one dim ray of hope left for me. It pointed, not toward immunity but toward delay, postponement. If I didn’t let him see how frightened I was, it mightn’t happen right away, I might be able to gain a little time. But I saw clearly what this depended upon: he must not know that I already knew. If he found me cowering there in the closet, eyes dilated, he’d probably finish me off then and there. If I seemed to be still the same happy-go-lucky little sap he’d left in the house an hour ago, he might just possibly wait awhile, take his time. Might even let me live the night through, and in that case, in the morning maybe—