Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 4. Whole No. 143, October 1955

He kept going until he came to the fourth level. At the windows of 4B he crouched, lifting his head slowly to stare into the room. She was not there. He saw the bookcases, the wide gray rug, the modern lamps and low tables, and the black vase of flowers. Her room. Her living room. He just kept looking at it, trying to imagine her there.

Then everything happened.

He remembered the sudden flash of light, the sound of a harsh voice ordering him to halt. He remembered running up the steps of the fire escape to the fifth floor and the sixth, his hands shaking, his legs like lead under him. He thought he would fall, he wished he could jump, and after he had gone three flights up, he stopped and held on to the wall of the building.

Two shots rang out in the night and he screamed, terrified. He stood clutching the brick, sobbing, saying “No!” aloud. A dark figure came stealthily toward him, grabbed the back of his sweater, jerked him forward. He felt the rough material of a policeman’s coat. Again, he looked down and the scene made him dizzy. He felt himself buckle and the voice grew faint...

“He’s a good boy, a good boy,” his mother was crying. Charlie sat slumped in the wooden chair at the Police Station, hearing his mother defend him, his father question him. A fat Police Captain in shirtsleeves stood next to Charlie, his face kindly, his eye dark and serious.

“Try to explain, son,” Charlie’s father said, “What made you go up there? Try to explain before Miss Lattimore comes.”

Charlie couldn’t answer. He kept thinking that he was very nearly killed.

“Were there any other boys with you?” the Captain asked. “We got a report saying there was only one.”

“He’s an Eagle Scout,” his mother said to no one in particular. Her eyes were tired and red.

“Don’t you like Miss Lattimore?” His father’s tone was patient, soft. “Chuck, did you really go up there to look in her window?”

The officer interrupted, “That’s where he was, all right — kneeling right outside her window.”

Charlie knew he would cry out again any moment. There was a knot in his throat.

“I fired over his head,” the officer said, “but it was dangerous just the same. He could have got it if he’d kept on running.”

“What about it, Chuck?” his father said. “Try to tell us, son.”

He had almost been shot down, Charlie thought, like a criminal. He was dreaming, he would wake up...

When he heard Miss Lattimore’s voice, his hands went cold. His lips quivered and he could not have spoken if he had wanted to. He sat shaking.

“He’s a good boy,” his mother repeated, and he thought, “Aw mom, dear mom,” and he kept his head lowered to keep them from seeing that his eyes were filled.

“I know he is,” he heard Miss Lattimore say.

“We’re sorry about this,” his father apologized.

Charlie could not look up at her, and he could not stop his shoulders from heaving with the great sobs inside him. He was just a kid after all, he told himself, just a big sissy.

“I should have asked^-the janitor,” Miss Lattimore began, “but I never thought he’d be hurt doing me that favor.”

“You mean?” Charlie’s mother cried out.

“My television wires. The nails were loose. It’s attached to the window on the ledge outside and I didn’t think he’d hurt himself. I certainly never thought he’d be reported for being a peeping Tom.”

Then Charlie looked up. He stared at her. She looked little and delicate, standing there in the sky-blue linen dress with the sweater, the same color as her hair, over her shoulders.

“He was doing you a favor?” his mother asked hopefully.

“That’s right,” Miss Lattimore answered. “I met him on the Boulevard and asked him if he would. I just returned yesterday and there’s so much work, getting resettled and—”

She’s beautiful, he thought, she’s like an angel.

“Well,” the Captain boomed out, “that ends that!”

“Chuck, you should have said so.” His father was smiling broadly, clasping his arm around Charlie’s shoulder. “Good lord, son, you should have spoken up, told us about it.”

Miss Lattimore was holding her glance steady with Charlie’s. “He was probably afraid,” she said carefully. “He could have been killed.”

She had done this thing for him. She had understood, she had known, and she had done this thing for him...

“Never run,” the officer said at the door, “Only guilty people run, lad.”

“Your post cards were forwarded to me, Charlie,” Miss Lattimore said. “You seem to have had a nice summer.” They were leaving the Police Station now — Miss Lattimore, Charlie, his mother and his father.

His mother said, “He went camping with some other boys alone in the woods. He’s sixteen now, you know.”

He didn’t mind his mother saying that. For some reason he didn’t mind.

His father said, “I have my car, Miss Lattimore. May I drop you?”