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.