Selected Stories by Fritz Leiber (41 page)

had
vanished three times unaccountably—so that it was no wonder he had veered aside from entering the elevator, its very lightlessness suggesting a trap. (And that made him recall another odd point. Not only had the light inside the elevator been switched off but the door, which always automatically swung shut unless someone held it open or set a fairly heavy object, such as a packed suitcase or a laden-large shopping bag, against it, had been standing open. And he couldn’t recall having seen any such object or other evidence of propping or wedging. Mysterious. In fact, as mysterious as his suffocation dreams, which at least had lessened in number and intensity since the Vanishing Lady had turned up.)
Well, he told himself with another effort at being philosophical, now that he’d thought all these things through, at least he’d behave more courageously if a similar situation arose another time.
But when the Vanishing Lady next appeared to Ramsey, it was under conditions that did not call for that sort of courage. There were others present.
He’d come in from outside and found the empty cage ready and waiting, but he could hear another party just close enough behind him that he didn’t feel justified in taking off without them—though there’d been enough times, God knows, when he’d been left behind under the same circumstances. He dutifully waited, holding the door open. There had been times, too, when this politeness of his had been unavailing—when the people had been bound for a ground-floor apartment, or when it had been a lone woman and she’d found an excuse for not making her journey alone with him.

The party finally came into view—two middle-aged women and a man— and the latter insisted on holding the door himself. Ryker relinquished it without argument and went to the back of the cage, the two women following. But the man didn’t come inside; he held the door for yet a third party he’d evidently heard coming behind them.

The third party arrived, an elderly couple, but that man insisted on holding the door in his turn for the second man and his own ancient lady. They were six, a full load, Ryker counted. But then, just as the floor door was swinging shut, someone caught it from the outside, and the one who slipped in last was the Vanishing Lady.

Ramsey mightn’t have seen her if he hadn’t been tall, for the cage was now almost uncomfortably crowded, although none of them were conspicuous heavyweights. He glimpsed a triangle of pale face under dark gleaming eyes, which fixed for an instant on his, and he felt a jolt of excitement, or something. Then she had whipped around and was facing front, like the rest. His heart was thudding and his throat was choked up. He knew the sheen of her black hair and coat, the dull felt of her close-fitting hat, and watched them raptly. He decided from the flash of face that she was young or very smoothly powdered.

The cage stopped at the seventh floor. She darted out without a backward glance and the elderly couple followed her. He wanted to do something but he couldn’t think what, and someone pressed another button.

As soon as the cage had resumed its ascent, he realized that he too could have gotten out on Seven and at least seen where she went in, discovered her apartment number. But he hadn’t acted quickly enough and some of these people probably knew he lived on Fourteen and would have wondered.

The rest got out on Twelve and so he did the last floor alone—the floor that numerically was two floors, actually only one, yet always seemed to take a bit too long, the elevator growing tired, ha-ha-ha.

Next day he examined the names on the seventh-floor mailboxes, but that wasn’t much help. Last names only, with at most an initial or two, was the rule. No indication of sex or marital status. And, as always, fully a third were marked only as OCCUPIED. It was safer that way, he remembered being told (something about anonymous phone calls or confidence games), even if it somehow always looked suspicious, vaguely criminal.

Late the next afternoon, when he was coming in from the street, he saw a man holding the elevator door open for two elderly women to enter. He hurried his stride, but the man didn’t look his way before following them.

But just at that moment, the Vanishing Lady darted into view from the foyer, deftly caught the closing door, and with one pale glance over her shoulder at Ryker, let herself in on the heels of the man. Although he was too far away to see her eyes as more than twin gleams, he felt the same transfixing jolt as he had the previous day. His heart beat faster too.

And then as he hurried on, the light in the little window in the gray door winked out as the elevator rose up and away from him. A few seconds later he was standing in front of the electrically locked door with its dark little window and staring ruefully at the button and the tiny circular telltale just above it, which now glowed angry red to indicate the elevator was in use and unresponsive to any summons.

He reproached himself for not having thought to call out,“Please wait for me,” but there’d hardly been time to think, and besides it would have been such a departure from his normal, habitually silent behavior. Still, another self-defeat, another self-frustration, in his pursuit of the Vanishing Lady! He wished this elevator had, like those in office buildings or hotels, a more extensive telltale beside or over its door that told which floor it was on or passing, so you could trace its course. It would be helpful to know whether it stopped at Seven again this time—it was hard to hear it stop when it got that far away. Of course you could run up the stairs, racing it, if you were young enough and in shape. He’d once observed two young men who were sixth-floor residents do just that, pitting the one’s strong legs and two-orthree-steps-at-a-time against the other’s slow elevator—and never learned who won. For that matter, the young tenants, who were mostly residents of the lower floors, where the turnover of apartments was brisker, quite often went charging blithely up the stairs even when the elevator was waiting and ready, as if to advertise (along with their youth) their contempt for its tedious
elderly
pace. If
he
were young again now, he asked himself, would he have raced up after a vanished girl?

The telltale went black. He jabbed the button, saw it turn red again as the cage obediently obeyed his summons.
Next afternoon found him staring rather impatiently at the red telltale on the fourteenth floor, this time while waiting to travel to the ground floor and so out. And this time it had been red for quite some while, something that happened not infrequently, since the cage’s slow speed and low capacity made it barely adequate to service a building of this size. And while it stayed red it was hard to tell how many trips it was making and how long people were holding the door at one floor. He’d listened to numerous speculative conversations about “what the elevator was doing,” as if it had a mind and volition of its own, which one humorist had indeed suggested. And there were supposed to be certain people (sometimes named and sometimes not) who did outrageous and forbidden things, such as jamming the floor door open while they went back to get things they’d forgotten, or picked up friends on other floors as they went down (or up), organizing an outing or party or having secret discussions and arguments before reaching the less private street. There were even said to be cases of people“pulling the elevator away” from other people who were their enemies, just to spite them.
The most colorful theory, perhaps, was that held by two elderly ladies, both old buffs of elevator travel, whom Ramsey had happened to overhear on two or three occasions. The cornerstone of their theory was that all the building’s troubles were caused by its younger tenants and the teenage sons and daughters of tenants.“Mrs. Clancy told me,”one of them had whispered loudly once,“that they know a way of stopping the thing between floors so they can smooch together and shoot dope and do all sorts of other nasty things—even, if you can believe, go the whole way with each other.” Ryker had been amused; it gave the cage a certain erotic aura.
And every once in a while the elevator did get stuck between floors, sometimes with people in it and sometimes not, especially between the twelfth and fourteenth floors, Clancy had once told him,“like it was trying to stop at the thirteenth!”
But now the elevator’s vagaries weren’t all that amusing to Ramsey standing alone on the top floor, so after one more session of pettish button-pushing—the telltale had gone briefly black, but evidently someone else had beat him to the punch—he decided to “walk down for exercise,” something he’d actually done intentionally upon occasion.
As he descended the apartment tree (he thought of himself as an old squirrel sedately scampering zigzag down the barky outside of the trunk the elevator shaft made), he found himself wondering how the elevator could be so busy when all the corridors were so silent and empty. (But maybe things were happening just before his footstep-heralded arrivals and after his departures—they heard him coming and hid themselves until he was by. Or maybe there was some sort of basement crisis.) The floors were all the same, or almost so: the two long corridors ending in doors of wire-reinforced glass which led to the front and alley fire escapes; these were also lit midway by frosted glass spheres like full moons hanging in space; in either wall beside these handsome globes were set two narrow full-length mirrors in which you could see yourself paced along by two companions.
The apartment tree boasted many mirrors, a luxury note like its silverarabesqued gray wallpaper. There was a large one opposite each elevator door and there were three in the lobby.
As he ended each flight, Ramsey would look down the long alley corridor, make a U-turn, and walk back to the landing (glancing into the short corridor and the elevator landing, which were lit by a central third moon and one large window), all this while facing the long front corridor, then make another U-turn and start down the next flight.
(He did discover one difference between the floors. He counted steps going down, and while there were nineteen between the fourteenth and the twelfth floors, there were only seventeen between all the other pairs. So the cage had to travel a foot and a bit farther to make that Fourteen–Twelve journey; it didn’t just
seem
to take longer, it
did.
So much for tired elevators!)
So it went for nine floors.
But when he made his U-turn onto the third floor he saw that the front corridor’s full moon had been extinguished, throwing a gloom on the whole passageway, while silhouetted against the wired glass at the far end was a swayed, slender figure looking very much like that of the Vanishing Lady. He couldn’t make out her pale triangle of face or gleaming eyes because there was no front light on her; she was only shaped darkness, yet he was sure it was she.
In walking the length of the landing, however, there was time to think that if he continued on beyond the stairs, it would be an undeniable declaration of his intention to meet her, he’d have to keep going, he had no other excuse; also, there’d be the unpleasant impression of him closing in ominously, relentlessly, on a lone trapped female.
As he advanced she waited at the tunnel’s end, silent and unmoving, a shaped darkness.
He made his customary turn, keeping on down the stairs. He felt so wrenched by what was happening that he hardly knew what he was thinking or even feeling, except his heart was thudding and his lungs were gasping as if he’d just walked ten stories upstairs instead of down.
It wasn’t until he had turned into the second floor and seen through the stairwell, cut off by ceiling, the workshoes and twill pants of Clancy, the manager, faced away from him in the lobby, that he got himself in hand. He instantly turned and retraced his steps with frantic haste. He’d flinched away again, just when he’d sworn he wouldn’t! Why, there were a dozen questions he could politely ask her to justify his close approach. Could he be of assistance? Was she looking for one of the tenants? Some apartment number? Etcetera.
But even as he rehearsed these phrases, he had a sinking feeling of what he was going to find on Three.
He was right. There was no longer a figure among the shadows filling the dark front corridor.
And then, even as he was straining his eyes to make sure, with a flicker and a flash the full moon came on again and shone steadily. Showing no one at all.
Ramsey didn’t look any further but hurried back down the stairs. He wanted to be with people, anyone, just people in the street.
But Mr. Clancy was still in the lobby, communing with himself. Ramsey suddenly felt he simply had to share at least part of the story of the Vanishing Lady with someone.
So he told Clancy about the defective light bulb inside the front globe on Three, how it had started to act like a globe that’s near the end of its lifetime, arcing and going off and on by itself, unreliable. Only then did he, as if idly, an afterthought, mention the woman he’d seen and then got to wondering about and gone back and not seen, adding that he thought he’d also seen her in the lobby once or twice before.
He hadn’t anticipated the swift seriousness of the manager’s reaction. Ramsey’d hardly more than mentioned the woman when the ex-fireman asked sharply, “Did she look like a bum? I mean, for a woman—”
Ramsey told him that no, she didn’t, but he hadn’t more than sketched his story when the other said, “Look, Mr. Ryker, I’d like to go up and check this out right away. You said she was all in black, didn’t you? Yeah. Well, look, you stay here, would you do that? And just take notice if anybody comes down. I won’t be long.”
And he got in the elevator, which had been waiting there, and went up. To Four or Five, or maybe Six, Ramsey judged from the cage’s noises and the medium-short time the telltale flared before winking out. He imagined that Clancy would leave it there and then hunt down the floors one by one, using the stairs.
Pretty soon Clancy did reappear by way of the stairs, looking thoughtful. “No” he said, “she’s not there any more, at least—not in the bottom half of the building—and I don’t see her doing a lot of climbing. Maybe she got somebody to take her in, or maybe it was just one of the tenants. Or…?” He looked a question at Ramsey, who shook his head and said, “No, nobody came down the stairs or elevator.”
The manager nodded and then shook his own head slowly.“I don’t know, maybe I’m getting too suspicious,” he said.“I don’t know how much you’ve noticed, Mr. Ryker, living way on top, but from time to time this building is troubled by bums—winos and street people from south of here—trying to get inside and shelter here, especially in winter, maybe go to sleep in a corner. Most of them are men, of course, but there’s an occasional woman bum.” He paused and chuckled reflectively. “Once we had an invasion of women bums, though they weren’t that exactly.”
Ramsey looked at him expectantly.
Clancy hesitated, glanced at Ramsey, and after another pause said,“That’s why we turn the buzzer system off at eleven at night and keep it off until eight in the morning. If we left it on, why, any time in the night a drunken wino would start buzzing apartments until he got one who’d buzz the door open (or he might push a dozen at once, so somebody’d be sure to buzz the door), and once he was inside, he’d hunt himself up an out-of-the-way spot where he could sleep it off and be warm. And if he had cigarettes, he’d start smoking them to put him to sleep, dropping the matches anywhere, but mostly under things. There’s where your biggest danger is—fire. Or he’d get an idea and start bothering tenants, ringing their bells and knocking on their doors, and then anything could happen. Even with the buzzer system off, some of them get in. They’ll stand beside the street door and then follow a couple that’s late getting home, or the same with the newsboy delivering the morning paper before it’s light. Not following them directly, you see, but using a foot (sometimes a cane or crutch) to block the door just before it locks itself, and then coming in soon as the coast’s clear.”
Ramsey nodded several times appreciatively, but then pressed the other with “But you were going to tell me something about an invasion of female bums?”
“Oh, that,” Clancy said doubtfully. A look at Ramsey seemed to reassure him. “That was before your time—you came here about five years ago, didn’t you? Yeah. Well, this happened… let’s see… about two years before that. The Mrs. and I generally don’t talk about it much to tenants, because it gives… gave the building a bad name. Not really any more now, though. Seven years and all’s forgotten, eh?”
He broke off to greet respectfully a couple who passed by on their way upstairs. He turned back to Ramsey. “Well, anyway,” he continued more comfortably, “at this time I’m talking about, the Mrs. and I had been here ourselves only a year. Just about long enough to learn the ropes, at least some of them.
“Now there’s one thing about a building like this I got to explain,” he interjected. “You never, or almost never, get any disappearances—you know, tenants sneaking their things out when they’re behind on the rent, or just walking out one day, leaving their things, and never coming back (maybe getting mugged to death, who knows?)—like happens all the time in those fleabag hotels and rooming houses south of us. Why, half of
their
renters are on dope or heavy medication to begin with, and come from prisons or from mental hospitals. Here you get a steadier sort of tenant, or at least the Mrs. and I try to make it be like that.
“Well, back then, just about the steadiest tenant we had, though not the oldest by any means, was a tall, thin, very handsome and distinguishedlooking youngish chap, name of Arthur J. Stensor, third floor front. Very polite and soft-spoken, never raised his voice. Dark complected, but with blond hair which he wore in a natural—not so common then; once I heard him referred to by another tenant as ‘that frizzy bleached Negro,’ and I thought they were being disrespectful. A sharp dresser but never flashy—he had class. He always wore a hat. Rent paid the first of the month in cash with never a miss. Rent for the garage space too—he kept a black Lincoln Continental in the basement that was always polished like glass; never used the front door much but went and came in that car. And his apartment was furnished to match: oil paintings in gold frames, silver statues, hi-fi,
big
-screen TV and the stuff to record programs and films off it when that
cost,
all sorts of fancy clocks and vases, silks and velvets, more stuff like that than you’d ever believe.
“And when there was people with him, which wasn’t too often, they were as classy as he and his car and his apartment, especially the women—high society and always young. I remember once being in the third-floor hall one night when one of those stunners swept by me and he let her in, and thinking, ‘Well, if that filly was a call girl, she sure came from the best stable in town.’ Only I remember thinking at the same time that I was being disrespectful, because A. J. Stensor was just a little too respectable for even the classiest call girl. Which was a big joke on me considering what happened next.”
“Which was?” Ramsey prompted, after they’d waited for a couple more tenants to go by.
“Well, at first I didn’t connect it at all with Stensor,” Clancy responded, “though it’s true I hadn’t happened to see him for the last five or six days, which was sort of unusual, though not all that much so. Well, what happened was this invasion—no, goddammit! this
epidemic
—of good-looking hookers, mostly tall and skinny, or at least skinny, through the lower halls and lobby of this building. Some of them were dressed too respectable for hookers, but most of them wore the street uniform of the day—which was high heels, skintight blue jeans, long lace blouses worn outside the pants, and lots of bangles—and when you saw them talking together palsy-walsy, the respectable-looking and the not, you knew they all had to be.”
“How did it first come to you?” Ramsey asked. “Tenants complain?”
“A couple,” Clancy admitted. “Those old biddies who’ll report a young and good-looking woman on the principle that if she’s young and goodlooking she can’t be up to any good purpose. But the really funny thing was that most of the reports of them came in just by way of gossip—either to me direct, or by way of the Mrs., which is how it usually works—like it was something strange and remarkable—which it was, all right! Questions too, such as what the hell they were all up to, which was a good one to ask, by the way. You see, they weren’t any of them
doing