Rear Window Read Free Page A

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.
      In other words, the rational part of my mind was far behind the instinctive, subconscious part.   Delayed action.   Now the one had caught up to the other.   The thought-message that sparked from the synchronization was: He's done something to her!
      I looked down and my hand was bunching the goods over my kneecap, it was knotted so tight.   I forced it to open.   I said to myself, steadyingly: Now wait a minute, be careful, go slow.   You've seen nothing.   You know nothing.   You only have the negative proof that you don't see her any more.
      Sam was