THE UNANSWERED CALL
By Thomas T. Hoyne
Six months of married life had not staled the two great adventures in each week day of Delia Hetherington’s placid existence—the morning leavetaking and the evening return of her husband. His departure was a climax of lingering kisses, admonitions, and exhortations; his return a triumph. Did he not put all to the touch with Fortune at every parting and go forth to strive all day, a dauntless hero, ’mid motor juggernauts and rushing trolley cars, ’neath dangling safes and dropping tiles, beside treacherous pitfalls and yawning manholes? But ever he bore a charmed life and returned to his love in the dark of the evening with thrilling tales of his salesmanship and of repartee to his boss.
Delia hummed a plaintive, childish melody as she set the little, round dining-table for two persons. As is the habit of brides, she laid the places side by side instead of opposite each other. A light shadow of curiosity flickered across her mind, and she carefully laid a saucer on the table to note the effect of a third place. She snatched it up again, blushing, although there was no one else in all the length and breadth of the four-room apartment where she and Fred, upheld by the installment plan, had built their nest. She resumed her singing, bird-like in its thin simplicity. Such a song, one could imagine, Mrs. Cock Robin sang while awaiting the home-coming of her mate.
A soft knocking at the back door drew Delia from happy contemplation of the glistening forks that lay beside the two plates on the dining-room table. She hurried into the kitchen, wisely remembering Fred’s insistence that she must never unlock the screen door to a stranger before she discovered his design. No well-dressed youth seeking to pay his way through college by getting subscriptions for “The Woman’s Life and Fashion Bazaar” could find in his patter the countersign to win him admittance; no grizzled gypsy with shining tins to barter for old shoes knew the magic word to make the hook fly up under Delia’s cautious hand.
But the man who stood on the narrow porch, panting like a Marathon runner, was none of these.
“The steps,” he gasped, pressing one hand over his heart, “too much for me.”
To climb the four flights of stairs to the Hetherington apartment at the top of the building was a test for a strong man. He who knocked at the screen door was slight in build and looked ill.
With quick sympathy Delia unhooked the door and pushed it open.
“Come in and sit down a minute,” she said gently.
The man staggered across the threshold and dropped into the chair she offered him. The screen door shut with a slam.
He shivered as if a draft of icy air had struck him.
“Close the inside door—quick,” he panted; and Delia, under the spell of her sympathy, obeyed without thought.
“It’s too bad to trouble you,” he said nervously, “but I’m not a well man.”
Delia handed him a glass of water. He sipped at it between gasps.
“Don’t light the gas,” he cried sharply.
Delia had scratched a match, for night was falling rapidly. She snapped out the little flame and looked at him half afraid.
“Just let me rest a moment,” he said. “There’s no harm in me. I couldn’t hurt a baby if I wanted to.”
He almost whimpered as he looked curiously around the room.
“You’re all alone, eh? I’m glad you weren’t afraid to let me in. Some women would have left me standing out there.”
“What would I be afraid of?” she asked simply, feeling uneasy nevertheless.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered irritably. “Only most people seem to be afraid of a sick man. They don’t want him around. They won’t give him a chance.”
“That can’t be so,” said Delia. “Every one naturally feels sorry for a sick person.”
“No, they don’t,” he contradicted roughly. “Do you know what would happen if I fainted in the street? Do you think any one would help me? Not much. I could lie there like a dog while the crowd went by. The men would laugh; the women would say, ‘Disgusting.’ I know. It has happened to me.”
He coughed slightly and finished the glass of water.
A faint sound outdoors caught his ear. He stepped quickly to the window and peered out. Starved and unkempt he looked, but a quaint neatness about his clothing hinted at the regular habits of a workingman.
He turned to Delia suddenly.
“I’ve got to tell you,” he whispered swiftly. “They’re coming up here. You’ve got some sympathy for a man and you ain’t afraid.”
She looked at him and began to understand.
“I’m a thief,” he said bluntly, and gulped on the word. “I stole a few dollars and the police are after me.”
“A thief!” she cried, staring at him. “I have no money.”
“I know, I know,” he mumbled in desperate hurry. “I don’t want to rob you. I want to get away. I was forced to do it.”
“Forced!”
“We were starving. I’m married, the same as you are. Wouldn’t your husband steal for you?”
He stopped short and listened. Loud knocking sounded somewhere below.
“All I want you to do is to let me out the front door; and don’t tell. Say you didn’t see me.”
Already he had shuffled through the dining-room, Delia following him into the narrow, short, dark hall.
“If any one knocks don’t answer,” he whispered. “Don’t light any lights.”
He opened the front door cautiously.
“They’ll think no one’s here.” He turned and looked at her. “It’ll give me a chance—just a chance is all I want. You’ll never be sorry.”
He closed the door softly behind him.
Delia stood listening, breathless.
Voices questioned and answered on the porch below, but she could not distinguish the words. She felt as if she herself were guilty of some crime.
Suddenly the telephone bell on the wall beside her rang with startling abruptness.
She did not move. Heavy feet were mounting the stairs to the back porch.
Again the telephone rang out against the stillness in the little apartment.
She dared not move, but stood pressed against the wall. Through the darkness she could see the doorway into the lighter kitchen like a black frame.
The telephone rang again, long and insistently.
Heavy knocking shook the back door, but it got no response from Delia. There was a pause of silence and then a voice cried out with the rapidity of excitement:
“No one’s home, Jim. He couldn’t get through here.”
This was what she had been listening for.
The noise of descending footsteps died away.
Delia sprang to the telephone and waited eagerly. But the bell did not ring again.
· · · · · · ·
“Any trace of him, Jim?” asked the desk sergeant, as the big patrolman entered the police station.
“Naw. Anybody identify the body?”
“He had cards on him that gave his name and address. The poor guy never knew what hit him. He didn’t get the chance to give up his dough; one white-livered sneak croaked him from behind with a piece of lead pipe. We called up his home, but couldn’t raise anybody.”