The Window

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
New York, 1955.
In the Thompson Building in New York, Martin West, an ordinary man, sees a woman being murdered in her apartment. When he investigates, he becomes more irrational as the evening progresses.

Submitted: September 29, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 28, 2019



The Thompson Building.

New York, June 5, 1955.

8:00 PM.

"So, Martin, what do you mean you hate jazz music?", Marv Weissel asked him. 

"It's so deeply depressing", he answered.

"Have a cigarette, and dream about Grace Kelly".

"From 'Rear Window' with James Stewart, and Raymond Burr".


"It's something outrageous. You don't care about no one".

"I do care. I don't want to infiltrate the notion that I want to love again after Mary's death". He smoked a cigarette.

"Mary was someone you loved".

"The war started. And everyone came back dead from Europe".

"And now it's nineteen fifty-five, not nineteen forty-five", Marv said.

"I know. A decade is a long time ago".

He walked away, and saw Mrs. Richards near Room 4332.


"What's wrong?", she asked him.

"Nothing", Martin answered.

"It has to be something".

"Nothing", Martin insisted. 

"There's a girl inside Room 4326. Carol Greg. She is an actress".


"She knows you".

"Me. No, I don't know her".

"She told me about the Korean incident in nineteen fifty-one".

Martin stared at her like she was paranoid, or watching his mail.

"I don't know her".

"She knows you. Here's your mail".

"You have my mail?", Martin asked her.

"You were asleep", she answered.

"I watched 'The Third Man' at the cinema".

"A classic".

"Anyway, no one should go through my mail".

"There wasn't anything wrong with the letters".

"What letters?".

"The ones from the Earl Thompson, the owner of the Building".

"Earl isn't my friend. He's a fat cat Catholic bastard".

He watched her, and grabbed his key, then he opened the door.


Martin flicked on the light.

His blue eyes focused in the dimness.

He turned on the light, and saw nothing.

A dark shadow of a woman smirked at him. 

"Martin. I knew it was you".

He looked at her.

"Carol Greg".

"So, you do know me".

"Indirectly. Guilty by association".

"And now you're here with another key".

"You have another key".

"Yes, I persuaded the owner to get me one cut".

"Listen. I don't want to let you to know me personally. Besides, I am not going to tell the police, because your seductive techniques won't work on me".

"But you want me".


She glided towards him with her red gown. 

She touched him with her right, middle finger.

"Love me", Carol said.

And they kissed with passion, and Martin forgot about whatever was going on inside his apartment. 


Martin awoke two hours' later.

"I feel bad".

"I'll go near the window. I need fresh, New York air".



In a matter of seconds, Carol saw cars nearby off 131st Street, and 7th Avenue. 

It was a warm seventy degree late evening.

"Don't go near the window".


"My last girlfriend died falling out of the window".


"Don't take the Lord's name in vein".

"I'm Jewish".


"So, who was she?".

"Natalie Anderson".

"The cosmetics heiress".

"Back in nineteen fifty".

"She had too many men in her life".

"She wasn't like me".

"I know. Don't go near the window".

She felt her pink shoes near the sharp edges of the window. 

"Don't!", Martin yelled.

He heard her screams, as she fell out, and landed on the concrete below. 


"So, what happened?", New York Homicide Detective Al Forher asked him.

"She fell out of the window. It was like the other girl before her", Martin answered. 

"So, that's two girls in New York who've died with you in the apartment".


"So, you're close to the death penalty".

"I am innocent".

"Everyone in New York says they're innocent, Martin".


"Enough. Let's come down to the station, and we'll talk".

Martin grabbed his brown wallet, and keys.

As he left the apartment, he saw the window.

He closed it, and walked away.

Page 1.


© Copyright 2020 Robert Helliger. All rights reserved.

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