Curtain for a Jester by Frances Lockridge

looked at her. She looked fine. He groaned again, mildly. He said it was an unfair world.
    â€œWhy go to the office?” Pam asked. “Let illiteracy flourish.”
    Jerry was tempted. His conscience raised shocked hands. He would be no good anyway, Jerry told his conscience. His conscience shook its head. It isn’t as if I had a hangover, Jerry told his conscience. I need sleep. “Pooh!” Jerry’s conscience said. “Of course you have.”
    Jerry hailed a cab. Pamela bought coffee—also oranges, bacon which would turn out to have really been cured and could be returned if not (and which had not, and was not returned), English muffins, a dozen eggs and a jar of red caviar. These things she carried home, as penance. It was a bright morning; it was almost as if New York City might, for once, have spring. It was, Pam thought, too bad about Jerry and mornings. Mornings were fine.
    The morning still was fine, although the grocery bag was beginning to grow heavy, when Pam went into the lobby of the apartment building. It was fine as, having pressed the signal button, she waited for Joe to bring the elevator down. It was fine until the elevator door opened.
    A slim young woman, holding a cloth coat tight about her, came out of the elevator. Her face was very white, her lips moved, white teeth rubbing them; the eyes in her drained white face seemed inordinately large, and seemed tormented. Before she took this in, Pam North started to smile, remembering. This was the girl last night in the awful—
    But the smile faded. The young woman did not appear to see Pam North. She did not appear to see anything. It seemed to Pam that the girl moved unsteadily, as if in partial darkness. She brushed past Pam and went toward the door and the street. When she was near the door she began almost to run. It was as if she were running in darkness, although she was in fact running toward the sun.
    Pam had turned to watch her. She turned back, now, to Joe. Joe was looking after the hurrying girl, and his mouth was open.
    â€œShe sure acts scared,” Joe said. “She’s a girl works for Mr. Wilmot in the penthouse.”
    â€œShe was—terrified,” Pam said. “It was—something dreadful must have happened.”
    She made no move to get into the elevator. All the fineness had gone out of the morning. It was chilly in the lobby, by the elevator.
    â€œAll right a while ago,” Joe said. “Comes maybe twice a week. Stenographer, I guess. Secretary or something. A little while ago I took her up and she was all right. Not chatty or anything, but all right.”
    Pam waited.
    â€œThen she starts ringing,” Joe said. “Just leans on the button, though I started fast as I could. I opened the door ready to ask where the fire was and there she was, looking like that. All the way down you could—well, sort of hear her breathing.”
    â€œEvitts,” Pam said. “That’s her name. Martha Evitts.”
    â€œCould be,” Joe said. “Well—” He stood aside for Pam to go into the elevator.
    â€œSomething dreadful must have happened,” Pam said again. But she went into the elevator.
    â€œSay he’s a great man for jokes,” Joe said, closing the door, starting the car. “Booby trap jokes. Maybe—” He stopped the car. He said, “Here we are.” He waited. Pam got out. She went into her apartment. She put the bag of groceries on a kitchen counter. She stood looking at it.
    But Pam North was not looking at it. She was not looking at anything. She was seeing a sensitive face, working in terror—in shock. She was seeing the blankness in large eyes. She tried to erase the picture from her mind; spent minutes in the effort, and abstractedly stored groceries in refrigerator and in bins. But the picture held, grew more vivid. Pam gave up, then, and, certain she had already wasted priceless time, almost ran from the