Jane slowly lifted herself out of the bed, slipped into her jeans, and tucked in the T-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown. She left her shoes behind as she eased open the bedroom door. The apartment was well lit by the skyline glare coming in through the glass living-room wall. Jane could see the furniture settings in the living room below, the piano bar on one side, and even the breakfast room near the kitchen. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. Nothing was moving. She listened and heard the silence of the apartment over the soft street noises from outside. Not a sound other than a motor hum from below, probably the heating system or maybe a kitchen freezer.
Yet she had seen the light go on. Someone had to have lifted a telephone somewhere in the apartment. Jane looked back through the open door of her room at the phone on the desk. The light had gone out.
Was it a problem with the phone? A light that went on and off accidentally, or a handset that was off the hook? She was certain that the light came on long after she had hung up her own phone. The fact that she couldn’t access the extension seemed to confirm that the line was in use.
She slid along the outside of the balcony, panning her eyes down over the railing into the corners of the space below. But she stopped when she reached the top of the stairs. Why should she go down? If there was a burglar in the rooms below, the last thing she should do was confront him. God, but it was eerily like Kay Parker, going down the stairs of the mountain chalet and confronting an intruder.
But what if he was up there on the bedroom floor, lurking in one of the other guest rooms? Maybe in the room that Bill used. Or maybe in Kay’s room. Then she should go down and get out of the apartment as fast as she could. But that was dangerous, too. She would have to go back to her room to get her elevator key. And then the elevator would take time coming up from the ground floor, time during which she would be trapped helplessly in the foyer.
She remembered the building staff down in the lobby. A night doorman. A concierge. Call down and tell them that someone had broken in. They could call the police and then come up in the elevator. She turned back to her bedroom, now more desperate to get to the door and close it behind her than she was to keep an eye on the living room. She went straight to her desk without turning on the light and found the telephone. But before she could pick up the handset, another light flashed on. She tried a different line. More rapid beeping! All the phone lines were tied up. She was trapped in the huge apartment with no communications and no elevator, a prisoner of whoever had broken in. The wonderful new world atop the New York skyline had turned into a death trap.
Something crashed downstairs—a dish, a lamp, maybe even a bottle from the liquor cabinet. Jane froze and listened to the silence that followed. There was nothing, not even the motor hum she had heard before. Then there was a creak, soft, muffled, and distant. It was a footstep at the bottom of the stairs. Whoever was down there was coming up. She went to the door and pressed her ear against it. Another sound, like the first. Another step, she thought. She found the doorknob and turned the lock. But that wouldn’t help much. It was only a flimsy privacy lock. One good kick and the door would fly open.
Should she scream? Would that startle the intruder and make him aware that someone was home? Or would it drive him into action and send him rushing to silence the screamer? It might not matter at all. No one would hear her. She was two levels away from the closest building resident, and twenty-five floors above the street.
Her cell phone chirped somewhere behind her. The cell phone! She ran back around the bed and dug into the pockets of the clothes she had carelessly discarded. Another chirp. Her hand followed the sound until she found the glowing data screen. “Yes,” she said in a horse whisper, and heard Bill’s voice. “Hi, I tried to call you back—”
“Bill, someone’s in the apartment. The phones are knocked out. He’s coming up the stairs.”
“What?”
She nearly shouted. “Someone is coming after me.”
“Hang up! Dial nine-one-one! I’ll call the lobby!” He clicked off. Jane ended the call and pressed 911.
“Police emergency,” a woman’s voice answered.
“Help me. Someone has broken in to my apartment.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s a penthouse. Fifth Avenue, across from the park.”
“What’s the address?”
What in hell was the address? Bill had given it to her. She had written it down. She had read it off a piece of paper when she stood in front of the building. What was it? Six-something, she thought. She knew there was a six in it.
“Ma’am, I’m not showing a caller ID number. Are you on a cell phone?”
“Yes!”
“Then you’ll have to tell me the address.”
She blurted out a number. That was it. It sounded right.
“Okay, help is on the way,” the woman’s voice said. “Stay on the line. Keep talking to me. Can you see the intruder?”
“I’m locked in my bedroom,” Jane said. But not really, she knew. The lock wouldn’t keep anyone out. She groped for the chair and carried it toward the door. But then she heard another footstep, this one right outside her door. Someone tried to turn the doorknob. The lock jiggled. “He’s right outside my door!” Jane screamed into her phone.
A telephone rang in the lobby, startling the night man who was dozing behind his desk. He dropped his feet from the desktop and reached out with one hand. “Front desk, Joseph speaking.” With his other hand he tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes. A second later he was bolt upright. “Yes, Mr. Andrews.”
The distant voice was shouting, talking too quickly to be distinct. “Where? … Your penthouse?” Joseph listened. “Who’s there?” The call didn’t make any sense. The penthouse elevator hadn’t moved since he came on duty. And the penthouse was empty. Mrs. McCarty had gone home. Mr. Andrews was logged out.
It took steely discipline for Andrews to start over again, this time more slowly. A young woman who was using his apartment was in great danger. There was an intruder in the penthouse, and the telephones had been disabled.
“I’ll call the police” Joseph decided.
“Get someone up there now!” Andrews shouted.
Joseph screamed at the night porter, who was asleep in a soft chair. “Get up to the penthouse. Find out what’s going on!”
“What’s happening?” the woman was shouting over Jane’s phone. “Are you all right?” Jane wasn’t able to answer. She had all her weight against the door and was trying to drag the desk chair under the knob. The door was still rattling softly as someone turned it from the other side.
“I’ve called the police!” Jane shouted through the door. “They’re on the way!” The door stopped rattling. Quick footsteps faded toward the stairs. The front doorbell rang, followed in a few seconds by loud knocking. She heard the warble of a siren, growing louder in the street below.