Ghost of a Chance by Kelley Roos

newspaper—they were accidents. They were parts of the trap into which I had fallen. Somewhere, probably in the cafeteria, Joyce had seen and recognized me. Somewhere right above me he was waiting for me now.
    My eyes were on a level with the second floor. There was no sound, no movement there. I searched the hallway as far as I could see without moving. There was nothing there, nothing but two blobs of black protruding from the niche a doorway made. Flattened against that door, almost lost in the murky light, was Joyce.
    Without turning, I lowered my foot to the step beneath me. The black shoes hadn’t moved. I took another backward step and then another. I eased myself down again, straining for a sound above me.
    I heard it then. A quick rush of movement, the pound of heavy steps. But I was already at the door, wrenching it open, shoving against the outer one. I felt the cold, clean air on my face as I raced blindly out into the street.

Chapter Eight: The “Marx” Sisters
    The warmth of the waldorf lobby was a comfort to me, but not quite enough. The well-fed contentment of the people, solid-looking citizens all, was reassuring, but I needed something more. I needed Jeff. I needed him to put an arm around me, to tell me everything was all right, that he would personally see to it that I never again followed a strange man into a strange place. The tremors returned to my solar plexus. I lit a cigarette and used the smoke to blot out the image of a pair of shoes with a man in them, waiting for me to come just a little closer.
    Jeff was not in the lobby. In a moment I would go to the desk and ask if there was a message for me. But first I needed the rest of my cigarette to get me back in shape. The ride uptown to the Waldorf hadn’t been quite long enough to accomplish that. But now I was safe, I was sound. There was nothing like a Park Avenue hotel lobby to make a girl feel fine again. I took a deep drag on my cigarette, enjoying it.
    A voice, hard and cold as steel, spoke into my ear. The man was standing behind me. I started to turn toward him and his hand grasped my arm, held me straight forward. The words came again.
    “Get going. Right out that door.”
    I didn’t answer him; I couldn’t. My lips were stiff, my mouth suddenly dry as dust.
    “Come on, Toots,” the voice said softly. “Move.”
    “No,” I whispered. Then I found my weapon. “Let me go or I’ll scream. I’ll scream until the police come.”
    The voice laughed. “The police, that’s good. I’m the one who’ll call the police. Go on now back to Sixth Avenue where you belong. This is out of your territory.”
    “Out of my…” I wrenched myself loose from the man, turned to face him. “What are you talking about? I am waiting for my husband!”
    “I knew, I know.” He smiled mirthlessly at me. “All you girls are waiting fer your husbands.”
    I gasped. If I hadn’t gathered what the man meant, the mirror on the wall across the lobby would have told me. I still had on my snazzy Harlequins. The two spots of red stood out on my cheeks like two red lamps. My painted mouth seemed to be saying, “C’mon up, big boy.” And my high, high heels and sable coat were exactly what one of the girls would save for a week to buy. I almost wept with shame. I didn’t look cute and pixie as I had thought. I looked like the newest apprentice in the oldest profession in the world.
    The house detective took my elbow.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    “No!” I cried. “No, I’m not a… I’m not a-babe! I am so waiting for my husband! He… there he is over there now!”
    Jeff, in fact, was there. He was crossing the lobby toward the desk. In my excitement my voice rose.
    “That’s my husband!” I screeched.
    Everyone in the place turned to stare at me, including Jeff. He saw me pointing at him. His eyes widened in horror, not the horror of recognition, but in plain, unadulterated horror. His face flamed with embarrassment.
    “Darling!” I