Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

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.

WHEN MICHAEL DISCOVERED THE TRICK SHE HAD played on him, his first reaction was anger-not at his own stupidity, but at Linda. Gordon, who had just come back after an inspection of the alley under the fire escape, smile wryly at his expression.

“I know just how you feel, but don’t let it get you.”

“You told me she was intelligent,” Michael said, recovering. “I should have believed you.”

Gordon’s smile faded.

“The operative word is not intelligence. There’s a special kind of cunning developed by people in her condition… Oh, hell, Mike, I’m still trying to mince words. I’m sorrier than I can say that you got dragged into this mess; but now that you are involved, it would be stupid of me to hold anything back.”

Michael couldn’t help remembering that it was Gordon who had dragged him into the mess. Then his annoyed vanity faded at the sight of Gordon’s tormented face, and he shrugged.

“I feel very bad about letting her get away. If I had realized how sick she was-”

“Precisely why you shouldn’t feel guilty. It was my fault for understating the problem. Let’s forget that and go on to something constructive.”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to trace her? There’s a subway station in the next block; cabs aren’t too frequent around here…”

“Briggs is already on that,” Gordon said.

“Oh. Sure.”

Another unwelcome memory recurred to Michael-the look of unconcealed repugnance on Linda’s face whenever she saw Briggs. Surely he wasn’t the best person to send after a frightened woman… He shrugged the doubt away. It was none of his business.

“How about a drink?”

“No, thanks; I’d better get moving.”

But Gordon appeared to be in no hurry; drawing on his gloves with deliberate care, he managed to look poised and aristocratic in spite of his obvious worry. By just standing there he made the shabby little room look shabbier. His keen black eyes moved around, lingering on the paper-strewn desk.

“How do you feel about the biography now?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve put quite a bit of work into it…”

“Have you really?” Gordon’s dark gaze swung back to Michael. “Whom have you talked to? Or should I ask that?”

“Oh, sure, why not? I started with the colleges. You made quite an impression at both of them.”

“They all mouth the conventional academic baloney,” Gordon said cynically. “Wait till you talk to my former political cohorts. They won’t be so complimentary.”

“They were somewhat annoyed at your retirement, I suppose.”

“A euphemism.” Gordon smiled. “But by all means talk with them; you’ll get an interesting view of my personality. Well. I’ll be in touch, Mike.”

“Please do. I’m concerned too.”

When Gordon finally went, Michael dropped into the big overstuffed chair and put all ten fingers in his hair.

She had looked so young.

The glamorous hostess in her expensive gowns had seemed mature; the shrewish wife had a woman’s cruelty. But she wasn’t that many years out of college; she must be ten, even fifteen, years younger than Gordon. And when she sat huddled in his big chair, with the rain dripping down onto her pale cheeks, she had looked about sixteen. Her hands and feet were as fragile as a child’s; the sodden shoes had been no longer than his hands.

Yes, he reminded himself, and she had presence of mind enough to take those pathetic little slippers with her when she outfoxed him. Poor little Cinderella? Rich little Lucrezia Borgia was more like it. But still he sat motionless, head in his hands, his fingers contracting as if their pressure could force from his mind the picture that persisted through every conscious doubt-the picture of a slight, dark figure running down a dusky corridor, growing smaller and more tenuous as it fled, until it finally vanished into air.

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.