Jail Bait

Jane turned out the light, shut the door, clacked back down the echoing hall. The elevator girl ran her down to the main floor. It wasn’t long before her cab pulled up in front of the building. “There it is,” the elevator girl said.

Jane paused with her fingertips on the door. The driver had reached back and opened the back door. She took a deep breath and shoved the door open violently and scuttled across the sidewalk, feeling far too conspicuous. She pulled the door shut behind her as she plunged into the cab and dropped with a sigh into the back seat. She gave her address and, as the cab started up, she looked through the rear window. The street seemed empty. Two women walked together. But she could not be certain. There were too many patches of darkness.

As they were approaching the apartment house she said, “Would you please drive around the block once? It’s that place on the left.”

“Anything you say,” the driver said. She was pleased not to have to invent an explanation.

He went by the apartment house slowly. Most of the rooms were lighted. A woman was coming out, leading a small black dog. Jane had seen her before. There was no one else. The driver went two blocks further and swung around so that he could let her off directly in front of the door. She stayed in the cab while she paid him and tipped him, and had her key in her hand when she hurried for the inner lobby door.

When she was inside with the door shut behind her, she was tempted to lean against it and close her eyes. She walked back to the self-service elevator, closed herself in, and, for the first time, sat on the little bench in the corner while the elevator crept upward, sighing as it reached its assigned floor.

She went down the corridor, sorting out her apartment key, and heard the dim sound of her phone ringing. She jabbed the key in the lock. The stubborn lock didn’t seem to work properly; it felt loose and made a grating noise. She made it work and pushed the door open and swung it shut and trotted toward the telephone in the dark room.

Halfway across the small room she kicked against something bulky and soft, and fell clumsily across it. She rolled quickly into a sitting position facing the unknown horror, and scuttled backward until her back was against the wall just beside the kitchen door.

The phone rang three more times and stopped. She felt as if something had her by the throat. She stared toward the warm softness until her eyes felt swollen.

She held her breath and listened. She could hear the horror breathing. She tilted her head a little and distended her nostrils. There was a faint something in the air. She could almost identify it. The odor did not seem to have bad associations. There was a certain astringent tartness about it... Shaving lotion that...

She gasped and scrambled awkwardly to her feet and turned on the kitchen light. She ran to him and turned him over. It was Howard. His underlip sagged. On top of his head, right in the middle, just forward of the crown, was an angry lump the size of a plum.

She remembered the young doctor on the third floor, the thin one who worked in a private clinic and made occasional broad passes at her. Began with an H. That was it. Halstead. She looked in the book, hands trembling. He answered on the first ring.

“This is Jane Bayliss, Doctor. Upstairs. I’ve seen you in—”

“Ho! The Rita Hayworth type. I memorized your apartment number off the mailbox in case you ever came down with—”

“Please, could you come up right away? Someone is hurt.”

“Right away,” he said in an entirely different voice.

He came in and gave her a casual glance and got down on his knees beside Howard. He took the pulse first, then thumbed up Howard’s eyelid and shone a light into the pupil. He gingerly fingered the skull around the area of the angry lump, then appeared to feel the temperature of Howard’s hands.

He sat back on his heels and looked up at Jane. “A lusty thump on the noggin. And don’t try to tell me he tripped. Were you being unsocial?”

“I found him here. I just got home.”

“From the look of that lump, and the amount of discoloration, I’d say he’s had a nice long sleep.” He got to his feet and headed for the phone. “An ambulance for this boy.”

“Is it bad?”

“He’ll have a thorough headache. I don’t suspect a fracture. Concussion and shock. A little bed rest is indicated.”

Howard moaned and opened his eyes and stared dully at the ceiling. Jane knelt beside him and took his hand in hers. “Darling! How do you feel?”

He turned his head slowly and looked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here!”

“What am I doing here then?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” the doctor asked.

“I was supposed to pick you up and take you to dinner, honey. I thought we might go to the Taffeta Room later and—”

“That was Saturday!” she cried. “This is Monday.” She looked up at the doctor. “What’s wrong with him?”