The Dark on the Other Side

I

MICHAEL SHOVED AT THE TYPEWRITER. GLUED TO the table top by a two-year accumulation of dirt, spilled coffee, and other debris, it did not move; but the movement jarred the table, which proceeded to tip half a dozen books, an empty coffee cup, and a box of paper clips onto the floor.

Michael spoke aloud, warmly. The only response was a growl from Napoleon, couchant before the door. He pushed his chair back, slumped down in it, and moodily contemplated the single sheet of paper before him.

It was raining in the city again. He could hear rain pounding on the windowpane and see the dirty trickles that slid down the glass inside, where the caulking had dried and flaked and never been replaced.

Rain. Like all words, this one had its accumulated hoard of images. Sweet spring rain, freshening the earth and washing the grubby face of the world…The trickles on his window were jet-black. There was enough dirt on the window, but God only knew what color the rain had been to begin with.

The desk lamp flickered ominously, and Michael cursed again. He had forgotten to buy light bulbs. There wasn’t one in the apartment. He had already taken the bulb out of the kitchen.

It might not be the bulb, of course. It might be the damned fuses in the damned antiquated building, or some other failure of the outmoded and overloaded electrical system.

From the dark kitchen came a pervasive stench of scorched food. In his mental anguish over the typewriter he had forgotten about the pan of stew till it turned to a charred mass. One more pan in the trash can… He stubbed his toe groping through the dark kitchen. The broken coffee cup was not one of the ones from the dime store, it was a tender memento of something or other Sandra had given him. Sandra? Joan? Hell.

The paper, the sole product of an afternoon of creative effort, brought no comfort. It was filled from top to bottom with a series of disconnected phrases that weren’t even passable prose.

I hate his bloody guts.

He saved my life.

A desperately unhappy man.

A brilliant scholar.

Sexiest man she ever met.

All-around competence.

Wonderful guy, a real chip off the old block.

Keen, incisive business brain.

Almost too sensitive.

After Budge, one of the greatest backhands I’ve ever seen.

Brilliant…brilliant…brilliant…

And, at the very bottom of the page, dug deep into the paper by the pressure of his fingers on the keys:

He always knew about it. The dark on the other side.

Damn the words, and damn the doped-up infantile little hippie who had produced them, Michael thought. But this verbal incantation didn’t bring relief. He saw his words too clearly for the empty things they were. They didn’t describe Kwame, and they didn’t cancel the impact of the words Kwame had used. He makes bigger magic than I do, Michael thought sourly. Heap strong magic…The words haunted him; last night he had dreamed of shadows and waked in a cold sweat, tangled in bedclothes as if he had spent eight hours battling an invisible attacker.

Still. Dismiss Kwame as a talented junkie, and what did you have left? A series of epigrams, and damned dull ones at that. He was heartily sick of that word “brilliant.”

Yet as the inconclusive interviews had proceeded, one concept began to take shape. One thing about Randolph that was significant, and hard to explain. Incompleteness.

Yet you couldn’t say he didn’t finish what he began. He finished his book. As a writer, Michael knew the importance of that; for every completed book there are a thousand beginnings. He had finished teaching his course and he had apparently taught it well, even brilliantly-damn that word! He had not abandoned tennis or swimming until he had mastered both skills, and his retirement from politics had followed a series of almost uncontested victories.

He mastered a skill, and then he stopped. Was it because he found all of them too easy? No challenge? Or was it because, under the façade of competence, he was somehow unsure of his ability? That wasn’t as ridiculous as it sounded. The severest critic was internal. If a man couldn’t satisfy that, paeans of praise from the outer world couldn’t convince him of his worth. He had to keep on trying, fighting, accomplishing, and never succeeding, because the inner critic was insatiable. So-eventually, suicide, alcoholism, drugs. It had happened before.

But not, Michael thought, to Gordon Randolph. His life had not followed that pattern. If he had quit competing, it was not in the spirit of defeat. He had not retreated into any of the standard forms of suicide. He seemed-yes, damn it, he was-a happy man, except for one thing, the one thing in which he had not succeeded. The one thing for which he cared most desperately. And none of the pat phrases on that sheet of paper gave any clue to his successes, or to his one great failure.

Michael reached for another sheet of paper and inserted it into the typewriter. At the top of the page he wrote:

His wife tried to kill him.

Was that why he couldn’t make any sense out of the man who was Gordon Randolph? Because, like so many of the others who had known her, he was becoming obsessed by Randolph ’s wife?

In her way, Linda was an even greater enigma than Gordon. Not because the coalescing picture was incoherent. A beautiful human being-they all agreed on the content of that, if not in the exact words, including Randolph himself. He had groped for words and so had Buchsbaum, but poor old Kwame had caught it. Then what had turned her from a saint into a devil, from a beautiful human being into an alcoholic, a haunted psychotic?

If I were writing a novel, Michael thought, they would have a common cause-Gordon’s incompleteness, his wife’s madness. But life is rarely so tidy or so simple. Or, if it is, the connections are too complex for us to see.

The light bulb flickered again. Napoleon muttered. The rain poured down harder. Michael got up and went into the kitchen. He stubbed his toe-the same toe.

A moving streak shot past him, into the sink and out through the slit in the window, its passage marked by a crash of breaking crockery, which was Michael’s last saucer. Nursing his throbbing toe, Michael restrained his curses and listened. He knew what Napoleon’s abrupt departure heralded. After a moment it came. A knock on the door; simple and ordinary. There was no reason why the sound should have made an anticipatory shiver run down his spine.

II

Linda watched the rain ripple against the window of the bus. The downpour was so heavy, it didn’t look like rain, but rather like a solid wall of water against the window of a submarine. The warm, stuffy bus was a self-contained, miniature universe; and the dark on the other side of the window might have been the vacuum of outer space. A few scattered lights, blurred by the rain, were as remote as distant suns.

The bus was not crowded. Not many people would come into the city in such weather and at such an hour, too late for the theaters or for dinner. The seat next to hers was occupied by a young sailor. He had come straight to it, like an arrow into a target. When he tried to strike up a conversation, she looked at him-just once. He hadn’t tried again. He hadn’t changed seats, though; maybe he didn’t want to seem rude.

Linda didn’t care whether he moved or not. She was aware of his presence only as a physical bulk; nothing else about him could penetrate the shell of her basic need. Even her physical discomfort was barely felt. Her shoes were still soaking wet and muddy. She had squelched through the ooze of Andrea’s unpaved lane, hoping against hope, even though she knew she would have seen lights from the road if anyone had been at home. She had even pounded on the door, hearing nothing except the yowl of Andrea’s pride of cats. Linda knew she could get into the house without any trouble; but with Andrea gone, there was no safety there. It was the first place they would look. Only a senseless desperation had taken her to Andrea in the first place. She wasn’t running to anything or anybody; she was running away.

The impulse which had got her onto the bus was equally senseless. She had a little money, not much, and no luggage. If she paid in advance, she could get a room in a hotel; but how long would it be before Gordon found her? If he didn’t want to call the police in, there were other, more discreet, ways of tracking her down. Anna would know what clothes she was wearing. There were hundreds of hotels; but Gordon could afford to hire hundreds of searchers. She wished the bus would go on and on forever, without stopping. Then she wouldn’t have to decide what to do next.

When the bus reached the terminal, she sat unmoving until all the other passengers had got off, until the driver turned and yelled. She squeezed her feet back into the sodden leather of her shoes. Another stupid move; the driver would remember her, now that she had lingered and made herself conspicuous. He wanted to clear the bus and go home; he stood by the door, tapping his fingers irritably on the back of the seat.

Linda walked through the terminal and out onto the street. It was still raining. She walked. She walked a long way. In her mind was the vague idea of confusing the trail by not taking a taxi directly from the bus station. Not that it mattered; he would find her sooner or later. But she had to keep trying.

Finally she came to a brightly lighted street where there were many people. Cars, too, on the pavement. Taxis…Yes, this might be a good place from which to take a cab. She stood by the curb and lifted her hand. Cars rushed by, splashing water. Some had little lights on top. None of them stopped. Linda blinked vacantly as the water ran down off her hair into her eyes. Rain. That meant taxis would be hard to find. She remembered that fact from some obliterated past.

A taxi skidded to a stop a few feet beyond her and she walked toward it, but before she could reach it a man darted out, opened the door, and jumped in. The taxi started up, splashing her feet and calves with water. She stood staring after it. Another car stopped, almost at her elbow. The driver leaned out and flung the door open.

“Okay, okay, lady; if you want it, grab it. Hop in.”

She got in, sat down.

“Where to?”

The address was written down on a slip of paper inside her purse, but she didn’t need to look at it. She had known, all along, that she meant to go there.

“Must be from out of town,” the driver said, pulling out into the street. “Figured you were, that’s why I stopped right by you so nobody could beat you to it. Chivalry’s been dead for a long time, lady. You gotta move fast if you wanta survive.”

“It was nice of you,” Linda said politely. “Thank you.”

She didn’t have to talk, he talked all the rest of the way. She remembered to tip him; it was an obvious thing, but tonight nothing was obvious, every movement and every idea was a long, arduous effort. What she did not remember until it was too late was that she had meant to leave the taxi at some indeterminate corner and walk the rest of the way. Too late now…

The street was dimly lighted, lined with buildings. In the rain and the dark, everything looked black-sky, buildings, windows. She dragged herself up the flight of steps, her shoes squelching.

There was no list of tenants’ names outside the door, and no lobby-only a small square of hallway, with the stairs rising up out of it, and two doors, one on either side. Cards were affixed to the doors. She squinted at them through the rain on her lashes. Neither bore the name she sought. She went up the stairs.

Not the second floor, not the third. Another floor, surely it must be the last. There was no elevator; it had not occurred to her to look for one. She went on climbing. The wood of the stair rail felt rough and splintery under her fingers. The whole structure, stairs and rail, felt alive; it yielded, protesting with faint sighs, to the pressure of hands and feet.

The light was dim, a single naked bulb on each landing. Luckily for her, she reached the topmost landing before they failed, every light in the building simultaneously, plunging the place into abysmal darkness.

Linda threw herself to one side, feeling for the wall, for any solid substance in the darkness; heard a door flung open and felt the rush of something past her. Something plunged down the stairs, sliding from stair to stair but never quite losing its footing, never quite falling. It sobbed as it went.

III

So much for premonitions, Michael thought.

It was Gordon Randolph who had knocked at his door. Not Gordon’s wife.

Randolph ’s dark hair was plastered flat to his head; the ends dripped water. The shoulders of his tan trench coat were black with wet. Wordlessly Michael stepped back, inviting Randolph in with a gesture of his hand. Closing the door, he wondered what he ought to offer first. Coffee, a drink, dry clothes…But one look at his guest told him that any offer would be ignored, probably unheard. Randolph stood stock-still in the middle of the rug. Only his eyes moved, darting from one side of the room to the other, questioning the darkened doorways.

“She’s gone,” he said.

Michael nodded. He had realized that nothing less than catastrophe would have brought Randolph here in this condition. He felt profound pity for the tragic figure that stood dripping on his rug; but a less noble emotion prompted his comment.

“Why here?” he demanded.

“I went to Andrea’s place first. Nobody was there. I searched the house.”

“You searched-”

“Briggs is checking the hotels. Private detectives. But I thought maybe-”

Michael took a deep breath.

“Give me your coat,” he said. “You’re soaking wet. I’ll get you a drink.”

“Thanks. I don’t want a drink.”

“Well, I do.”

Ordinarily the relief of movement would have given him time to collect his thoughts, but fumbling around in the dark kitchen was only another irritant. When he came back into the living room, carrying two glasses, Randolph was standing in the same position, staring fixedly at the bedroom door. Michael thrust a glass into his hand.

“Now,” he said, “you can tell me why you think your wife might have come here. And make it good.”

For a second he thought Randolph was going to swing at him. Then the taut arm relaxed, and Randolph ’s pale face twitched into a smile.

“All right,” he said. “I had that coming to me. Get this straight, Mike. There is not in my mind the slightest shred of doubt about you and your intentions toward Linda. This is a pattern.”

“You mean-this has happened before?”

Even from the little he knew, Michael should not have been surprised. He was. He was also, though he could not have said why, repelled.

“Twice before. Both friends of mine. It isn’t you, you know.” Randolph glanced at Michael and added hastily, “Damn it, I seem to be saying all the wrong things. You, and the others, are symbols of something, God only knows what; if I knew, I’d be a lot closer understanding what is wrong with her. I’m grateful that you’re the kind of man you are. You wouldn’t take advantage of her sickness.”

“Not in the sense you mean, no. I have several old-fashioned prejudices,” Michael said wryly. “Well, you can see for yourself that she isn’t here. What precisely do you want me to do?”

The lamp chose that moment to give a longer, more ominous flicker. It was symptomatic of the state of Randolph ’s nerves that he jumped like a nervous rabbit.

“The bulb’s about to go,” Michael said.

“Not the bulb, that reading lamp flickered too. I hope we’re not in for another of those city-wide power failures.”

Randolph ’s face was white. Michael thought he understood the reason for the man’s terror. The thought of Linda, lost and confused, wandering the blacked-out streets, disturbed him too.

“If she should show up, I’ll call you at once. Where?”

Randolph shook his head.

“I’ll be on the move. And she’s wary and suspicious. If she overheard you speaking to me, she’d run. You couldn’t detain her unless you-”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t have to be specific; Michael could see the picture-the struggle, the screams, the neighbors, the cops…“Anice mess that would be,” he muttered. “Then what the hell do you want me to do?”

“The ideal thing, of course, would be to get her to see a doctor.”

The prompt reply dispelled any lingering doubts Michael may have had. Though why he should have had any, he didn’t know.

“Ideal but difficult, if she’s as suspicious as you say.”

“She’s suspicious of me,” Gordon said. “That’s why she rejects every doctor I suggest. From you she might accept it.”

“Well, I could try,” Michael said dubiously. “Be sure to let me know, will you, when you find her.”

“Of course.”

He seemed to have nothing more to say; yet, despite his concern, he was in no hurry to leave. He stood, holding the glass he had not even sipped, his head cocked as if he were listening for something. My God, Michael thought incredulously; he does expect her. At any second. Does he walk through life that way, listening for her footsteps?

“Well,” he said again, “I’ll do as you suggest-if she does show up, which I don’t believe she will. And if I do get a chance to telephone, you’ll be…?”

“I’ve an apartment in town,” Randolph said vaguely. “Maybe you could leave a message.”

He put his glass down on the desk; and then, with the suddenness of a thunderclap, without even the usual preliminary flicker of warning, every light in the apartment went out.

The effect was frightening, disorienting. There was a faint glow from the window-so the blackout was not city-wide-but in the first moment of shock Michael didn’t see that, and neither, obviously, did Randolph. Michael heard his voice, but he recognized it only because it was not his own. The sound was something between a scream and a sob, and it raised the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck. Before he could move or speak, Randolph had blundered toward the door. Michael heard the sound of the door being flung open, and the rush of a body out onto the landing and down the stairs. He moved then, trying to shout a warning; the old, worn steps were treacherous enough in the light, he could visualize Gordon sprawled at the bottom with a broken neck. The anticipated slither and crash never came. The sounds of frantic movement diminished, and ended in the slam of the front door.

Then, in the ringing silence that followed, Michael saw the glow of the street lights through the window. He let out his breath with an explosive sigh. Once Randolph got outside, he would realize that his worst fear was unfounded. The man’s nerves were in a shocking state. Not surprising; it was bad enough to worry about what might be happening to your wife, adrift in every sense in a blacked-out city; worse to worry about what she might be doing to others.

The lights chose that moment to restore themselves, and Michael blinked and cursed them absentmindedly. He had just had another thought, no more reassuring than the others he had been thinking. Linda had tried once to commit murder. Gordon spoke of a pattern. She had run away before; and what, Michael wondered, had she done on those other occasions? Michael had no illusions about one thing. Gordon might be the most altruistic of men, but on one subject he was beyond ethics. He would protect his wife at any cost-even if the cost were another life.

It was not a cheerful thought, especially if he accepted Gordon’s assumption that he himself was Linda’s next quarry. Michael shivered. There was a chill draft from the door, which Gordon had left open. He turned; and saw Linda staring at him from the doorway.

Her face was alarmingly like the one he had pictured in his latest fantasy-white and drawn, with eyes dilated to blackness. The only thing missing was the knife he had placed in the imaginary woman’s hand.

For a moment they stood frozen, staring at one another. Then Michael got a grip on himself.

“You sure are wet,” he said conversationally. “You’d better come in and dry off before you catch pneumonia.”

One small, soaked shoe slid slyly back a few inches, as if bracing itself for a sudden movement. Michael didn’t stir.

“He was here,” she said. “Looking for me.”

“Yes.”

How long had she been standing out there in the hall? She must have come up after Gordon arrived, but before he left; that blind rush of his would have knocked her flat if she had been on the stairs, and there hadn’t been time for her to climb them afterward. So she had been outside the door when Gordon fled, concealed by his agitation and the coincidental darkness.

“You didn’t tell him I was here?” she persisted.

“How could I? You weren’t here.”

She nodded.

“Are you going to call him now?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then I won’t.”

The conversation was unreal. Michael couldn’t remember what it reminded him of-Lewis Carroll, something existentialist? No. It was of a conversation he had had with the four-year-old son of a friend, some weeks earlier. The directness, the repetition of the obvious…Carefully he took a step, not toward the pitiable, shivering figure in the doorway, but back, away from her.

“You might as well come in and dry off,” he said. “I’ll make some coffee. Something hot.”

“If I ran you could chase me,” she said.

“Through all this rain?” He smiled. “I’m too lazy.”

Her foot moved uncertainly. It took a step; then another and another. Michael let his breath out slowly. She was in. Safe. Now why did that word come into his mind?

IV

Linda knew she wasn’t safe, not even there, where she had wanted to come. But there was nowhere else to go.

She stood and sat and moved like an obedient child, while Michael helped her off with her coat and took off her wet shoes and dried her feet on something that looked suspiciously like a shirt. He made coffee; his movements in the dark kitchen were interspersed with bumps and crashes and repressed exclamations. She could hear every move he made. In a place this small, he wouldn’t have a telephone extension in the kitchen, surely. The phone in the living room was on the table that served as his desk. She could see it from where she was sitting, and she watched it as if it were alive, a black, coiled shape that might spring into sudden, serpentine threat.

When he came back, carrying two cups, he was limping slightly.

“I keep stubbing my toe,” he said with an apologetic grin, as she looked at his stockinged feet.

“Why don’t you turn on the light? Or wear shoes?”

Michael looked surprised. It was an endearing expression; Linda wished she could simply enjoy it, instead of wondering what lay behind it. Probably he was surprised that she could frame a sensible question.

“I’m sort of a slob,” Michael admitted, handing her one of the cups. “See, no saucers. No shoes. They’re around here somewhere… The place is a mess. I should be ashamed, entertaining guests in a hole like this.”

“You weren’t expecting company,” she said drily. The heat of the cup, between her hands, began to seep through her whole body. Even her mind felt clearer.

“No,” he said; and then, as if anxious to change the subject, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? What about a sandwich? Or some soup? That’s about the extent of my talents as a cook.”

“It sounds good.”

“I’ll see what I’ve got on hand.”

Another period of bumping and crashing in the kitchen followed. Linda sat back, closing her eyes, and then straightened up again. The warmth and the illusion of refuge were dangerous. She mustn’t give in to them. From now on she had to be on the alert every second. There was still a chance, slim but worth trying, because it was the only chance. But if he failed her, she must be ready to act, instantly. In self-defense.

There was a louder crash from the kitchen. Michael’s comment had a different tone, as if he were addressing another person instead of swearing to himself. Linda started, the empty cup wavering in her hands. Then Michael reappeared, carrying a plate. At his heels was another figure. Linda stared at it in comprehension and relief.

“Hope we didn’t startle you,” Michael said guilelessly. “He always comes in through the window, and through anything else that may be in his way. He just broke my last decent glass.”

The cat, a monstrous, ugly animal, sat down, so abruptly that Michael tripped over it and nearly dropped the plate.

“Here,” he said. “Take it quick, before he gets it. I was out of bread. I’m afraid the eggs got a little burned…”

There were two fried eggs on the plate. The yolks wobbed weakly, but there was a half-inch rim of brown around the whites. For the first time in weeks Linda felt like laughing.

“They look lovely,” she said, and glanced nervously at the cat, who was eyeing the plate with avid interest.

“His name is Napoleon,” Michael said. “He hates people. But I’ve never known him to actually attack anyone.”

“You don’t sound as if you like him very much.”

“We loathe each other.”

“Then why do you keep him as a pet?”

“Pet? Keep? Me keep him?”

“I see what you mean.”

She finished the eggs. They tasted terrible, but she needed the energy, in case…Lunch. Had she eaten any? Napoleon began to make a noise like a rusty buzz saw, and she looked at him apprehensively.

“I don’t know what it means,” Michael said gloomily. “He isn’t purring, that’s for sure. But he does it to me, so don’t take it personally.”

“I won’t. Michael-”

“Wait,” he said quickly. “We’ll talk. We’ll talk all you like. But not just yet, not until you’re comfortable and dry. I won’t call Gordon, not unless you tell me to. That’s a promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” His eyes shifted. “Oh, hell, I forgot. I’m expecting someone to drop in this evening-an old friend of mine. Shall I call and try to put him off?”

“Maybe that would be better,” Linda said slowly.

“All right. It may be too late, but I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, your clothes are wet and you look like a drowned rabbit. The bathroom is through there. See if you can find my bathrobe someplace. It’s in the bedroom-on the floor, probably.”

He was smiling at her, his eyes as candid as a child’s. Linda wished desperately that she could trust him. But she didn’t dare trust anyone. The risks were too great.

“Thank you,” she said. She stood up. She reached for her purse. “I won’t be long,” she said.

Michael followed her into the bedroom, switching on the light. Like the living room, it was big and high-ceilinged. Automatically Linda’s eyes assessed the exits. One big window. No window in the bathroom, which looked as if it might have started life as a closet when the building had stood in its newly constructed elegance. An enormous carved wardrobe now served the functions of a closet. There were two doors, one into the living room and one into the bathroom. All the furniture, including the wardrobe, was battered and nondescript. Interior decoration was clearly not one of Michael’s interests. Every inch of wall space, except that which was occupied by the wardrobe and the doors and windows, was covered with bookcases; even the bed had been moved out into the middle of the floor to allow more space for books. The bed was not made.

Michael ambled around muttering apologies, picking up socks and underwear and books and old letters, and heaping them unceremoniously on the single chair. His face brightened as he lifted a drab garment from the floor.

“Here’s my bathrobe,” he said, shaking it out. “Gosh. I’m afraid it’s pretty wrinkled.”

“Thank you; it looks fine to me.”

“Wait a minute.” He darted into the bathroom, gathered up shaving equipment, towels, and more books. “There should be a clean towel someplace…”

They found one, finally, on top of one of the bookcases. Linda closed the bathroom door and turned the shower on full force. She put her ear to the door and listened. The bedroom door closed with a bang, which probably represented one of Michael’s attempts at tact, or reassurance.

Linda opened the bathroom door just wide enough to slip out, and eased it shut behind her. There was a telephone extension on the bookcase by the bed. She eased the instrument out of its cradle, her fingers on the button underneath. There was a slight click; but with luck he wouldn’t notice it.

The click was lost in the ringing. She had moved so quickly that he had barely had time to dial the number. She waited, her hand over the mouthpiece, so that he could not hear the sound of her ragged breathing.

Finally the receiver at the other end was picked up. She knew, from the first syllable, that the voice was not the one she feared; and the relief was so great she almost lost the words.

“Let me speak to him,” Michael said; and then, after a pause, “Galen? It’s me, Michael.”

He had been telling the truth. Her astonishment and joy were so great that she did not concentrate on Michael’s next statement: something about “said you’d drop in tonight.”

“But, Michael, I’m just leaving for-” the other man said.

Michael cut him off.

“Yes, I know. Hold on a second, Galen.”

That was all the warning she had, and it was barely enough. She eased the receiver back down into its slot with a care and speed she had not expected her unsteady hands to know, and then dropped down, flat on the floor beside the bed, as the bedroom door opened.

The bathroom door was closed and the rush of water was unchanged. The thud of her heart sounded like thunder in her ears, but she knew Michael could not hear it. He stood motionless for a few seconds. Then the door closed.

Linda got to her knees. She didn’t dare pick up the telephone again. She didn’t have to. There was something wrong, or he wouldn’t have bothered to check on her before proceeding with the conversation. And now she remembered what the person on the other end of the wire had said, at first, “This is Dr. Rosenberg’s residence.”

The mammoth volumes of the city telephone directory were where she might have expected them to be-on the floor. She scooped up the classified directory and ran into the bathroom. On her knees on the floor, she began turning pages. “Department Stores…Hardware…Machinery…Physicians.” And there he was. Rosenberg, Galen. A conscientious member of the medical profession; four separate numbers were listed, including his home phone. Most doctors avoided giving that one out. But her eyes were riveted to the one word that mattered, the word that told which medical specialty Dr. Galen Rosenberg practiced.

It might be a coincidence. Presumably even psychiatrists had friends, like other people. But if Rosenberg had intended to visit his friend Michael, why did Michael care whether she overheard the conversation? And why had he interrupted the other man at that particular moment? On his way to-where? Not, she thought, to Michael’s apartment. Not then. He was clever, Michael Collins, but not quite clever enough.

Her mind worked with the mechanical precision it developed in moments of emergency. Coat, bag-she had those. Shoes-they were still in the living room. That was bad. Well, she would just have to leave them.

Stripping off her dress, she opened the bathroom door and walked boldly across the bedroom. The door was still closed. She opened it a crack, and called, “Would it be all right if I washed my hair? It feels horrible.”

“Sure.” Michael’s footsteps approached the door. It started to open, but she was ready; she pushed it back, making sure he saw her bare arm and shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, putting a faint amusement into her voice.

“Oh, sorry. There should be some shampoo, someplace…”

“I found it. Just wanted to let you know I wasn’t drowned.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

He sounded embarrassed. She pictured him standing outside the door, his long, thin face alert and compassionate. Linda’s mouth tightened.

“Your friend,” she said, through the crack. “Did you reach him?”

“Friend? Oh, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to put him off. He won’t stay long. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him something.”

I’m sure you will, she thought.

“Okay,” she said, and closed the door.

So that was that. Naïve of her to expect anything else.

Letting the water run, Linda closed the bathroom door and slipped into her dress. The skirt was still damp; it felt clammy and cold against her skin. Gathering up coat and bag, she went to the window of the bedroom.

For several terrifying minutes, she was afraid she couldn’t open it. The latch was a flimsy, old-fashioned thing, but the frame refused to yield to her frantic shoves. Outside, dim through the filthy glass, the angular black shape of a fire escape mocked her efforts. When the window finally gave, it went up with such a rush that she almost fell out.

Sprawled across the sill, she lay still for a moment, with the rain beating down on her head and the cold air in her face. Then she pulled herself back. Folding her coat, she went across the room to the wardrobe and opened its wide double doors.

The bedroom door opened, and Michael’s voice called, with hideous cheerfulness, “Linda? Hey, are you decent? Friend of mine wants to meet you.”

Huddled in the back of the wardrobe, behind a heap of old newspapers and dirty laundry, Linda held her breath. Not that she needed to; when the truth dawned on him, Michael made enough noise to drown out a squad of heavy snorers-bellowing for his friend, splashing around in the bathroom as if he expected to find her submerged in the tub, and then rushing to the open window.

“She’s gone,” he kept repeating. “Damn it, Galen, she’s gone.”

Linda heard the other man’s deep voice for the first time. They had talked in the other room for some minutes, but they had kept their voices so low, they were only murmurs.

“Out through the window? That’s a hell of a route, Michael. I wouldn’t have thought that old rattletrap of a fire escape would hold any weight.”

“It obviously did. The dust on the windowsill is smeared where she crawled out. And-yes, her coat’s gone. Her purse too. But-wait a minute-” Linda heard him run out and return. “Her shoes are still here! She went out in the rain, bare-foot… She’s out there now, somewhere. Oh, God. I muffed it, Galen. If she gets hurt, it’s my fault.”

“Calm yourself. You sound like a bad performer trying out for Hamlet.”

“Sorry,” Michael muttered. “Damn it, Galen, I don’t see how she knew. I was so careful-”

“There’s a telephone extension in here. If she’s as intelligent as you say, she could have managed.”

“You mean it isn’t that hard to outsmart me. And you’re right.”

“Cunning and intelligence are two different things. But before you go flying off in all directions again, let’s stop and figure this out. Are you sure that fire escape is still functional? She may be out there still, halfway down. Or lying below, with something broken.”

Michael rejected the last suggestion with a wordless sound; but Linda scarcely heard it. Her eyes were fixed, in horror, on the doors of the wardrobe. They were old and warped and did not close completely; a narrow line of yellow had announced the switching on of the light when Michael entered the bedroom. Now the crack altered its shape, widening and narrowing in turn. Someone was trying to open the door.

Her attention flickering wildly from the attempt on the door to the conversation, she realized what the older man, the one named Galen, was saying. My God, she thought; he knows I’m here. He’s smarter than Michael, smarter and tougher; he knows I’d be afraid to step out on that fire escape. He must be leaning against the doors, making them move, just to frighten me.

Then the door opened and she saw the source of her terror. Not the doctor. Something worse. The cat, the damned cat. She was afraid of the cat. It looked like a diabolical animal, and it hated people; Michael had said so. It would take one look at her and yowl or spit, and back out, and then they would know where-

Linda saw its eyes shine with that eerie fire, which is, scientifically, due to a perfectly normal phenomenon of light refraction. Then the eyes disappeared. Deliberately the animal sat down, its back to her, and began washing its tail.

“There’s nothing in the alley,” Michael said, with a loud sigh of relief.

“And no signs of her having gone that way, either.”

“A flashlight doesn’t show that much detail from up here. What did you expect, a glove draped daintily over a garbage can? Damn it, Galen, she had to go that way. There’s no place to hide in here. I was in the kitchen the whole time, she couldn’t have gotten past me.”

A small contorted shape in the corner of the wardrobe, Linda could almost feel the other man’s gaze, moving thoughtfully around the room. Oh, yes, he was much smarter than Michael. It never occurred to that innocent idiot that she hadn’t left. But he knew, the doctor-he had had considerable experience with people like her.

Whether he actually bent over to look under the bed, she did not know; a snort of amused disgust from Michael might have been his response to such a gesture. But she knew when the doctor’s searching eyes lit on the wardrobe-the only other place in the room where a person might be concealed.

“There’s Napoleon. Still as unsociable as ever?”

“He hates everybody,” Michael said absently. “Likes it in there, though… Galen, what am I going to do?”

Napoleon finished washing his tail, turned around, and prepared to go to sleep. After the first knowing look, he had not glanced in Linda’s direction.

“Well,” the doctor said finally, “let’s sit down and talk about it. Your original account was somewhat abbreviated.”

“Have you got time?”

“Sixteen minutes. Then I’ll have to drive like hell. I must catch that plane.”

They went out, talking about the medical conference the doctor was going to attend. Linda let her head fall back against one of Michael’s coats. Against the light from the half-open door of the wardrobe she saw the solid, unmoving black lump that was Napoleon. An odd smile curved her mouth. How very appropriate, she thought.

For the moment, at least, she was safe; reprieved by the hallowed familiar of legend, by the animal sacred to the powers of evil. What would happen next she neither knew nor cared; she still had to get out of the apartment, but she would worry about that later. Now she could relax, for a little time, enjoying the omen, and listening intently to the conversation, which was clearly audible through the open door.

“I wonder,” the doctor said, “why she should come to you. Is she in love with you? Or you with her?”

“I don’t know what the word means,” Michael said quietly.

“No more do I.”

“Then why the hell did you bring it up? No, I don’t think she’s running to anyone, or anything-unless it’s safety. She’s running away from something. Not her husband-”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for God’s sake! Modern women don’t run away from husbands, they divorce them. Besides, he-he’s devoted to her. Desperately worried about her. He’s out in this filthy rain now, looking for her. He was here, not five minutes before she came.”

“He was?”

“I wish to God you people could carry on a normal conversation instead of trying to make it into a Socratic dialogue,” Michael said irritably. “Yes, he was. And before you can ask, I’ll tell you. I don’t know why he should expect to find her here-that’s the truth, Galen. But he did. He says she’s run away before-to other men.”

“What other men?”

“How the hell should I know? I didn’t ask.”

“I think I might have asked,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “If a nervous husband told me I was number three on any list, I’d be curious about my predecessors. All right, never mind that. She runs away. He pursues.”

“You make it sound…Galen, I tell you the girl is off her head.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, for-”

“All I’m trying to indicate is the stupidity of jumping to conclusions. As a writer you ought to know that a single set of observed facts may be capable of varying interpretations. And you know the human tendency to misinterpret evidence in terms of a preconceived theory. So far, all you’ve conveyed to me is that the woman is running away from something she fears. Either her husband is the source of her fear, or he is closely connected with it. Certainly it’s possible that her fears are unjustified or imaginary; that she is, as you so elegantly put it, off her head. But it is also possible that she fears a real danger, one which even you would admit to be a legitimate cause of fear if you knew what it was. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

“I know what she’s afraid of,” Michael said reluctantly. “And it-isn’t there.”

“What is it?”

“A dog. A black dog. She saw it one night and it terrified her so badly she went into a fainting fit.”

“You didn’t see it?”

“It happens that I didn’t see it. But if I had, if it was real and not a figment of her imagination-so what? The cause is inadequate to explain her response. I tell you, the girl was frantic with fear.”

The doctor did not respond at once. Linda, who had followed the discussion with growing hope, sagged back. For a while he had sounded like a possibility, a potential convert. But Michael’s last statement was unarguable.

“I could argue that,” the doctor said after a while. “But I’ll accept your hypothesis, if only to keep you from bellowing at me.”

“My hypothesis? I haven’t got one.”

“You sure as hell have. And it’s time you dragged it out into the open and had a look at it. Your voice, when you said, ‘A black dog,’ was significant. What does that phrase suggest to you? No fair thinking about it-give me some images.”

“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Michael said promptly. “Luminous eyes, jaws dripping with phosphorescence…The black dog of the Celts, that presages doom…Agrisly story I read when I was a kid, about a werewolf…”

“Now I,” said Galen, “had a black dog once. A big black mutt who followed me everywhere I went and chewed up my shoes and hid under the bed when my mother scolded him.”

“All right,” Michael muttered. “I see your point, damn your eyes. None of my dogs was black. But it’s not just a personal bias, Galen. It’s partly the emotional atmosphere in that damned house. There are so many sick feelings-between Linda and that foul secretary, between Linda and the old hag who calls herself a white witch. When I looked back on the weekend, it seems to me that we talked of nothing but evil, and demonology, and Satan. The house is big and brightly lit, it has every modern luxury; but it stinks of ugly emotions. It’s a sick house. Now laugh.”

“Why should I? That’s the most important thing you’ve said yet. You are neither stupid nor insensitive-”

“Thanks a lot.”

“-and emotional atmospheres can be felt, I’d never deny that. The origins of the feeling are another matter.”

“I know. And since I don’t believe in mental telepathy, I’ve been trying to remember what small, unnoticed clues I must have seen. There must have been something; I don’t ordinarily come over psychic.”

The springs of the armchair creaked.

“I must go,” the doctor said. “I’ll barely make it as it is. I’ll call you when I get back, Michael.”

“But what am I going to do?”

“What are you looking for, free advice? It’s your problem.”

“Consoling as always.”

“You’ve already made up your mind what to do. You just want me to agree with you. You’re planning to telephone the bereaved husband and tell him his wife was here?”

“I have no choice about that.”

“Perhaps not. Good-bye, Michael.”

“Here’s your briefcase… Your Olympian detachment is all very well, but this isn’t a remote, academic problem. She’s on the loose right this minute, contracting pneumonia by walking around in the rain without any shoes on, if nothing worse. I don’t like the role of informer; but for her own safety I must tell Randolph that she was here. Maybe he can-”

“ Randolph?”

Linda heard the sound of the front door opening. The voices had gotten fainter; but the change in the doctor’s tone came from some other cause than distance.

“This is Gordon Randolph’s wife you’ve been talking about?”

“I thought I shouldn’t mention names.”

“No…Damn it, I’m late now. I’ll break my usual rule, Michael, and give you one word of advice, if you’ll walk downstairs with me. If you should hear anything…”

Linda was on her knees, oblivious of the danger of discovery; but strain as she might, she could make out no further words, only a mutter of voices as the two men descended the stairs. She crawled out of her hiding place, over the prostrate form of Napoleon, who snarled affably at her as she passed. Her cramped muscles complained as she stood upright. Overriding physical discomfort was the agony of indecision that racked her mind.

She went to the door and looked warily out into the empty living room. The lights still burned and the front door stood open. Michael was a trusting soul… From below, amplified by the funnel of the stairwell, the rumble of voices floated up.

Briefly she fought the wild, dangerous urge to rush down the stairs and catch him before he left. But she knew she couldn’t take the chance. They all talked that way, the ones who considered themselves liberal and sophisticated; but when it came to action, they balked at the final conclusion. If she could only talk to him at her leisure, with some means of escape at hand in case he turned out to be the broken reed all the others had been… Too late for that now. Too late for anything but escape.

In her arms she still clutched the coat and purse, which she had been holding for so long. Darting across the room, she scooped up her shoes and went out the door. She reached the floor below just before Michael’s head came into view, and cowered in the shadow of the stairs as he went past. If he had turned his head he would have seen her; but he went quickly, intent on his next move. The telephone; Gordon. And Gordon would see through her trick. He knew her habits and he wouldn’t accept the obvious without checking. She would have to hurry. Gordon would come. Hurry…

The door above slammed shut and Linda fled down the stairs, her stockinged feet making no sound. The front door of the building opened and closed, and a slight dark form blended with the darkness of the night, and disappeared.