There was no good time to do business like this:the present would have to suffice. He walked back toLexington and caught a cab to the address on the paper.He got no response from the bell marked Bernstein, butroused the doorman, and engaged in a frustrating debatewith him through the glass door. The man was angry tohave been raised at such an hour; Miss Bernstein was notin her apartment, he insisted, and remained untouchedeven when Harry intimated that there might be somelife-or-death urgency in the matter. It was only when heproduced his wallet that the fellow displayed the leastflicker of concern. Finally, he let Harry in.

'She's not up there,' he said, pocketing the bills. 'She'snot been in for days.'

Harry took the elevator: his shins were aching, andhis back too. He wanted sleep; bourbon, then sleep.There was no reply at the apartment as the doormanhad predicted, but he kept knocking, and callingher.

'Miss Bernstein? Are you there?'

There was no sign of life from within; not at least, untilhe said:

'I want to talk about Swann.'

He heard an intake of breath, close to the door.

'Is somebody there?' he asked. 'Please answer. There'snothing to be afraid of.'

After several seconds a slurred and melancholy voicemurmured: 'Swann's dead.'

At least she wasn't, Harry thought. Whatever forceshad snatched Valentin away, they had not yet reachedthis corner of Manhattan. 'May I talk to you?' herequested.

'No,' she replied. Her voice was a candle flame on theverge of extinction.

'Just a few questions, Barbara.'

'I'm in the tiger's belly,' the slow reply came, 'and itdoesn't want me to let you in.'

Perhaps they had got here before him.

'Can't you reach the door?' he coaxed her. 'It's not sofar. . .'

'But it's eaten me,' she said.

'Try, Barbara. The tiger won't mind. Reach.'

There was silence from the other side of the door, thena shuffling sound. Was she doing as he had requested?It seemed so. He heard her fingers fumbling with thecatch.

'That's it,' he encouraged her. 'Can you turn it? Tryto turn it.'

At the last instant he thought: suppose she's telling thetruth, and there is a tiger in there with her? It was too latefor retreat, the door was opening. There was no animalin the hallway. Just a woman, and the smell of dirt. Shehad clearly neither washed nor changed her clothes sincefleeing from the theatre. The evening gown she worewas soiled and torn, her skin was grey with grime.He stepped into the apartment. She moved down thehallway away from him, desperate to avoid his touch.

'It's all right,' he said, 'there's no tiger here.'

Her wide eyes were almost empty; what presenceroved there was lost to sanity.

'Oh there is,' she said, Tm in the tiger. I'm in itforever.'

As he had neither the time nor the skill required todissuade her from this madness, he decided it was wiserto go with it.

'How did you get there?' he asked her. 'Into the tiger?Was it when you were with Swann?'

She nodded.

'You remember that, do you?'

'Oh yes.'

'What do you remember?'

'There was a sword; it fell. He was picking up -' Shestopped and frowned.

'Picking up what?'

She seemed suddenly more distracted than ever. 'Howcan you hear me,' she wondered, 'when I'm in the tiger?Are you in the tiger too?

'Maybe I am,' he said, not wanting to analyse themetaphor too closely.

'We're here forever, you know,' she informed him.'We'll never be let out.'

'Who told you that?'

She didn't reply, but cocked her head a little.

'Can you hear?' she said.

'Hear?'

She took another step back down the hallway. Harrylistened, but he could hear nothing. The growingagitation on Barbara's face was sufficient to send himback to the front door and open it, however. The elevatorwas in operation. He could hear its soft hum across thelanding. Worse: the lights in the hallway and on thestairs were deteriorating; the bulbs losing power withevery foot the elevator ascended.

He turned back into the apartment and went to takehold of Barbara's wrist. She made no protest. Her eyeswere fixed on the doorway through which she seemed toknow her judgement would come.

'We'll take the stairs,' he told her, and led her out on tothe landing. The lights were within an ace of failing. Heglanced up at the floor numbers being ticked off abovethe elevator doors. Was this the top floor they were on,or one shy of it? He couldn't remember, and there wasno time to think before the lights went out entirely.

He stumbled across the unfamiliar territory of thelanding with the girl in tow, hoping to God he'd findthe stairs before the elevator reached this floor. Barbarawanted to loiter, but he bullied her to pick up her pace.As his foot found the top stair the elevator finished itsascent.

The doors hissed open, and a cold fluorescence washedthe landing. He couldn't see its source, nor did he wishto, but its effect was to reveal to the naked eye every stainand blemish, every sign of decay and creeping rot that thepaintwork sought to camouflage. The show stole Harry'sattention for a moment only, then he took a firmer holdof the woman's hand and they began their descent.Barbara was not interested in escape however, but inevents on the landing. Thus occupied she tripped and fellheavily against Harry. The two would have toppled butthat he caught hold of the banister. Angered, he turnedto her. They were out of sight of the landing, but the lightcrept down the stairs and washed over Barbara's face.Beneath its uncharitable scrutiny Harry saw decay busyin her. Saw rot in her teeth, and the death in her skin andhair and nails. No doubt he would have appeared muchthe same to her, were she to have looked, but she wasstill staring back over her shoulder and up the stairs. Thelight-source was on the move. Voices accompanied it.

The door's open,' a woman said.

'What are you waiting for?' a voice replied. It wasButterfield.

Harry held both breath and wrist as the light-source moved again, towards the door presumably,and then was partially eclipsed as it disappeared intothe apartment.

'We have to be quick,' he told Barbara. She went withhim down three or four steps and then, without warning,her hand leapt for his face, nails opening his cheek. Helet go of her hand to protect himself, and in that instantshe was away - back up the stairs.

He cursed and stumbled in pursuit of her, but herformer sluggishness had lifted; she was startlinglynimble. By the dregs of light from the landing hewatched her reach the top of the stairs and disappearfrom sight.

'Here I am,' she called out as she went.

He stood immobile on the stairway, unable to decidewhether to go or stay, and so unable to move at all. Eversince Wyckoff Street he'd hated stairs. Momentarily thelight from above flared up, throwing the shadows of thebanisters across him; then it died again. He put his handto his face. She had raised weals, but there was littleblood. What could he hope from her if he went to heraid? Only more of the same. She was a lost cause.

Even as he despaired of her he heard a sound fromround the corner at the head of the stairs; a soft soundthat might have been either a footstep or a sigh. Hadshe escaped their influence after all? Or perhaps noteven reached the apartment door, but thought betterof it and about-turned? Even as he was weighing up theodds he heard her say:

'Help me ..." The voice was a ghost of a ghost; but itwas indisputably her, and she was in terror.

He reached for his .38, and started up the stairs again.Even before he had turned the corner he felt the nape ofhis neck itch as his hackles rose.

She was there. But so was the tiger. It stood on thelanding, mere feet from Harry, its body hummingwith latent power. Its eyes were molten; its openmaw impossibly large. And there, already in its vastthroat, was Barbara. He met her eyes out of the tiger'smouth, and saw a flicker of comprehension in them thatwas worse than any madness. Then the beast threw itshead back and forth to settle its prey in its gut. She hadbeen swallowed whole, apparently. There was no bloodon the landing, nor about the tiger's muzzle; only theappalling sight of the girl's face disappearing down thetunnel of the animal's throat.