Authors: Cornell Woolrich
He's worried about her, I said to myself, as any man would be.
It's the most natural thing in the world.
Funny, though, he should leave her in the dark like that, without going near her.
If he's worried, then why didn't he at least look in on her on returning?
Here was another of those trivial discrepancies, between inward motivation and outward indication.
And just as I was thinking that, the original one, that I had noted at daybreak, repeated itself.
His head went up with renewed alertness, and I could see it start to give that slow circular sweep of interrogation around the panorama of rearward windows again.
True, the light was behind him this time, but there was enough of it falling on him to show me the microscopic but continuous shift of direction his head made in the process.
I remained carefully immobile until the distant glance had passed me safely by.
Motion attracts.
Why is he so interested in other people's windows, I wondered detachedly.
And of course an effective brake to dwell on that thought too lingeringly clamped down almost at once: Look who's talking.
What about you yourself?
An important difference escaped me.
I wasn't worried about anything.
He, presumably, was.
Down came the shades again.
The lights stayed on behind their beige opaqueness.
But behind the one that had remained down all along, the room remained dark.
Time went by.
Hard to say how much — a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes.
A cricket chirped in one of the back yards.
Sam came in to see if I wanted anything before he went home for the night I told him no, I didn't — it was all right, run along.
He stood there for a minute, head down.
Then I saw him shake it slightly, as if at something he didn't like.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"You know what that means?
My old mammy told it to me, and she never told me a lie in her life.
I never once seen it to miss, either."
"What, the cricket?"
"Any time you hear one of them things, that's a sign of death — someplace close around."
I swept the back of my hand at him.
"Well, it isn't in here, so don't let it worry you."
He went out, muttering stubbornly: "It's somewhere close by, though.
Somewhere not very far off.
Got to be."
The door closed after him, and I stayed there alone in the dark.
It was a stifling night, much closer than the one before.
I could hardly get a breath of air even by the open window at which I sat I wondered how he — that unknown over there — could stand it behind those drawn shades.
Then suddenly, just as idle speculation about this whole matter was about to alight on some fixed point in my mind, crystallize into something like suspicion, up came the shades again, and off it flitted, as formless as ever and without having had a chance to come to rest on anything.
He was in the middle windows, the living room.
He'd taken off his coat and shirt, was bare-armed in his undershirt.
He hadn't been able to stand it himself, I guess — the sultriness.
I couldn't make out what he was doing at first He seemed to be busy in a perpendicular, up-and-down way rather than lengthwise.
He remained in one place, but he kept dipping down out of sight and then straightening up into view again, at irregular intervals.
It was almost like some sort of callisthenic exercise, except that the dips and rises weren't evenly timed enough for that.
Sometimes he'd stay down a long time, sometimes he'd bob right up again, sometimes he'd go down two or three times in rapid succession.
There was some sort of a widespread black V railing him off from the window.
Whatever it was, there was just a sliver of it showing above the upward inclination to which the window still deflected my line of vision.
All it did was strike off the bottom of his undershirt, to the extent of a sixteenth of an inch maybe.
But I haven't seen it there at other times, and I couldn't tell what it was.
Suddenly he left it for the first time since the shades had gone up, came out around it to the outside, stooped down into another part of the room, and straightened again with an armful of what looked like varicolored pennants at the distance at which I was.
He went back behind the V and allowed them to fall across the top of it for a moment, and stay that way.
He made one of his dips down out of sight and stayed that way a good while.
The "pennants" slung across the V kept changing color right in front of my eyes.
I have very good sight.
One moment they were white, the next red, the next blue.
Then I got it They were a woman's dresses, and he was pulling them down to him one by one, taking the topmost one each time.
Suddenly they were all gone, the V was black and bare again, and his torso had reappeared.
I knew what it was now, and what he was doing.
The dresses had told me.
He confirmed it for me.
He spread his arms to the ends of the V, I could see him heave and hitch, as if exerting pressure, and suddenly the V had folded up, become a cubed wedge.
Then he made rolling motions with his whole upper body, and the wedge disappeared off to one side.
He'd been packing a trunk, packing his wife's things into a large upright trunk.
He reappeared at the kitchen window presently, stood still for a moment.
I saw him draw his arm across his forehead, not once but several times, and then whip the end of it off into space.
Sure, it was hot work for such a night.
Then he reached up along the wall and took something down.
Since it was the kitchen he was in, my imagination had to supply a cabinet and a bottle.
I could see the two or three quick passes his hand made to his mouth after that.
I said to myself tolerantly: That's what nine men out of ten would do after packing a trunk — take a good stiff drink.
And if the tenth didn't, it would only be because he didn't have any liquor at hand.
Then he came closer to the window again, and standing edgewise to the side of it, so that only a thin paring of his head and shoulder showed, peered watchfully out into the dark quadrilateral, along the line of windows, most of them unlighted by now, once more.
He always started on the left-hand side, the side opposite mine, and made his circuit of inspection from there on around.
That was the second time in one evening I'd seen him do that And once at daybreak, made three times altogether.
I smiled mentally.
You'd almost think he felt guilty about something.
It was probably nothing, just an odd little habit, a quirk, that he didn't know he had himself.
I had them myself, everyone does.
He withdrew into the room, and it blacked out.
His figure passed into the one that was still lighted next to it, the living room.
That blacked next.
It didn’t surprise me that the third room, the bedroom with the drawn shade, didn’t light up on his entering there.
He wouldn't want to disturb her, of course — particularly if she was going away tomorrow for her health, as his packing of her trunk showed.
She needed all the rest she could get, before making the trip.
Simple enough for him to slip into bed in the dark.
It did surprise me, though, when a match-flare winked some time later, to have it still come from the darkened living room.
He must be lying down in there, trying to sleep on a sofa or something for the night He hadn't gone near the bedroom at all, was staying out of it altogether.
That puzzled me, frankly.
That was carrying solicitude almost too far.
Ten minutes or so later, there was another matchwink, still from that same living room window.
He couldn't sleep.
The night brooded down on both of us alike, the curiosity-monger in the bay window, the chain-smoker in the fourth-floor flat, without giving any answer.
The only sound was that interminable cricket
I was back at the window again with the first sun of morning.
Not because of him.
My mattress was like a bed of hot coals.
Sam found me there when he came in to get things ready for me.
"You're going to be a wreck, Mr. Jeff," was all he said.
First, for awhile, there was no sign of life over there.
Then suddenly I saw his head bob up from somewhere down out of sight in the living room, so I knew I'd been right; he'd spent the night on a sofa or easy chair in there.
Now, of course, he'd look in at her, to see how she was, find out if she felt any better.
That was only common ordinary humanity.
He hadn't been near her, so far as I could make out, since two nights before.
He didn't.
He dressed, and he went in the opposite direction, into the kitchen, and wolfed something in there, standing up and using both hands.
Then he suddenly turned and moved off side, in the direction in which I knew the flat-entrance to be, as if he had just heard some summons, like the doorbell.
Sure enough, in a moment he came back, and there were two men with him in leather aprons.
Expressmen.
I saw him standing by while they laboriously maneuvered that cubed black wedge out between them, in the direction they'd just come from.
He did more than just stand by.
He practically hovered over them, kept shifting from side to side, he was so anxious to see that it was done right.
Then he came back alone, and I saw him swipe his arm across his head, as though it was he, not they, who was all heated up from the effort
So he was forwarding her trunk, to wherever it was she was going.
That was all.
He reached up along the wall again and took something down.
He was taking another drink.
Two.
Three.
I said to myself, a little at a loss: Yes, but he hasn't just packed a trunk this time.
That trunk has been standing packed and ready since last night.
Where does the hard work come in?
The sweat and the need for a bracer?
Now, at last, after all those hours, he finally did go in to her.
I saw his form pass through the living room and go beyond, into the bedroom.
Up went the shade, that had been down all this time.
Then he turned his head and looked around behind him.
In a certain way, a way that was unmistakable, even from where I was.
Not in one certain direction, as one looks at a person.
But from side to side, and up and down, and all around, as one looks at — an empty room.
He stepped back, bent a little, gave a fling of his arms, and an unoccupied mattress and bedding upended over the foot of a bed, stayed that way, emptily curved.
A second one followed a moment later.
She wasn't in there.
They use the expression "delayed action."
I found out then what it meant.
For two days a sort of formless uneasiness, a disembodied suspicion, I don't know what to call it, had been flitting and volplaning around in my mind, like an insect looking for a landing place.
More than once, just as it had been ready to settle, some slight thing, some slight reassuring thing, such as the raising of the shades after they had been down unnaturally long, had been enough to keep it winging aimlessly, prevent it from staying still long enough for me to recognize it.
The point of contact had been there all along, waiting to receive it Now, for some reason, within a split second after he tossed over the empty mattresses, it landed — zoom!
And the point of contact expanded — or exploded, whatever you care to call it — into a certainty of murder.