Superstition

43

Fifteen minutes later she paid off the cab that dropped her at Beekman Place. She noticed that the doorman wasn't on duty, which meant he must be doing some chore in the building, so she tapped in the code that admitted her to the lobby, and took the elevator to her apartment. She deliberately drew the blinds before putting on the lights, aware that it wasn't something she normally did. What, she asked herself, was she hiding from?

She wondered what Roger was doing, hoping he'd had only one more drink and was already on his way home in the car she'd provided. Then she wondered how to occupy herself until Sam arrived. She didn't want to talk to anybody on the phone, couldn't concentrate to read, listen to music, or watch television. She felt the kind of awful restlessness that needed to be worked off in a long walk or a vigorous physical sport. Yet she didn't want to be outdoors, exposed, unprotected. Here, in familiar surroundings, she felt at least relatively safe. She made herself a cup of herbal tea and stretched out on the sofa with that morning's New York Times, which she hadn't opened, willing herself to make sense of the words that swam before her eyes.

After a couple of minutes her entry phone buzzed. She got up quickly and crossed to answer it with a sense of relief, expecting to hear Sam's voice.

“Joanna, I'm downstairs. There's no doorman-can you let me in?”

It wasn't Sam's voice, it was Ralph Cazaubon's.

“Joanna? Are you there? Hello?”

She froze, unable to speak.

“Joanna, it's me, Ralph.”

She hung up. But she missed the cradle and the handset clattered noisily down the wall, bouncing at the end of its cable. She could hear his voice still coming thinly and distantly from it, like the sound of Pete's voice earlier. She reached out for the thing, hesitating as though half afraid it would give her an electric shock, finally snatching it and slamming it back in place.

This time it didn't fall, but it buzzed again, insistently, repeatedly. She backed away, her gaze fixed on it, struggling to control her mounting panic. Thoughts chased each other through her mind, each one wilder than the last. Wildest of all was the one insisting there was nothing to be afraid of-that there was just a man downstairs who had stopped by to see her, and she was behaving hysterically.

Yet she had met him only two days ago. Nobody in a city like New York went to the home of somebody they barely knew and expected to be let in just casually. Maybe there was some special reason. She hadn't even asked. What was so terrible about a man ringing her doorbell in the early evening, a man she had met and who had been perfectly charming and courteous and normal in every way? Was she going insane? Would she be running in fear for her own shadow next?

Yet nothing on earth would have persuaded her to pick up that entry phone again and speak to him. She stepped around and past it like someone skirting a chained but vicious dog. Its continuing, staccato, ear-jabbing buzz growing more unbearable each second.

She ran to the door and checked the locks. She was safe, but trapped. What could she do? She could call down to the lobby and see if the doorman was back from whatever he'd been doing.

Or call the police? And say what? She would worry about that if and when she had to-she had no sane reason to call the police yet.

Call Sam? Yes, call Sam-that made sense. Sam would understand why she was terrified. She began to dial the number of his cellular and prayed that he was carrying it. Maybe he was on his way to the apartment now and would arrive any minute. She must warn him of possible danger from whoever or whatever was down there waiting in the street.

The noise from the entry phone stopped. In the silence she could hear only her own breathing and the sound of her heart beating. She realized she was halfway through Sam's number, but forgot how many digits she'd dialed, and hung up.

She listened to the silence. Had he gone away? He knew there was someone in the apartment because she'd answered, but she hadn't spoken. It could have been a friend, a colleague, a cleaner-anyone-who had picked up the phone.

Cautiously she moved to the edge of one of her windows, pulled back a drape, and peered out. There was no sign of anybody in the street. She couldn't see the door from where she was, so he could still be there, but at least he'd given up trying to get in.

Unless, of course, the doorman was back and had opened it for him. But the doorman wouldn't let him up without calling. That was the rule, stated plainly on a sign in the lobby:“All Callers Must Be Announced.”

“Joanna…?”

She spun around with a cry of alarm. The voice had come from just behind her. His voice. In the room with her.

For a second she saw nobody, and told herself she had hallucinated it. Then a shadow moved in the hall beyond the open doorway of her living room. Ralph Cazaubon stepped into view.

“Joanna, will you please tell me what's wrong?”

His expression was earnest, his tone of voice concerned. Except for the fact that he was dressed more formally now, he looked exactly as he had the previous day. Yet something in his manner had changed. There was a familiarity in it, an intimacy even, that had no place between them.

“How did you get in here?” she managed to gasp in a shaky voice.

His frown of consternation deepened. He took a step toward her. “Joanna, what's wrong…?”

She backed away. The corner of a table jabbed into her hip, a lamp tipped over and crashed to the floor.

“Don't come near me!” Her hands groped behind her, whether to find something to defend herself with or to avoid further collisions she wasn't sure.

“Will you stop this, please!” There was a note of anger in his voice now, and in the way he reached out to grab her by the shoulders, as though wanting to shake this nonsense out of her.

She spun away from him and over to her desk. There was a paper knife somewhere there, a long steel blade sharpened to a point. Her fingers scrabbled among the scattered books and papers until they closed on the carved ivory handle. She held it out before her like a dagger.

“Don't come near me. I'll use this if I have to.”

He looked alarmed now and held up his hands. “All right, all right…I'm not moving, calm down…just tell me what's the matter and let me help you…please, Joanna…”

Her breath was coming raggedly in gasps, breaking, close to turning into sobs. She made an effort to control herself, fight back the fear, stay in control. Keeping the knife out and ready to thrust, she began moving sideways, edging crablike toward the tiny hallway, not for a second taking her eyes off him.

He turned, following her movement, his hands still up, but less in surrender now than in a readiness to defend himself, even attack her if he saw a break in her concentration.

But there was no break. She wiped her free hand across her face and discovered she was bathed in perspiration. She blinked and then stretched her eyes wide to clear the cloudiness from them. And all the time kept moving, one careful step after another, toward the door of her apartment and escape. When she began to walk backward the few last steps, he followed her, but held back when she raised the knife a threatening inch or so.

“I warned you-don't come near me.”

She had to transfer the knife from one hand to the other in order to undo the locks. First the main lock, then the lower one. They were locked just as she had left them when she came in.

Her eyes flickered sideways for a second as she sought the handle to pull the door open. Out of the corner of her vision she saw him move.

“No!”

He froze.

“Joanna, please, this is insane. What's happened? Are you ill? How could you imagine that I'd want to hurt you?”

Her fingers found the handle and pulled. “How did you get in here?”

“The same way I always do. What's wrong with you?”

She didn't answer or argue or press the question further, just pulled the door open and stepped through. She slammed it shut and hurried the few yards to the elevator. She pushed the call button, but saw that the “in use” light was on. In the distance she could hear the hum of machinery. It stopped and the elevator doors slid open.

Not thinking how she might look to an outsider walking into the scene, she kept her eyes on her apartment door, which remained closed, but suddenly became aware of a figure stepping from the elevator. Before she could turn to look, she heard, “Jesus Christ, Joanna, what's going on?”

She spun around. Sam jumped back to avoid the blade of the paper knife, but when she saw it was him she fell into his arms. The fear and tension she'd been holding in burst from her in a long and shuddering sob.

“What is it? What's happened? Tell me.” He took the paper knife gently from her fingers.

She pointed shakily to her apartment. “He's in there.”

“Who?”

“Ralph Cazaubon.”

“What-?” He started for the door, but she pulled him back.

“No, wait. Get help.”

“There's no time for that…!”

Then she realized, “I haven't got the keys. We can't get in.”

He thought a moment. “Does the doorman have a set?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Go get them. I'll wait here.”

“No, I don't want you to-”

“Just do it, please, Joanna.” He held up the paper knife. “Don't worry, if he's in there he won't get past me.”

The elevator had already been called to another floor. She could see from the indicator it was going up, so she took the stairs, running down the three flights to the lobby. She found Frank Flores sitting at the desk where there'd been nobody when she arrived. He looked up as she ran in and registered surprise at her distraught appearance.

“Frank, there's somebody in my apartment, you'd better come up. Give me the spare keys please.”

He reached beneath his desk. “Somebody in your apartment? Mr. Towne just went up. Did you see him?”

“Yes. Did you see another man go up earlier? Tall, dark hair.”

“Nobody's gone up while I've been here. I was down checking out the furnace a while back, but the street door was locked. Nobody would've gotten in unless they had a key or someone buzzed them in.”

He handed the spare keys over to her. “You want me to call the police?”

“I don't think so. Just come up with me.”

They took the stairs. Frank, who was a big man, muscular but overweight, was out of breath when they arrived. Sam was still there. He gestured that nothing had happened.

“Okay, you'd better tell me what's going on,” Frank said, asserting his role as the man responsible for the building's security. “Is somebody sick in there, or drunk, or intent on causing bodily harm or damage?”

“No, I don't think any of those things,” Joanna said.

“Is this person known to you?”

“To me, yes-slightly,” she said. “Mr. Towne doesn't know him at all.”

“I see,” Frank said, thinking he did and casting a speculative glance in Sam's direction before turning back to her. “And you've asked this person to leave-is that correct, Miss Cross?”

She said it was.

“And he has refused.”

“Yes.”

Frank rubbed his chin. “Is this man armed as far as you know?”

She looked surprised by the question. “No…no, I'm sure he isn't…”

“Any weapons in the apartment? A gun, knife?”

“Nothing at all. Except…”

Frank followed her gaze to the paper knife in Sam's grip. “I'll take that, if you don't mind, Mr. Towne.”

Sam hesitated.

“It's okay, sir-I'm a vet, I can handle myself.”

Sam glanced at Joanna as though unconvinced, but handed the knife over anyway.

“You want to give me those keys again, Miss Cross?” Frank said, tucking the knife into the leather belt of his uniform.

She handed him the keys he had given her downstairs, pointing out that the one for the main lock was all he'd need. Gesturing them both to stay back, he opened the door with a swift, firm movement. Positioning himself on the threshold and to one side so that he had a clear view through to the lighted living room, he called out, “Security. Would you step into view, please, sir?”

There was no sound or movement from the apartment. Sam noticed that, although Frank carried no gun, his hand hovered near the nightstick attached to his belt.

Frank looked at Joanna. “Are you sure somebody's here, Miss Cross?”

“Somebody was,” she said, feeling increasingly uneasy.

“Okay,” Frank said, directing his words into the apartment, “I'm asking you to come out now, or I'll be obliged to call the police.”

“To hell with the police,” Sam said, losing patience and pushing past him. “If he's in here, I want to see him.”

“Please, Mr. Towne, let me handle this…”

Frank's protest was futile. Sam strode into the apartment, moving rapidly from room to room.

“Cazaubon…? Ralph Cazaubon, I want to see you…! Where are you…?”

A couple of minutes later the three of them stood in the middle of the living room. It was clear that there was nobody in the apartment other than themselves. The only sign of anything abnormal was the lamp that Joanna had knocked to the floor. She picked it up and put it back in its place.

“Everything seems all right now, Miss Cross,” Frank said, looking at her doubtfully.

“So it seems…He must have slipped out between my going and…and Mr. Towne arriving.” She looked at Sam. “He would have just about had time, wouldn't he?”

“I guess,” Sam lied.

“Then he may still be in the building,” Frank said, with renewed urgency. “I'll check.”

Neither of them tried to persuade him that the effort would be worthless. Joanna thanked him for his trouble, and shut the door after him. When she returned to Sam he was standing at her desk looking down at something.

“He was here,” she said, as though fearing he wouldn't believe her.

Sam tore a leaf from the notepad by her phone. “Here's his phone number and address that you wrote down this morning.”

He picked up her phone and dialed, waited awhile, then shook his head. “No reply.” He hung up and slipped the piece of paper into his pocket. “I'll get this number checked out tomorrow.”

She took a step closer. “Sam, tell me you believe me. Tell me you believe that he was here.”

He took her in his arms. “I believe you,” he said. “Of course I do.”