Next morning Michael went around and heckled his agent. Sam Cohen was not noted for his equable disposition; after half an hour of querulous dithering, he exploded.

“What the hell do you mean, you don’t know whether you want to write it or not? You’ve got to write it. We’ve got a contract!”

“I didn’t sign it in my own blood,” Michael snarled.

Sam recognized the signs; he was used to them, but he got writer’s temperament so seldom from Michael that it took him by surprise. After a blink of his scanty eyelashes, he went into the routine.

“Mike, you know this is the best deal I’ve ever gotten for you. It’s too good to pass up, even if you don’t care about the damage you could do your professional reputation if you renege on a formal contract. Hell, we may have a best seller on our hands if this rumor about Randolph ’s going back into politics is true.”

Michael sat up in his chair.

“Where did you hear that?”

“The essential criterion of a rumor is that nobody knows how it started. But I’ve heard it mentioned more than once.”

“Hmph. I didn’t know you could do that. Get back into the game, I mean.”

“Why not? He never lost an election, you know. With his money and charm, the party bosses would jump at him. Sure, it will take a little time to get his name before the public again, but-didn’t you ever wonder why he agreed to this biography when he’s refused even an interview for years?”

“I guess I am naïve,” Michael said slowly. “He’s a nice guy, you know. The idea of his using me-”

“Naïve is right,” Sam snorted. “So how is he using you? Making you rich is all. Does that make him any less of a nice guy? Oh, get out of here, and let me work. And do some work yourself.”

Michael grinned and wandered out. On the street he stood blinking at the feeble sunshine and wondering what he wanted to do. He had called Gordon that morning, when the latter had failed to call him. Linda was still missing. The sunshine was anemic. The smog was heavier than usual. It was a lousy day. He was in a lousy mood.

So he spent the day doing nothing. He made a feeble attempt to clean up the apartment, a chore which was weeks overdue, but he knew his real motive was to be at home in case Gordon called. He did manage to get the dirty laundry collected; there were socks under the cushion of the chair and a sock on the kitchen table. Rooting around in the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a pile of dirty shirts. On top of them lay a small, crumpled black glove.

Straightening up, with the glove in his hand, Michael abandoned the shirts. So that was where she had been; obviously, there wasn’t any other place. Then he remembered something, and, turning, he bellowed loudly for the cat. Napoleon was gone. Deprived of an audience, Michael muttered to himself. The animal was obviously getting senile. Or else there was something about Linda Randolph that appealed to him. A nasty thought, that one…

By evening, when the phone still refused to ring, Michael was desperate. He straightened his desk. He managed to cram half the books that had been on it into one bookshelf or another, but there was no place for the rest. He needed another bookcase. Only, where was he going to put it? Every inch of wall space in living room and bedroom was already taken up. Maybe the bath-room…Then, on the bottom of a pile, he found the book that he had bought and then ignored. Randolph ’s masterpiece. With a snort, Michael threw himself into a chair and began to read.

He came to three hours later when Napoleon bit him on the ankle, milder attempts to gain attention having failed. Still carrying the book, he stumbled out into the kitchen. He gave Napoleon the hamburger he had intended for his own dinner, an error he didn’t even notice till the next day. He went on reading.

At four in the morning he finished the book, and fell groggily into bed in a state of mingled exaltation and rage. The pathetic little mental image of Gordon’s wife had developed a set of fangs. Anyone who could write a book like that when he was still in his twenties…The man needed encouragement, admiration, an atmosphere of peace and quiet-not a crazy wife who probably resented his superior talent. Lying awake in the darkness, Michael could see the ghosts of Gordon’s unwritten books, laid out in a row like murdered babies. Murdered in utero by Gordon’s wife.

This partisan mood carried Michael through the next few days. He didn’t call Gordon, but Gordon called him and reported that Linda had not yet been found. He sounded less edgy. Of course, if she had been hurt or killed, she would have been heard of by this time, Michael thought. Personally, he no longer gave a damn.

He spent two infuriating days trying to track down some of Gordon’s political associates, knowing full well that he would never reach the hidden men who made the real decisions, and discovering that politicians were even more peripatetic than academicians and just as impressed with their own importance. Yet through the platitudes and glittering generalities, an impression gradually formed. He believed the rumors of Gordon’s return to politics. It was ridiculous, of course, to resent Gordon’s failure to take him into his confidence. Maybe he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

Michael found himself curious to read some of Gordon’s political speeches. They were not easy to locate; the big-city newspapers had not followed out-of-state local campaigns in detail. Finally he managed to find back issues of the leading newspaper of Gordon’s state.

Even in cold print the speeches were impressive. Michael could imagine their effectiveness when they were delivered with the full force of Gordon’s dynamic personality. He had wondered what kind of political speech might be composed by the man who wrote that fantastic book. Now he knew. Of course the media were completely different; a political speech was not a novel. But the similarity was there, not in phrasing or in content so much as in an underlying integrity, the product of a particular kind of mind.

Gordon’s candidacy had been supported by the newspaper. It got a lot of coverage, and the not so-subtle slant in the reporting, compared with the tone taken toward Gordon’s unfortunate opponent, made Michael’s mouth twist in wry amusement. Politics, he thought, with the comfortable contempt of a man who has never run for office. Well, you couldn’t blame Gordon for the traditional dirtiness of the game… He kicked himself mentally. Blame, hell, you don’t condemn or approve, he reminded himself. You just read. And write, if possible.

It was pure accident that he saw the item at all. It was on the front page, but it was hidden down in the lowest left-hand corner, and Gordon’s name was mentioned only once, in small print. There was a photograph, and he studied the inexpressive features of the young man with interest. Copied from a formal studio portrait, the face was not distinctive. High forehead, hair and eyes of some indeterminate dark color, horn-rimmed glasses so big that they reduced the features to unimportance. Gordon’s campaign manager, William S. Wilson.

The name was familiar. Michael groped through his mental card file on Randolph for several seconds before he realized that the familiarity had nothing to do with contemporary events. The name was that of Edgar Allan Poe’s character. A nice, cheerful story that one, about a man haunted by his own ghost.

The analogy was nonexistent. Accidental death, the police believed-the strain of an exciting campaign, and too many sleeping pills. There was no reason why the young, successful assistant of a rising politician should take his own life.

Michael was curious enough to pursue the story. The next installment had retreated from page one to page fourteen, reasonably enough, since there were no dramatic developments. The assumption of accidental death was confirmed by all the evidence the police had been able to turn up. So much for William Wilson.