Jail Bait

She unlocked the door and opened it and looked out at the shabby, empty hall. She eased her way out. Looking down the hall, she could see the elevator doors, the tarnished bronze arrow above them. The arrow was climbing. She watched it move. It looked as though it were at about five. Down the hallway in the other direction was the red bulb that meant temporary safety. She ran to it, strained to pull the heavy fire door open. It hissed as it closed softly behind her. She stood on a concrete landing. Concrete stairs spiraled angularly down, encircling a square airshaft. There was a steel hand rail, and steel treads on the steps. The fire escape seemed to be much newer than the rest of the Farrington.

She started down the steps, sliding her hand along the railing. The shaft had a damp, chill flavor about it. Her heel caught on the steel tread and the sound was loud in the echoing shaft. Above that sound she heard other sounds. She stopped suddenly. The other sounds came from below her — a measured tread that seemed to be coming closer.

Jane looked cautiously down the air shaft. She saw it there, about three floors below, illuminated by the bulb at each landing, moving through the deceptive shadows between the landings — a thick hand that slid slowly up the guard railing, moving as though by itself, as though it were some small, pale, thick animal, tufted with black hair, that climbed methodically.

Jane lifted her foot and snatched off one shoe and then the other. She held them tightly by the straps and went swiftly up, passing the eighth floor and the next and stopping at the tenth to peer down. The small creature still moved up the railing. She fought to breathe quietly after her burst of effort. She tightened her hold on the railing as the sliding hand approached the landing for the eighth floor. There it disappeared. She felt faint with relief. The next step would be easy: wait until the eighth-floor fire door had swung shut behind the stealthy climber, and then go down the ten floors as fast as ever she could.

She strained to hear the sound of the fire door, but none came. Then an odd little scratching sound began. It came at regular intervals. It seemed familiar. Suddenly she identified it as the noise the wheel of a lighter makes. The sound stopped. Then there was a sharp clink as the lighter was snapped shut, and she saw a huff of pale gray smoke come out into the airshaft from the eighth-floor landing. Then a man’s pale gray felt hat and thick dark shoulders appeared as he bent forward to look down the shaft.

She moved sharply back — and one of her shoes hit against the railing, pulling the strap free from her fingers. The shoe fell down the shaft. She barely managed to quell the instinctive reaction to lean over and look down after it. It fell through a vast silence, and startled her when she heard it hit far below.

The man below her called out. Converging echoes blurred his deep words. Jane turned and pushed the fire door open, eased through it and let it shut.

She did not know if the man two floors below has seen the shoe fall by him or not. She hoped he had merely heard the noise and seen nothing.

The tenth floor was a dismal replica of her own. She hurried to the elevator. The arrow was frozen at eight. She reached toward the button and hesitated. The elevator might come up. But it might come bearing more than a harmless elderly bellhop-elevator operator.

She turned and looked at the silent doors along the corridor. There would be a phone in each room. She went quickly to the nearest door and knocked. A tall, hollow-chested man looked out.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I wonder if I might use your phone.”

“There are public phones in the lobby.”

“I realize that, but I’m in trouble. I don’t want to go down there. If you won’t let me use the phone, will you please use it to call the police and tell them where I am? I’m Jane Bayliss?”

“Are you someone the police are after?”

A sharp feminine voice called, “Who is it at the door, Joseph?”

“It’s a girl who wants to use the phone, dear.”

“Then let her use the phone, Joseph, instead of standing there bleating at her. Come in, dear, whoever you are. Show her the phone, Joseph. It will cost you fifteen cents, dear. It goes on our bill. We’ve been meaning to get a private phone in here for years, but we’ve just never gotten around to it.”

Jane followed Joseph into the apartment. He pointed silently to the telephone table. The voice had apparently come from a dark bedroom. The door was ajar. Joseph sat in a chair and picked up a newspaper and held it in front of his face. Jane put her purse and shoe down and lifted the phone.

A dry, familiar voice — the desk clerk’s — said, “Yes, please?”

“Give me the police, please. Immediately.”

“The police? Yes, ma’am. Right away. Hold on, please.”