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.