Die a Little Longer

She went into the kitchen and was raising the receiver before she noticed he had followed and was standing in the door watching her. She hesitated, wondering how she could get her feelings across to Tom without making her guest suspicious, then managed an impersonal smile in his direction and placed the receiver to her ear.

She said, “Hello,” into the phone, and Tom’s voice said, “Maida, are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said quietly, conscious of her guest’s eyes upon her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was just kind of worried. Heard a radio report about a maniac escaping from Belmont, and he was last seen a couple of miles from there. You close and lock all the downstairs shutters and doors, will you?”

She said, “All right, dear. But you don’t have to worry. I’m well protected.” Deliberately she made her voice falsely bright in the hope Tom would catch the false note.

“How do you mean?”

“Mr. Steuben arrived a day early. He’s sleeping in the maid’s room tonight.”

Tom did not reply for such a long time, she knew she must have succeeded in transmitting a sense of something being askew. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low she could barely hear him.

“Can Mr. Steuben hear or see you now, Maida?”

“Both,” she said. “Why?”

“Maida, listen to me carefully and don’t change your expression. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

Her relief at having so easily gotten across her call for assistance mixed with surprise at his perceptiveness, for ordinarily Tom was not so psychic to her moods. But his next words explained his immediate grasp of the situation.

His voice came so slowly the words were spaced to stand individually in her mind. “Maida, I was bringing George Steuben out in the morning. He’s sitting here with me now.”

Psychologists say cowardice is nine-tenths fear of the unknown, that courage increases with know ledge of definite dangers to be faced. Not so with Maida. Against the uncertain possibility that she was isolated with a homicidal maniac, courage had built a defense around her one vulnerability — hysteria. The sudden removal of uncertainty left a chink in her defensive armor through which slow fear seeped, growing and spreading until she was suffused with terror.

She held the phone to her ear and simply waited, knowing the colorless eyes in the doorway were watching her and the ears were taking in her side of the conversation. She felt she could not speak, could not hang up, could not move, ever, but must dumbly sit through eternity with the phone in her hand.

Tom said, “Maida, if he’s still listening, repeat after me carefully: ‘All right, dear. See you in the morning.’ ”

She made a desperate effort and managed to say dully, “All right, dear. See you in the morning.”

“Good girl. Now keep control of yourself and don’t rouse his suspicion. I’m starting right now.”

After he hung up, another fifteen seconds passed before she was able to put down the receiver. She rose stiffly, not looking at the man in the doorway, and somehow managed to propel herself to the sink. She drew a glass of water and sipped at it while she fought to stem a fit of trembling.

It’s no different now than it was a minute ago, her intellect told her, but her emotions screamed. He’s insane! He’s insane and he’s watching me!

She had to regain control of herself. Nothing was changed. He was the same mart she had worked beside all day without suffering harm. She was still safe as long as she did not arouse his anger by exhibiting fear.

“Was that your husband?” asked a quiet voice immediately behind her.

The glass dropped from her hand and shattered in the sink. Swallowing a scream, she turned and managed to say gaily, “You frightened me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“Was that your husband?” he repeated.

“Yes. He wanted to be sure I didn’t forget the slippers.”

“You told him I was here.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. He was glad to know you arrived a day early.” To her own ears her words sounded as stilted as the dialogue of an amateur play.

She slipped past him and went through the kitchen door, through the dining room and front hall to the porch, knowing he followed one step behind her and suppressing a wild urge to break into a run. She kept right on going down the porch steps, her legs moving without grace in the jerky manner of a marionette.

“Where are you going?” he asked. His tone was not sharp, but it contained an element of command.

She stopped abruptly and turned. “To the mail box. Sometimes there’s afternoon mail.”

He shook his head. “No. You know very well there’s no afternoon delivery.”

She stood stiffly looking up at him, trying to think of some plausible reply, conscious that her face was draining of color but unable to prevent it.

His face darkened slightly, and he said in a sullen voice, “You know who I am.”

She summoned a grin she knew was ghastly. “Why of course. You’re Mr. Steuben.”