The steady red lamp beneath Jack #304 burned without blinking.
Clara Vance stared at the small glass jewel, her fingers curled tight around the rubber armrests of her St. Jude’s wheelchair.
The red light threw a bloody dot across the black phenolic faceplate of the switchboard. It wasn’t flashing on and off like a normal incoming call driven by the sub-basement interrupter drum. It glowed solid, flat, and still.
That meant someone--or something--up on the third floor had lifted the heavy Bakelite handset off its cradle and was holding the line open in the dark.
“Extension 304 is off-hook,” Clara said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried cleanly over the low hum of the lobby.
“The switchhook contacts are closed. Battery current is flowing.”
“Nobody touches a cord yet,” Julian said from behind the mahogany Front Desk.
He kept his eyes on the large Western Electric wall clock mounted above the 144 brass key pigeonholes. The black hour and minute hands stood at 11:03 PM, while the thin red sweep-second hand glided smoothly around the dial.
