Manhunt. Volume 4, Number 6, June, 1956

Vigil by Night by James W. Phillips

Undressed, she pirouetted before her mirror in complete abandon. Suss watched, knowing he had to get to her.

He glanced at the darkened window, then at the luminous dial on his watch. Only 9:50 — ten more minutes to wait before she makes her appearance, he muttered to himself. Yet to be on the safe side — just in case she altered the up-to-now unvarying routine that had governed his life the past six nights — he eased his bulk farther down amid the shadowy camouflage of the shrubs flanking the apartment window.

Slowly, ever conscious that a sudden move or rustle of the bushes might reveal his presence, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his balding head. His lips mouthed words that carried no sound as he talked to himself.

“Christ, it’s hot. Get’s hotter every night.” And then the thought struck him that perhaps it wasn’t really the heat. Perhaps it was nerves... the waiting... the bedtime routine... the constant hope that she would leave the apartment.

He looked at his watch again — 9:53. Seven more minutes. No more, no less. He had the routine down pat. She’d walk into the bedroom at ten o’clock sharp, flick on the nightstand light and lay the sleeping baby in the bassinet. She’d walk to the window, raise it four inches in hopes a cooling breeze might stir. Next she would slip the burglar wedges — her security against unwelcomed visitors — between the window frame and the sash and then she’d pull the shade down to the bottom edge of the windows, leaving him the four inches of unobstructed view.

For an hour, maybe two, she’d slowly undress, posing and cavorting before her mirror with the abandon of a beauty right out of an Arabian harem. Finally, she’d lay back on the bed and smoke three cigarettes chain style before switching off the lamp. He turned over in his mind the details of the spectacle that had thus far been the only reward of his vigil, but he knew that one of the nights — sooner or later — she’d have to leave the apartment. And then...

A motorcycle’s exhaust sounded across the vacant lot behind the apartment house breaking his train of thought. His mind groped to regain the trend and finally settled on “Arabian beauty.” That fitted Mrs. Karen Slane to perfection — a raven-haired beauty closeted within the safety of a brick palace. A strange, sultry woman with a babe in her arms protected by Twentieth Century knights of steel: burglar wedges and door chains.

Door chains — “damn them.” He had thrown caution to the winds one afternoon and knocked on the apartment door hoping he might push his way in. A heavy door chain ended his hopes to catch her by surprise. Admittedly, he should have known the plan was foolish. His casual questioning of the delivery boy from the little Mom-and-Dad grocery on the next street had told him she never took the chain off the door. She even made the boy pass the groceries through the slot.

He wiped his handkerchief across his sweating face and felt it catch on the stubble of his beard. He could almost hear himself stammering his apologies that afternoon, “Sorry, mam, I guess... Well this must be the wrong flat...”

In the fleeting moment he had caught a glimpse of her eyes — strange eyes that set a man to thinking, and he’d noticed that she held the baby. That was the problem. She not only never left the apartment but all day long she cradled the baby in her left arm. Always the baby. Never for a second during the day did she put him down. Always the baby.

Light flared through the window just above his head, casting an eerie pattern through the sheltering bushes. He held his breath and counted silently. “One, now she’s putting the baby down... Two, she’s walking to the window... Three, window up, wedges in... Four, shade down... Five, she’s turning away from the window.” On the count of six he raised himself slowly erect, pressing against the building, easing forward until he could see into the room.

Right on schedule. She was just stepping out of her house coat, kicking off her mules, apparently the only garments she ever wore. “The show’s on,” he said, almost aloud, as he watched her move to the mirror.

In desperation he thought of forcing the window, but passed the idea. Even if he managed to out-muscle the locking wedges, it would do no good as she’d grab the baby and lock herself in the other room. No, he reasoned, it’s better to wait. Sooner or later she’ll have to leave the apartment and if it’s night I’ll be waiting. If she’d only leave the apartment... and if she’d only leave the baby when she did, everything would work out his way.

Waiting. That was the answer, he thought, as he watched her posing before the mirror, half dancing, half primping like a Saturday night pick-up prancing along tavern row. A manless woman — prim and cool by day, wanton and lustful at night.

She flopped on the bed and reached for a cigarette. She studied the pack for a moment, crumpled it and flung it across the room. She jumped from the bed and prowled through the drawers — the night-stand, the dresser, even the bureau where she kept the baby’s things. She passed from his sight into the next room, returning moments later still without a cigarette.

He laughed quietly inside himself. “Now you’re like me. Can’t smoke.”

She crawled onto the bed and flicked off the light — her routine broken, his solitary vigil unrewarding. He heard a noise and slitted his eyes to see in the darkness. He could barely make out her outline; she was standing at the window right above him.

Noises. Faint but distinctive. The snerk of a zipper, then the shuffle of feet searching their way into slippers. No light. Just a quick trip out the apartment’s back door, across the alley and through the vacant lot to the little store on the next street.

His patience, his nights of waiting were going to pay off. He rose to his feet, straightening his cramped muscles, his pulse beating fast, his breath still. He was right. There she was on the back steps, and without the baby. Like a fleeting shadow she was across the court to the alley, hurrying as if she knew he lurked in the dark.

“Damn! She’ll get to the street if I don’t move,” he gasped as he lumbered through the bushes. She was half way through the lot when the sound of his heavy stride caused her to look over her shoulder. Her face twisted with fear, with the horror known only to the pursued. She leapt ahead like a fawn and he hurled himself forward in a clumsy tackle. The only sound in the night was a hoarse grunt of satisfaction as his fingers closed on cloth...

It was nearly dawn when he wandered into the diner and eased himself into a booth. He was hungry, tired and his face pained where her fingers had raked across his cheek. The sunrise edition of Globe-News was on the table. He hated this part worst of all — hated reading about it, but he always did.

He was right, the story was on the front page. He passed over the headline and scanned the lead paragraph: A flying tackle by Police Sergeant Tomas Suss last night ended a week-long, round-the-clock surveillance of Mrs. Karen Slane, convicted baby murderess, who since her escape from the insanity ward of State Prison has literally and actually held the life of six-month-old Tommy Blake in her arms.