The Wrong Way Down (21 page)

The man up front had not tried to get a seat. Now, peering out as he had continued to do, he had a glimpse of the cleaning woman as she scurried by. He came to life, elbowed his way to the front doors, and again just made them.

Traffic had started up and down the Avenue by the time he got to the curb, but he crossed at the risk of life and limb. The cleaning woman was plodding along towards Third Avenue; he plodded behind her, head down and shoulders hunched. They crossed Third, went on to Second, and crossed it. In the middle of the next block she turned to climb the steps of a rooming house.

The man paused twenty feet behind her and stood looking up and down the street. It was one of those streets that have either been half reclaimed from decay, or arrested on the way there. Neat walk-ups were on either side of the rooming house, and a fine modern apartment house on one corner.

He went into the vestibule of the walk-up nearest him and waited there.

The cleaning woman meanwhile had entered the rooming house with a key. As she advanced towards the bleak stairs a stout woman came from an open doorway on the right.

“Well, Mrs. Keate,” she said, “you're a little late this evening. Bus tied up?”

“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Jensen. No, I was kept overtime.”

“I was waiting to see you and say good-bye; in case I was out when you left tomorrow morning.”

“I'm glad to have a chance to say it again. I'm sorry to move. It's a nice quiet house, and cheap for a place with cooking privileges.”

“Well, if you get on with your relations, that's the nicest way to live. Did you say your sister-in-law is in New Jersey?”

“Yes. Near Newark. I don't know; it'll be quite a trip to work.”

“Well, we can't have everything. I bet your customers were sorry to lose you.”

“They were real nice about it.”

“Well, we're all square. Good-bye, and I hope to see you again sometime.”

“I hope to see you. Good-bye.”

The landlady withdrew into her room. The lodger went slowly up three flights to a top floor rear room, which she unlocked and locked after her. This was her fortress, a cold little sliver of a place partitioned off from its neighbor, where she was her own mistress. The occupants of rooms like this did their own cleaning; they had no extra money to pay out in tips to colored maids at Christmastime.

She sidled along between bed and dresser to the window, and pulled down the shade. Then she dropped her parcels on the bed and turned on the light. She stood looking quietly around her, pushing back wisps of hair.

Downstairs the front doorbell rang. It was answered after a while by a colored woman in a blue denim apron, her hair tied up in a checked dishcloth.

The man with the pulled-down hat stood in the vestibule. He asked: “Mrs. Keate live here?”

“Top rear.”

“Insurance.”

“Step right up.”

“Thanks.”

He mounted through the silence of a respectable house. Workers were relaxing before they went out again to eating places for supper, or assembled materials to be cooked on the gas rings in the hallway kitchenettes. When he reached the top floor he did not knock at Mrs. Keate's door; he listened for a few moments, and then retired to the stairs. He sat there, hunched up in the dimness. One thing about a top floor, there was no through traffic.

The cleaning woman had dragged a suitcase from under the bed—a small, cheap case, empty. She gathered up a few plain articles from the top of the dresser, a heap of plain clothing from inside it, and put them into the suitcase. She flung her shopping-bag on top of them. There was nothing whatever in the shallow closet beside the door, but she made sure. At last she took off her felt hat, rammed it into the suitcase, and snapped down the lid.

The carton of crackers, coffee and sugar from the Ashbury house she left open on the chair under the window; there was no table.

The room was now ready for its next occupant—bare and neat. She put her purse under her arm, picked up the suitcase, and turned out the light. She unlocked the door, left the key in the lock, and went out into the hall, shutting the door behind her. Nobody would come near the place until the landlady decided to climb the stairs next day or the next.

Just outside her door, on the left, was another; it opened on a ladder to the trap in the roof, and the ladder was surrounded by fire hazards—brooms, mops and pails. She stepped up on the ladder, dragging the suitcase, shut the door after her, and climbed to the trap. She unbolted it and pushed it aside. Shoving the suitcase out on the roof, she scrambled up and out herself, and replaced the trap lid.

Picking up the suitcase, she walked across a low parapet to the next house West. This, the neat walk-up, had a shed over its trap door so that the cover could be left up in Summer even on rainy days. The trap was not fastened. She climbed down, closed the trap after her, and descended this ladder. At the foot of it she stood in darkness listening, then opened a door and looked out into a well-lighted hall. It was a nicely decorated hall, white and gray, with a glass wall bracket and a gray carpet.

She went directly across the hall, and unlocked a door. She entered a room, walked to one end of it, let down Venetian blinds, and then turned on a shaded lamp.

Bright chintzes here, a long mirror between the windows, a marble chimney piece, modernistic furniture, an upholstered day bed at the other end of the room, near the door. She dumped her suitcase on the day bed, shook off her ulster, and went directly into a spotless kitchenette. Nothing in the icebox but ice and oranges, but she only wanted ice. She got a bottle of Scotch out of a cupboard and made herself a stiff highball. She lighted a cigarette, and returned to the living room with the glass in one hand and the cigarette in the other.

She drank some of the whiskey, smoked half the cigarette, and then set the glass down on a stand, and the cigarette on the edge of an ash tray beside it. She opened the door of a large closet, which contained nothing but a fur coat, a small hat, a black dress, a pair of black suède pumps, and a big, handsome traveling case. She dragged out the case, opened it, and placed it on a chair.

She fitted the other suitcase into it; then she pulled off her dress, her draggled slip, her stockings and the brogues. She was now clothed in foundation garments of the finest materials and the palest pink.

She packed the traveling case with all her discarded clothing, finished her highball and the cigarette, and walked across into a bathroom. She ran a tub of hot water, bathed, scrubbed her face and neck with soap and afterwards with cleansing cream, dried herself briskly with a rough towel. She put on the rose-colored undergarments, and then went into the living room and got sheer stockings and a pearl-colored slip out of a drawer. She put them on, and put on the suède pumps.

She went back into the bathroom and worked on her face with cream, powder, lipstick and rouge; manicured her hands, painted her nails, and brushed back her hair. When she had dressed it and applied brilliantine it looked neat, fashionable and cared for.

Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror she saw a striking if not handsome woman in her forties, with narrow eyes; prematurely gray-haired, clear if sanguine of complexion, with purplish shadows under the eyes and—in spite of the lipstick—a thin line of mouth. The lipstick could not disguise the width and lack of contour there. The bright eyes were red-veined, the whole face predatory. But she was pleased with it. She went back into the living room and emptied the dresser drawers, turned the old purse inside out, transferred its contents to a black suède bag.

She got the things out of the closet and put on the dress—a short, plain, smart affair that made her look even taller and slimmer than she was. She clipped on a pair of gold earrings and a pin to match. There were rings in the suède bag—she did not put them on.

She sat down on the day bed, then got up again to make herself another highball. She came back and sipped it, looking relaxed and happy.

Presently she got up again, put on the little black hat in front of the mirror, went out and tapped on a door at the other end of the hall.

It was opened by a shorter, plumper woman, dressed very much as she was, and looking as highly groomed. They exchanged smiles.

The shorter woman said: “Well, Mrs. Brant! What a stranger! I never see you. Do come in.”

“I'm so sorry, but I haven't a minute, Mrs. Ferris.”

“I know how you traveling people have to rush. I don't know how you stand it.”

“I'm used to it. I like it. You real estate people could tell us buyers something about rushing; you're always on the go. How lucky I was to get a broker that actually owned a house herself. I love my little place.”

“You don't get much good of it.”

“You've been wonderful about subletting. And now I've come to break the news to you—I'm giving it up for good.”

“Oh, don't say that!”

“They've changed my territory. I'll be in the Middle West.”

“But everybody has to come to New York to do business!”

“Don't tell them that in Chicago!”

“And you've only been here about two weeks.”

“There's one thing, you won't have much trouble in getting another tenant.”

“Oh, I could rent overnight. You needn't worry about your lease.”

“Well, anyway, this month is paid up; and I'd like to leave something for cleaning expenses, if there are any, and a tip for the superintendent. I paid the maid.”

“You've always been wonderful about business; but then you're a business woman.” Mrs. Ferris took the ten-dollar bill. “Where shall I send you word about the lease and so on?”

“I wonder if you'd just write care of general delivery here; my plans are so uncertain. They'll get instructions where to forward mail.”

“There's certain to be a refund for you; I'll deduct the brokerage charge, and send the surplus on.”

“Thanks so much. I simply hate to give the place up. It seemed a fearful extravagance, just for a few weeks in a year, but I had to have a place to come to.”

“And we always sublet for you from May through October.”

“Well, good-bye, Mrs. Ferris, and good luck.”

“The same to you. Have you much stuff to move out?”

“Nothing that won't go into my bag.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight. I'll be out of this in a couple of hours. I'm going to Boston tonight.”

“I don't know how you stand it!”

“Oh, my itinerary is all fixed for me, you know. I don't have to worry.”

“Well, I'm awfully sorry. Be sure to stop in on me at the office when you're back in town some day.”

“I certainly will.”

They shook hands cordially. The landlady retired, closing her door; the tenant went back along the hall. She had entered her own flat and was about to close the door behind her; but a hand came over her shoulder and held it wide. Her head jerked around; if she had not been clinging to the knob she might have fallen.

Gamadge put his hand on her elbow. He said: “Sorry I had to startle you.”

She put her other hand on the knob and violently shook the door, as if in a senseless effort to dislodge his grip on it. He said: “Don't do that, that's the way Mrs. Keate would act.”

“What do you mean? Who are you? Get away. Let go of me; my name is Brant. How dare you?” The breathless voice was kept low.

“And that's the way Mrs. Keate would talk. She'd go on saying ‘Some mistake'; go on saying it forever. You ought to know, you've made a study of the type. Have you played the part too long?”

“I tell you I don't know what you're talking about.” She had recovered herself a little, was standing upright, and facing him. Her skin under the powder and make-up showed mottled, streaked with angry red.

“This is a waste of time,” said Gamadge irritably. “Senseless. Am I likely to let you lock me out now, after I took all the trouble to follow you downtown and over the roofs? I might have been held up for a while, too, if I hadn't been guided by the noise of this trap door falling into place. I know what you call yourself, I was listening on the stairs out there. Let's go in and shut the door; you don't want your landlady in on this, do you?”

She stood silent, her long fingers working at the clasp of the big suède handbag.

“Get yourself another drink,” said Gamadge. “You need one. I can't get it for you, not while you have that gun. And I don't want to wrestle with you for it, or shoot it out with you, either. I have a gun of my own this time. Go and get yourself a drink, and then sit down on the day bed. Let's see whether you won't end by throwing me your little gun of your own free will.”

She turned her head stiffly from side to side, then let go of the doorknob and turned away.

“That's right,” said Gamadge. “Let's have our talk while there's time. There's not too much time, I think, Mrs. Ashbury.”