Free Rear Window by Cornell Woolrich

   
    Rear Window
    by Cornell Woolrich(1942)
     
    Originally published as "It Had to Be Murder", in Dime Detective, February, 1942     
     
      I DIDN'T know their names.   I'd never heard their voices.   I didn't even know them by sight, strictly speaking, for their faces were too small to fill in with identifiable features at that distance.   Yet I could have constructed a timetable of their comings and goings, their daily habits and activities.   They were the rear-window dwellers around me.
      Sure, I suppose it was a little bit like prying, could even have been mistaken for the fevered concentration of a Peeping Tom.   That wasn't my fault, that wasn't the idea.   The idea was, my movements were strictly limited just around this time.   I could get from the window to the bed, and from the bed to the window, and that was all.   The bay window was about the best feature my rear bedroom had in the warm weather.   It was unscreened, so I had to sit with the light out or I would have had every insect in the vicinity in on me.   I couldn't sleep, because I was used to getting plenty of exercise.   I'd never acquired the habit of reading books to ward off boredom, so I hadn't that to turn to.   Well, what should I do, sit there with my eyes tightly shuttered?
      Just to pick a few at random: Straight over, and the windows square, there was a young jitter-couple, kids in their teens, only just married.   It would have killed them to stay home one night.   They were always in such a hurry to go, wherever it was they went, they never remembered to turn out the lights.   I don't think it missed once in all the time I was watching.   But they never forgot altogether, either.   I was to learn to call this delayed action, as you will see.   He'd always come skittering madly back in about five minutes, probably from all the way down in the street, and rush around killing the switches.   Then fall over something in the dark on his way out.   They gave me an inward chuckle, those two.
      The next house down, the windows already narrowed a little with perspective.   There was a certain light in that one that always went out each night too.   Something about it, it used to make me a little sad.   There was a woman living there with her child, a young widow I suppose.   I'd see her put the child to bed, and then bend over and kiss her in a wistful sort of way.   She'd shade the light off her and sit there painting her eyes and mouth.   Then she'd go out.   She'd never come back till the night was nearly spent.   Once I was still up, and I looked and she was sitting there motionless with her head buried in her arms.   Something about it, it used to make me a little sad.
      The third one down no longer offered any insight, the windows were just slits like in a medieval battlement, due to foreshortening.   That brings us around to the one on the end.   In that one, frontal vision came back full-depth again, since it stood at right angles to the rest, my own included, sealing up the inner hollow all these houses backed on.   I could see into it, from the rounded projection of my bay window, as freely as into a doll house with its rear wall sliced away.   And scaled down to about the same size.
      It was a flat building.   Unlike all the rest it had been constructed originally as such, not just cut up into furnished rooms.   It topped them by two stories and had rear fire escapes, to show for this distinction.   But it was old, evidently hadn't shown a profit.   It was in the process of being modernized.   Instead of clearing the entire building while the work was going on, they were doing it a flat at a time, in order to lose as little rental income as possible.   Of the six rearward flats it offered to view, the topmost one had already been completed, but not yet rented.   They were working on the fifth-floor one now, disturbing the peace of everyone all up and down the "inside" of the block