Rabbit in a Trap

At exactly 11:14 p.m. The squad car from second district pulled up to the green street entrance of Robertson, Schwab and Miller. The big store had been closed since 9:30 that night, a matter of one hour and forty-four minutes. The alarm from Argus Protection Service had been phoned into second district at 11:12, which meant that the police had got to the scene in just two minutes.

Fast as they were, Bracken, the Argus man, had been faster. He had already spot-checked the show windows and doors on both Green and Fifth streets, on which the store fronted. It is only fair to point out, however, that the Argus office was on the second floor of the building directly opposite the store and that Bracken had only had to run down one flight of stairs and out the door to have a view of the entire façade of the store on both its intersecting streets. Further, the squad car had had to cope with the traffic after an extra-inning night game and had lost time.

Bracken waited at the door. When the squad car had rounded the corner and growled almost to a stop, he turned and inserted his pass key into the door lock. As officers Dravchuk and Martin came up to him he pulled the door open and simultaneously reported, "Window display down the street's all smashed up and the glass's cracked. Whoever did it is still in there. Better be careful."

He edged into the opening, followed by the policemen, both of whom had drawn revolvers. They were in a darkened vestibule. Ahead of them a dimly lit passageway ran straight until it dissolved in darkness at some distant point in the store.

Dravchuk pulled open one of the inner doors; the three men flowed quickly through and spread out to take positions behind pillars and showcases, straining for any hint of movement or sound. There was none. Quietly they moved, each in his own aisle, toward the interior of the store. When they came opposite the pair of stairways with the escalator between them, Martin pointed.

"The lights are on in the basement," he whispered. Suddenly, shockingly, from above them, scream after scream pierced the stillness of the store. Without hesitation the two policemen separated. Dravchuk took one stairway, Martin the other; Bracken felt his way up the escalator. On the second floor, near the far wall, two figures were visible in the dim red light that marked a fire escape. They were struggling on the floor. Each in a side aisle, Martin and Dravchuk ran toward them. Holding his flashlight at arm's length to his side, Bracken flicked on the switch. The figures were a man and a woman. The man looked up, startled. He got swiftly to his feet, pulling the woman up with him. When the three men reached them he had her right arm twisted behind her back and his left hand over her mouth, to quiet the screams that were still coming from her on every breath. When she saw the two policemen she fell suddenly silent and buckled at the knees. The man had to grab her around the waist to keep her from hitting the floor.

"You gave me a start there," he said in a confident but rather breathless voice. "Didn't know you were here already." He lowered the woman to the floor. Bracken shined the light full in her face. The eyes were dark, wide open and unseeing. Blonde hair was lashed to her cheeks and forehead with a paste of tears and sweat. Lipstick was smeared all around her mouth.

"Toughest one I ever handled," the man said. "Been playing tag with her all over the store. She lifted a pair of gloves in Children's Clothing and I put the arm on her, but she slipped me right after closing time. So I was stuck. Had to stay in and dig her out or she'd lay low and hit the street after store opening in the morning. Almost got her when she broke the show window –that's what sent in the alarm. But she got away and I didn't nail her till she made a break for the fire escape."

The prospect of dragging a half-conscious woman out to the squad car, coping with her during the ride to second district, and then carrying her into the station house appealed to neither Dravchuk nor Martin. Martin peered into the gloom and tried to orient himself. "Isn't the shoe department near here? Let's get her back on her feet before we take her in." It took the three men to maneuver her the short distance and prop her in a chair, head against a pillar, feet on a fitting stool.

"All right, sister," ordered Dravchuk, "can the act 'cause it won't do you a bit of good." Bracken put his face close to hers for a moment and then looked up at the man. "How rough did you have to get with her?"

"Well," the man said, "she went wild when I grabbed her – biting, kicking, hollering. You saw us there on the floor. But I wouldn't say I was rough on her at all. Just enough to subdue her." He laughed. "But I guess what really subdued her was the sight of you guys with the uniforms and the artillery."

• • •

Some two hours before, the blonde hair had been tied neatly back in a ponytail and the blouse and skirt had shown little wilting after the heat of the day.

She hurried through aisles where a short time ago women had been clustered thickly about the racks and tables, but now had melted away. When she got to Tots' Wear the situation looked unpromising. The lone saleswoman was holding a tiny party frock at arm's length before a meditative customer, fluffing the skirt and perking the over-precious pink satin bow.

A pair of gloves. That was all – just a pair of white cotton gloves for Sally Ellen to wear to the party tomorrow.

Sally Ellen was four and Dinah Temple was four and Dinah lived in the big apartment house with the doorman around the corner on the Avenue. They played together in the park when Dinah came home from nursery school, and one day a letter came for Sally Ellen that had a pink-and-blue cherub on the first page with the printed words "You're invited!" and gave the details of time, date and place.

Only the gloves were needed. She had set her heart on Sally Ellen's wearing white gloves. Her eyes swept the Tots' Wear Department. There they were. She hurried to the counter. Some adorable string gloves in white. Would Dinah's mother think them too sophisticated for a four-year-old? A problem. She decided to risk it.

Gloves in hand, she turned toward the corner of the department where the saleswoman was holding court. The party frock had changed hands and she knew it would take time to close the sale. Over the loud-speaker system came the sound of chimes followed by a soft feminine voice intoning, regretfully, "The store is now closed. The store is now closed." With the gloves in her hand she reached into her tote bag for her purse. Suddenly her way was blocked by a tall man in a wrinkled cord suit and panama hat. He took hold of her forearm firmly while it was still in the bag.

"Can I see what you have in your hand, please?" His voice was deep and slightly breathless, as if he had just finished some mild exercise.

She withdrew her hand from the bag and showed him the gloves. He took them from her. "Come this way with me, please," he said.

She fell into step beside him and started matching his long strides down the aisle. He's a floorwalker or something, she thought. He's helping to conclude the sale so they can lock up the store and go home.

But they were walking all the way out of Tots' Wear. Then it came to her. Her mouth fell open. "Wait a minute. You don't think--"

"Just come along quietly," he said. "You are under arrest. Don't make trouble."

Arrest! She had never been arrested before. It paralyzed her mind. Side by side, like any married couple in shopping harness, they marched the length of the store. A flight of stairs brought them down to the main floor and for a few feet they mingled with the crowd flowing to the doors. Then the hand on her arm steered her abruptly through a curtained doorway and along a short, uncarpeted corridor, at the end of which a glass door was lettered Protection. He opened it and motioned her in.

A switch snapped and light from a green-shaded lamp spilled over the edges of a flat-top desk and illuminated a tiny room taken up largely by the desk and a swivel chair. On the other side of the desk, and sideways to it, stood a straightbacked chair on which were piled several small items of merchandise. The remaining floor space held a well-used typewriter on a roller table and a filing cabinet cluttered with more such items.

An electric clock hung on the wall, showing 9:35. The price tag was still tied to the power cord: $7.98. Foolishly she wondered how the store went about selling itself a clock.

He moved around the desk but changed his mind before sitting in the swivel chair and came back to gather up the items on the other chair. He piled them on top of those on the filing cabinet. He took the tote bag from her and placed it in the center of the desk top; motioned her to the chair he had cleared; glanced at the clock; and finally sat down in the swivel chair, still holding the gloves.

"Sit down."

She did. The tote bag was between them. He moved it aside and the light from the shaded lamp reflected upward from the desk top in his chin topped by a full, moist mouth, deep-cleft upper lip, and a nose that tapered abruptly from cavernous nostrils. He was around forty. His eyes were buried deep in the shadows under the brim of the Panama hat. His face had a waxen cast and, like wax left too long in the heat, it seemed to have softened and shifted ever so slightly.

Holding the gloves between thumb and forefinger he let them dangle halfway between them. "You stole these," he stated, "and we are going to put you in jail."

She caught her breath sharply and her words came in sobs rather than speech. "I didn't. I didn't. I was reaching for my purse to pay for them."

He shook his head. "The judge would laugh at you. You had the gloves in your bag."

She said in quick, fluttery sobs, "Let me go. Take my money. Take all my money but let me go. I have to get home. I didn't steal the gloves. Let me go home."

"All right," he said. "Take it easy." His voice became factual. "The store has a policy, of course, as to what it does with shoplifters. When we catch them, we pull them in. We listen to everything they have to say about how they weren't stealing – and, miss, all of them were just about to pay for what they had stowed away – and then we inform them that we intend to turn them over to the police. Unless they make it unnecessary." Here he stopped.

She was staring at him, holding back her sobs with the hand over her mouth. "How?" she brought out.

Unexpectedly, he grinned. "A confession," he said. "A confession, signed, witnessed and delivered. We explain to you that, if you ever show your face in this store again, we will use your confession to put you in jail. If you leave us alone, we leave you alone."

"But I couldn't do that!" she gasped. "Confess to something I didn't do? I would never do that!"

"In that case," he said, "we have absolutely no alternative but to prosecute." He stood up. "Now you just think about it. I'm going out to check around a bit. You just sit here and figure out how you want to play it – the police station right now or a nice little document in our files, where it'll stay forever if you behave yourself. And don't make a break for it. That would be stupid."

He left the room. She sat there alone and in terror, and tried to assess her predicament. The police or a false confession. What chance would she have with the police? She had never been in a police station nor a court of law. Was he telling the truth about how the confession would not be used? She burst into tears and got her handkerchief from her bag. She knew, long before he returned, that she was going to sign the confession.

He came back in about fifteen minutes, sank back in the swivel chair, and looked at the clock. "Ten oh three," he said. "Have you made up your mind?"

"I'll sign a confession," she whispered, "if you will let me go."

"Very good," he said. "I thought all along that you were a sensible girl." He pulled open a drawer of the desk. "And I have good news for you. You won't have to write it all out. We have a form that you can use. Merely fill in the blanks and sign at the bottom."

He laid it before her. Through bleared eyes she read phrases: ... took the articles described below ... intended to deprive and defraud ... knew that they did not belong to me ... articles so taken by me were as follows.

"Here's a pen," the man said.

Below the text, in the space provided under Articles, she wrote, "I pr. chil- dren's cotton gloves," and under Value: "$1.98." She dated the document and signed it, and he took it and the pen from her.

"You didn't fill in the top part," he said. "Never mind, I'll do it. What is your full name?" His voice was a quick and breathless rumble. She told him.

"Where do you live?" She told him that. Slowly he wrote it in. "And you committed the felony at about 9:25 p.m." Slowly he wrote the figure. He took a ruled yellow pad from the desk drawer.

"There are other facts the store will wish to have on file. How old are you?"

She felt that her ordeal was almost over now, and had her voice back under control. "Twenty-four."

"Are you married?"

"No. Yes ... I mean ..."

"Well, are you or aren't you?"

"I was. I am. My husband left me a couple of years ago."

"Any children?"

"Yes. I have a little girl. Her name is Sally Ellen."

"Got a job?"

"Yes. I'm an office manager. I never had any trouble bef--"

"How much do you make?"

She hesitated a moment; then stammered, "Ninety-five dollars a week. It's ridiculous to think I would steal a two-dollar --"

"How much of your salary do you save?"

"I try to save about fifteen dollars a week."

"How much do you spend on alcoholic beverages per week?"

She bridled. "Aren't these questions getting pretty personal? I can't see where it's anybody's business––"

"Just answer the question, please."

"As it happens,"she said stiffly, "I don't drink."

"Are you addicted to the use of narcotics?"

"Really!"

With amazement she saw him write down her answer: "Really." He went back over it, retracing the letters. Apparently still not satisfied, he placed an exclamation point after the word, rolling the pen slowly between his fingers and bearing down so that the point sank visibly into the pad.

"And, since your husband left you," he asked in the same factual tone of voice, "have you had sexual relations with other men?"

She stared at him. The blood drained from her face, then flooded back in a deep flush that seemed to make her eyes flash.

"Let me put it another way," the man said; and now he was grinning broadly. "Of course a pretty chick like you gets around. The store wants to know whether you get a kick from making love to a stranger."

Anger gave her speech. "I will certainly report this to the manager tomorrow," she said, her face flaming. "You have no call to get vulgar. If the questions are over, let me out of here."

He leaned back in the swivel chair and looked again at the clock. It said 10:22. He tapped the fingertips of his two hands against each other over his belly.

"I can't," he said. "All the doors are locked."

"Then get a key."

"I don't know where there's a key."

"Then call the watchman."

"There isn't any watchman."

"Then call somebody else."

"There isn't anybody else."

"What do you mean, there isn't––"

She was on her feet, holding onto the desk.

He picked up her thread. "Everybody's gone. It takes fifty minutes to close the store. Last one left about four minutes ago."

She made an effort to keep things neat and orderly. "Then you must be the watchman."

"They don't have a watchman. They don't need one. The whole place is wired. Anybody tries to break in – or out – the cops'll be here in no time."

She took a step backward. "What do you mean, they don't have a watchman? Who's "they'?"

"The store. The people who run the store." He was still tapping his fingertips together.

Her next question came after a long pause. "What do you do here? You work for the store, don't you?"

"I used to."

She made one final effort. "You mean you're a detective with the police department?"

His grin became a giggle.

"Then you didn't really arrest me? You – you couldn't!"

"I made it look good, didn't I?"

Suddenly his giggles filled the tiny room. She heard in them, quite unmistakably, the sound of madness pleased with itself. Aghast, she backed up against the door. Gradually his noises subsided; but still, while he spoke, he interrupted himself. She listened, her eyes bright with fear.

"I got me a job here. A job as a porter!" Hiccup of laughter. "Me, a porter! You should have seen me with a mop. Name it, I cleaned it – Receiving and Marking, Accounts Receivable, Unit Control Office, Corsets and Brassieres, Intimate Apparel, all the dressing rooms. You can't name a place I didn't clean. I know this store inside out. I know more about it than the people who own it." Prolonged squeals of relish. "I planned the whole thing. I just been waiting for the woman. Not any woman. The right woman. I followed you tonight for an hour. Then I tagged you. You were the piece I wanted."

He sat up straight in the chair now and put his hands on its arms, as if about to rise. He ran his tongue along his full upper lip. This small gesture was what set her off. She screamed. But he did not rise. He sat there, grinning at her.

"We're all alone in this big store, rabbit," he said. "There's no way out of it. We have it all to ourselves. And do you know what I'm going to do to you in a few minutes? In some aisle, first, and then in Home Furnishings, on a bed, and then in the president's office, on that big couch of his?"

She knew.

"No!" she whispered. Behind her back her hand groped for the door knob. He saw what she was doing. He made no motion to rise. "I know every nook and cranny of this store," he said. "You can't hide from me. I can find you anywhere."

He sprang up from the chair, and there was an urgent, heated, hungry quality in his gaze. "Run, rabbit, run!" he cried. "I'm going to track you down!"

With a shriek she turned and plunged through the door into the uncharted darkness of the department store from which all human presence had been withdrawn until the next day's dawn.

She burst through the curtained doorway and crashed into the counter across the aisle, which ran at right angles. Gasping with fear, she stumbled off to her left through the blackness. After a dozen steps the floor dropped from beneath her feet and she avoided plunging headlong only because her flailing arm caught a handrail to which she clung while her feet righted themselves on an unseen stairway. She felt her way down the steps and when she reached the bottom her outstretched hands found walls and a door that led her into the basement floor.

From some distant point a single light cast a wan glow on the ceiling and made crags and hillocks of counters and tables heaped with merchandise. Before her a passageway seemed to stretch straight and clear. She began to run and covered a distance that might have been thirty feet or a hundred feet when she tripped and went sprawling to the floor.

She lay where she fell, listening, but the pounding of her heart and her raucous breathing were at first all she could hear. Then she heard footsteps, quick, short-paced, and businesslike. They seemed to come from in front rather than the direction from which she had fled, and she had no idea how far away. Remembering her own high-heeled shoes, she drew them off and waited, listening as the steps slowed and came to a halt.

Suddenly he called out her given name.

"I knew you'd be in the basement, be- cause either way you ran you'd fall down the stairs. So I took my time." He was matter-of-fact, filling her in with information he knew she'd want.

She lay still, fighting to keep her gasps down.

"I don't want to do it here in the basement. I got a spot on the street floor, right on the main aisle near Cosmetics. Must be a thousand women go by it every day."

She waited a moment more, then got to her knees and crept off in what she thought was the opposite direction. But the rustle of her dress must have reached his ear, because he called her name again and she heard his footsteps coming in her direction. Panic urged her to flee; fear commanded caution. Her hand groped desperately for some clue and found a waist-high object that she judged to be a showcase. She Worked her way down its length until it ended. She rounded the corner, sank to the floor behind it, and tried to shrink.

In a moment the footsteps passed down the aisle beside her. In another moment she heard a thud, then a tinkle, and finally the brittle cry of glass disintegrating in thousands of fragments on impact with a hard surface.

After a brief while he called out her name again. "That was a display table," he announced to the dark.

Silence.

"I know how worried you must be that maybe I cut myself." Giggle.

Silence.

"You're not a rabbit, you're a pigeon. I didn't think there was anybody who didn't know how the arrest is always made outside the store."

Silence.

"Aren't you going to run, rabbit? It's no fun to catch you if you don't run."

Silence.

"I'll make you run," he said with finality. "I'm going to turn the lights on."

The terror that now welled up in her was the same she had known as a little girl when her father had punished her by locking her in the cellar. Only her father had said with similar finality, "I'm going to turn the lights out."

She crouched, ready for renewed flight, her hand outstretched. It found the showcase, and, hanging from it on a hook, the familiar form of a telephone. It was several seconds, during which she used the phone to support her weight, belore she realized its possible significance.

Of course! The store was full of phones. Any one of them was a link with the outside. Help was only minutes away. Ever so slowly, so that no slightest click might betray her, she lifted the phone and brought it to her ear.

The phone was dead.

Automatically her other hand found the hook and jiggled it. Nothing happened. She jiggled it some more, frantically.

A burst of laughter echoed through the basement. "Number plee-uz," he sang in falsetto. "Number plee-uz." More laughter, and his normal voice again. "A hundred phones in this store and all of them dead." And suddenly light flooded everything.

Behind the counter in darkness was sanctuary; in the light it would be a trap without escape. Stooping, head below the top of the showcase, she peered into the aisle. To the right, not fifteen feet away, lay the overturned table in its bed of shattered glass. To the left the aisle ran straight between counters and tables of chinaware, glassware, pots and pans until it brought up against a wall lined with glass shelves. Directly across from her was another showcase. "The Perfect Wedding Gift. Set of 8, $7.95." The sign was propped against a felt-lined box of steak knives, each polished blade agleam from point to bolster. They were behind glass. To break it would bring him on the run.

She fought hard against the temptation to raise her head above the counter tops for a quick look over the rest of the floor. Still crouching, she stole down the line of counters toward the far wall, marshaling unsuspected resources of courage for the perilous passage of the intersecting aisles.

At the end of her aisle her eye traveled along the shelf-lined wall and found a doorway over which hung a sign that read ladies' lounge. Relief swept over her. If she ran for it she could get to that traditional safety before he could. Almost at once her hope drained from her. The rules, she knew quite well, had been suspended. And at the instant of this realization she heard pounding footsteps behind her and saw him coming toward her. She fled down the nearest passage toward the middle of the store. He was gaining fast when dead ahead of her she saw the escalator. Without slackening speed she flung herself onto the steps. She dug her stockinged feet into the steel-ribbed treadboards and, grasping the rubber handrails on either side of the stairway, half ran and half pulled herself upward. She missed her step once and came down hard with her shin on the toothed edge of the riser, feeling the sharp bite of metal into her flesh. But now she had learned that moving stairs at rest are not like any other stairs. The treads are almost twice as deep, and to negotiate them quickly one must fling oneself forward as well as upward in a kind of ice skater's lope. This she did, quickening her pace as she mastered the rhythm. From behind her came sounds of stumbling and cursing: it seemed that she was doing the better job of learning the lesson of the moving stairs.

At the top, she plunged into the dark- ness of the first floor, and like a rat in a maze fled down unseen aisles, stumbling, falling, picking herself up, running again. She no longer knew whether she was running from danger or toward it, but she knew that she must keep running.

She drove hard against an obstruction with her head and one shoulder, and as she slid to the floor, dazed, her hand grasped the edge of a partly open door. She worked her way through the opening and drew the door shut behind her. Immediately she was entangled in a mass of coarse-woven hangings and she fought them with her remaining strength, ripping and clawing, until she had struggled free. There was dim light in the place, and now suddenly the glare of sunlight blinded her.

Squinting, she saw that she was on a sun-drenched beach, gay with giant umbrellas, cartwheel hats of straw, and canvas chairs in bright reds, greens and blues. Happy children, beautiful women and robust men glowed with sun-tanned health in gaudy swimsuits and beach robes. Each face was shining with manic bliss.

Close by she saw a little girl about Sally Ellen's age sitting with pail and shovel. Even as she looked, the child toppled slowly toward her until she hit the sand and her head came apart from her body. It rolled over once before it lay still, smiling into the cloudless sky.

She realized that she was in a show window.

She went to the glass and leaned her forehead against it; then cupped her hands around her eyes to shield them from the glare behind her and to overcome the mirror effect. Outside was the street with an apparently endless line of cars. Hundreds of people to give her aid! As she watched, the cars before her began to slow down; moved faster again; twitched forward and slowed; came to rest. Red light.

Directly opposite her, the light from her window picked out a hardtop idling in the line nearest the curb. The face of the driver was hidden by his arm, resting its elbow on the open window, his hand grasping the rain gutter. She rapped on the window, sharply with her knuckles, a short burst that bounced back like shots and terrified her by the noise it made.

The arm in the car window made no move.

She rapped on the glass again, harder and longer. The arm dropped, revealing a face in profile. The face swept a casual glance from one end of her window to the other and turned back to stare through its windshield. Then, a double take, it came around a second time and looked straight at her.

So that's where it's coming from, she read in his eyes.

Help me.

Must be a window trimmer.

Help me! Call the police!

Pretty late for trimming windows.

Call the police!

Probably some advertising stunt to catch the cars going home from the game.

A long blast from a horn behind him snapped his head back to the windshield and the discovery that the cars in front of him had moved silently on. His car lurched forward and the cars behind him picked up speed. In a moment they were flashing by.

She drew back from the window and shifted her focus from the street outside to the sheet of glass itself. You fool, she thought. It's nothing but glass. Break it and you can walk out of here in a second. She raised both fists and brought them with all her strength in a wide are from behind her head against the window. Nothing happened. She turned and darted her eyes over the happy seaside group behind her. The smiling head of the little blonde girl lay a few feet away. She picked it up and was so disappointed by its incongruous lightness that she let it fall again. She turned back to the window and began to pound on it. She had no clear idea whether the entire wall of glass might crash into the street or only enough of it for her to crawl through. Neither happened. After six or seven blows she sensed that she was no longer beating against an ungiving barrier but against a pulsating, elastic membrane. The huge window was buckling in and out. In terror lest the window shatter on an inward pulsation and inundate her, she stepped back.

She felt desperation climbing up her trunk. The noise she was making would surely attract her pursuer. Her time was running out. She grabbed a plaid ice bucket that was planted in the sand. It had an empty bottle in it and it was heavy. She hurled it with all her strength at the window. The crash was followed by a shriek from the window as a crack appeared from ceiling to floor. And in that instant the lights went out.

The tension in her had been almost too much. Now, in the shocking darkness, it broke her down. There rose through her a wave of what she knew to be hysteria. It engulfed her at once. Her head went light; her mind scattered. All around her were shadowy figures, men-acing in the shifting light from the street.

"All right," she blurted, "which one of you turned out the light?" She laughed, smothered it, and laughed again, a high-pitched whinny.

A longer, blood-curdling giggle answered her. "I did," his voice said. "I knew the lights went off automatically at eleven. I been watching you for the past five minutes. You ready now, rabbit?"

She saw his dim outline in the next window, feeling his way past the obstacles between them. She stumbled toward the door; fell; fought the curtain again; found her way to the handle; fell again, into the aisle; picked herself up and ran blindly into a flight of stairs to the second floor. Moaning, sobbing, she crawled up them. Behind her she heard a thrashing and pounding as he too freed himself of the window. Then, strangely, as she crept upstairs on hands and knees, all was silence.

Was she alone on the second floor? Was she safe again, for a while? It seemed so. Except that she could not keep the sounds from coming out of her, to advertize her whereabouts – sobs, gasps, little cries. She tried to stifle them but they were beyond her control. She lay down on the floor and held both hands over her mouth. The sounds came through her nose. Help me, help me, ran through her mind. She could not keep the sounds back.

She could not wait either. She stood up and her eye was caught by a red glow at the very far end of the aisle. Wracked beyond endurance, out of control, she yet remembered what she had learned in P.S. 65: Red Light – Fire Exit. Never locked.

Stooping, holding her hand over her mouth, she scuttled toward the red light. There was not a sound in any part of the store. Where was he? At the last cross aisle she paused and listened again. Not a sound. Ahead of her, ten feet away, was the heavy metal door to the fire escape. She put her head out and looked in both directions. The way was clear! She was safe!

She stumbled to the door, heaved it open, and plunged into the night.

He was standing on the fire escape. He grabbed her with one arm and reached out with the other to hold the door open. The triumphant grin on his face, not six inches from hers, said hunger about to be gratified. She was struck dumb by this miscarriage of her great and last hope. He dragged her back inside.

And now he did not giggle. Now that the chase was over he was hard, purposeful, and arrogant. "Hello, rabbit," he said. "Do you realize what I did just now? I locked myself outside the store! I knew you were upstairs, I knew you would see the fire door, I knew you would go for it, I knew the door wasn'twired to the alarm system. I I knew you would come to me! I knew I had my little rabbit." And only then did he allow himself a low chuckle.

She screamed. She did not stop screaming when his uncompromising mass, exuding heat and damp, crushed her to the floor while his full, moist mouth sought to attach itself to hers with eager sucking sounds.

• • •

Bracken looked at the half-conscious woman in the chair, and then at the tall man, who seemed to be holding himself as much as possible in the shadows.

"Been doing protection work long?" he asked casually.

"Oh, off and on."

"Who broke you in? On Protection, I mean."

A pause. "Jonsen did. Mr. Jack Jon-sen. He broke me in. He's head of Protection here, you know."

"Yes," Bracken said dryly, "I know.

Think he did a good job of showing you the ropes?"

The man was emphatic. "He's the best in the business. Say, listen" – changing the subject – "I'm pretty bushed. Why don't you fellows take her in and I'll go home and get some sleep and check with you in the morning?"

He was edging toward the main aisle as he said this. His way was blocked by Dravchuk and Martin, who showed no inclination to move, and he was deciding whether to try walking around them when Bracken spoke. "Wish we could, but somebody's got to sign the complaint or the boys here won't book her. Jonsen told you about signing complaints, didn't he?"

"Oh, sure. I just thought you could lock her up for the night and I'd come down in the morning."

"It'll just take a few minutes at the station house and then you can get your sleep." Pause. "You say you tackled her on the fire escape?"

"No," the man said. "I got her right where you saw us. On the five-yard line, you might say." He managed to produce a laugh.

"Well," Bracken said. He leaned down to the woman in the chair, who reached out and gripped his forearm. "Miss, can you come with us now? You're among friends. We want to get you to a doctor."

The woman stared at him with eyes to which comprehension was returning. The man threw a glance at the policemen's two drawn revolvers and at the fire door, now thirty yards away. "Say, I ought to call home, let my wife know why I'm late. I'll just duck down the fire escape to the phone booth in the parking lot and meet you in about two minutes at the squad car."

Bracken did not even bother to answer him. "Keep an eye on that fellow," he said in a matter-of-fact voice to the police officers. "He's a fake. The window isn't wired. The fire door is wired. Any real protection man would know that. Ok, let's shove off." There were three flashlights burning, and they threw a good deal of light. In it they could see the man lick his lips and they could see his frightened eyes, rather like those of a rabbit in a trap.

Her eye found the clock over the bank of elevators and she was shocked to realize that it was 9:25 p.m. Robertson, Schwab and Miller closed at 9:30 on Friday nights and she had only five minutes for the job she had come downtown to do.