Selected Stories by Fritz Leiber (42 page)

anything to complain of. It was broad day and they certainly weren’t trying to pick anyone up, they weren’t plying their trade at all, you might say, they weren’t even smiling at anybody, especially men. No, they were just walking up and down and talking together, looking critical and angry more than anything, and very serious—like they’d picked our apartment building for a hookers’ convention, complete with debates, some sort of feminist or union thing, except they hadn’t bothered to inform the management. Oh, when I’d cough and ask a couple of them what they were doing, they’d throw me some excuse without looking at me—that they had a lunch date with a lady here but she didn’t seem to be in and they couldn’t wait, or that they were shopping for apartments but these weren’t suitable—and at the same time they’d start walking toward the street door, or toward the stairs if they were on the third or second floor, still gabbing together in private voices about whatever it was they were debating, and then they’d sweep out, still not noticing me even if I held the door for them.
“And then, you know, in twenty minutes they’d be back inside! or at least I’d spot one of them that was. Some of them
must
have had front door keys, I remember thinking—and as it turned out later, some of them did.”
By this time Mr. Clancy had warmed to his story and was giving out little chuckles with every other sentence, and he almost forgot to lower his voice next time a tenant passed.
“There was one man they took notice of. I forgot about that. It could have given me a clue to what was happening, but I didn’t get it. We had a tenant then on one of the top floors who was tall and slim and rather good-looking—young looking too, although he wasn’t—and always wore a hat. Well, I was in the lobby and four or five of the hookers had just come in the front door, debating of course, when this guy stepped out of the elevator and they all spotted him and made a rush for him. But when they got about a dozen feet away from him and he took off his hat—maybe to be polite, he looked a little scared, I don’t know what he thought—showing his wavy black hair which he kept dyed, the hookers all lost interest in him—as if he’d looked like someone they knew, but closer up turned out not to be (which
was
the case, though I still didn’t catch on then)—and they swept past him and on up the stairs as if that was where they’d been rushing in the first place.
“I tell you, that was some weird day. Hookers dressed all ways—classyrespectable, the tight-jeans and lacy-blouse uniform, mini-skirts, one in what looked like a kid’s sailor suit cut for a woman, a sad one all in black looking like something special for funerals… you know, maybe to give first aid to a newly bereaved husband or something.” He gave Ryker a quick look, continuing,“And although almost all of them were skinny, I recall there was a fat one wearing a mumu and swinging gracefully like a belly dancer.
“The Mrs. was after me to call the police, but our owner sort of discourages that, and I couldn’t get him on the phone.
“In the evening the hookers tapered off and I dropped into bed, all worn out from the action, the wife still after me to call the police, but I just conked out cold, and so the only one to see the last of the business was the newsboy when he came to deliver at four-thirty about. Later on he dropped back to see me, couldn’t wait to tell me about it.
“Well, he was coming up to the building, it seems, pushing his shopping cart of morning papers, when he sees this crowd of good-looking women (he wasn’t wise to the hookers’ convention the day before) around the doorway, most of them young and all of them carrying expensive-looking objects—paintings, vases, silver statues of naked girls, copper kitchenware, gold clocks, that sort of stuff—like they were helping a wealthy friend move. Only there is a jam-up, two or three of them are trying to maneuver an oversize dolly through the door, and on that dolly is the biggest television set the kid ever saw and also the biggest record player.
“A woman at the curb outside, who seems a leader, sort of very cool, is calling directions to them how to move it, and close beside her is another woman, like her assistant or gopher maybe. The leader’s calling out directions, like I say, in a hushed voice, and the other women are watching, but they’re all very quiet, like you’d expect people to be at that hour of the morning, sober people at any rate, not wanting to wake the neighbors.
“Well, the kid’s looking all around, every which way, trying to take in everything—there was a lot of interesting stuff to see, I gather, and more inside—when the gopher lady comes over and hunkers down beside him—he was a runt, that newsboy was, and ugly too—and wants to buy a morning paper. He hauls it out for her and she gives him a five-dollar bill and tells him to keep the change. He’s sort of embarrassed by that and drops his eyes, but she tells him not to mind, he’s a handsome boy and a good hard-working one, she wished she had one like him, and he deserves everything he gets, and she puts an arm around him and draws him close and all of a sudden his downcast eyes are looking inside her blouse front and he’s getting the most amazing anatomy lesson you could imagine.
“He has some idea that they’re getting the dolly clear by now and that the other women are moving, but she’s going on whispering in his ear, her breath’s like steam, what a good boy he is and how grateful his parents must be, and
his
only worry, she’ll hug him so tight he won’t be able to look down her blouse.
“After a bit she ends his anatomy lesson with a kiss that almost smothers him and then stands up. The women are all gone and the dolly’s vanishing around the next corner. Before she hurries after it, she says, ‘So long, kid. You got your bonus. Now deliver your papers.’
“Which, after he got over his daze, is what he did, he said.
“Well, of course, as soon as he mentioned the big television and player, I flashed on what I’d been missing all yesterday, though it was right in front of my eyes if I’d just looked. Why they’d been swarming on Three, why they rushed the guy from Seven and then lost interest in him when he took off his hat and they saw his hair was black dyed (instead of frizzy blond), and why the hookers’ convention wasn’t still going on today. All that loot could have only come from one place—Stensor’s. In spite of him being so respectable, he’d been running a string of call girls all the time, so that when he ran out on them owing them all money (I flashed on that at the same time), they’d collected the best way they knew how.
“I ran to his apartment, and you know the door wasn’t even locked—one of them must have had a key to it too. Of course the place was stripped and of course no sign of Stensor.
“Then I did call the police of course but not until I’d checked the basement. His black Continental was gone, but there was no way of telling for sure whether he’d taken it or the gals had got that too.
“It surprised me how fast the police came and how many of them there were, but it showed they must have had an eye on him already, which maybe explained why he left so sudden without taking his things. They asked a lot of questions and came back more than once, were in and out for a few days. I got to know one of the detectives, he lived locally, we had a drink together once or twice, and he told me they were really after Stensor for drug dealing, he was handling cocaine back in those days when it was first getting to be the classy thing, they weren’t interested in his call girls except as he might have used them as pushers. They never did turn him up though, far as I know, and there wasn’t even a line in the papers about the whole business.”
“So that was the end of your one-day hooker invasion?” Ryker commented, chuckling rather dutifully.
“Not quite,” Clancy said, and hesitated. Then with a “What-differencecan-it-make?” shrug, he went on, “Well, yes, there was a sort of funny follow-up but it didn’t amount to much. You see, the story of Stensor and the hookers eventually got around to most of the tenants in the building, as such things will, though some of them got it garbled, as you can imagine happens, that he was a patron and maybe somehow victim of call girls instead of running them. Well, anyhow, after a bit, we (the Mrs. mostly) began to get these tenant reports of a girl—a young woman—seen waiting outside the door to Stensor’s apartment, or wandering around in other parts of the building, but mostly waiting at Stensor’s door. And this was after there were other tenants in that apartment. A sad-looking girl.”

“Like, out of all those hookers,” Ryker said, “she was the only one who really loved him and waited for him. A sort of leftover.”
“Yeah, or the only one who hadn’t got her split of the loot,” Clancy said. “Or maybe he owed her more than the others. I never saw her myself, although I went chasing after her a couple of times when tenants reported her. I wouldn’t have taken any stock in her except the descriptions did seem to hang together. A college-type girl, they’d say, and mostly wearing black. And sort of sad. I told the detective I knew, but he didn’t seem to make anything out of it. They never did pick up any of the women, he said, far as he knew. Well, that’s all there is to the follow-up—like I said, nothing much. And after two or three months tenants stopped seeing her.”
He broke off, eyeing Ryker just a little doubtfully.
“But it stuck in your mind,” that one observed, “for all these years, so that when I told you about seeing a woman in black near the same door, you rushed off to check up on her, just on the chance? Though you’d never seen her yourself, even once?”
Clancy’s expression became a shade unhappy. “Well, no,” he admitted, glancing up and down the hall, as though hoping someone would come along and save him from answering. “There was a little more than that,” he continued uneasily, “though I wouldn’t want anyone making too much of it, or telling the Mrs. I told them.
“But then, Mr. Ryker, you’re not the one to be gossiping or getting the wind up, are you?” he continued more easily, giving his tenant a hopeful look.
“No, of course I’m not,” Ryker responded, a little more casually than he felt. “What was it?”
“Well, about four years ago we had another disappearance here, a single man living alone and getting on in years but still active. He didn’t own any of the furniture, his possessions were few, nothing at all fancy like Stensor’s, no friends or relations we knew of, and he came to us from a building that knew no more; in fact we didn’t realize he was gone until the time for paying the rent came round. And it wasn’t until then that I recalled that the last time or two I spoke to him he’d mentioned something about a woman in an upstairs hall, wondering if she’d found the people or the apartment number she seemed to be looking for. Not making a complaint, you see, just mentioning, just idly wondering, so that it wasn’t until he disappeared that I thought of connecting it up with Stensor’s girl at all.”
“He say if she was young?” Ryker asked.
“He wasn’t sure. She was wearing a black outside coat and hat or scarf of something that hid her face, and she made a point of not noticing him when he looked at her and thought of asking if she needed help. He did say she was thin, though, I remember.”
Ryker nodded.
Clancy continued,“And then a few years ago there was this couple on Nine that had a son living with them, a big fat lug who looked older than he was and was always being complained about whether he did anything or not. One of the old ladies in the apartment next to their bathroom used to kick to us about him running water for baths at two or three in the morning. And he had the nerve to complain to us about
them,
claiming they pulled the elevator away from him when he wanted to get it, or made it go in the opposite direction to what he wanted when he was in it. I laughed in his pimply face at that. Not that those two old biddies wouldn’t have done it to him if they’d figured a way and they’d got the chance.
“His mother was a sad soul who used to fuss at him and worry about him a lot. She’d bring her troubles to the Mrs. and talk and talk—but I think really she’d have been relieved to have him off her mind.
“His father was a prize crab, an ex-army officer forever registering complaints—he had a little notebook for them. But half the time he was feuding with me and the Mrs., wouldn’t give us the time of day—or of course ask it. I know
he’d
have been happy to see his loud-mouthed dumb son drop out of sight.
“Well, one day the kid comes down to me here with a smart-ass grin and says, ‘Mr. Clancy, you’re the one who’s so great, aren’t you, on chasing winos and hookers out of here, not letting them freeload in the halls for a minute? Then how come you let—’
“ ‘Go on,’ I tell him, ‘what do you know about hookers?’
“But that doesn’t faze him, he just goes on (he was copying his father, I think, actually),‘Then how come you let this skinny little hooker in a black fur coat wander around the halls all the time, trying to pick guys up?’
“ ‘You’re making this up,’ I tell him flat, ‘or you’re imagining things, or else one of our lady tenants is going to be awful sore at you if she ever hears you’ve been calling her a hooker.’
“ ‘She’s nobody from this building,’ the kid insists, ‘she’s got more class. That fur coat cost money. It’s hard to check out her face, though, because she never looks at you straight on and she’s got this black hat she hides behind. I figure she’s an old bag—maybe thirty, even—and wears the hat so you can’t see her wrinkles, but that she’s got a young bod, young and wiry. I bet she takes karate lessons so she can bust the balls of any guy that gets out of line, or maybe if he just doesn’t satisfy her—’
“ ‘You’re pipe-dreaming, kid,’ I tell him.
“ ‘And you know what?’ he goes on. ‘I bet you she’s got nothing on but black stockings and a garter belt under that black fur coat she keeps wrapped so tight around her, so when she’s facing a guy she can give him a quick flash of her bod, to lead him on—’
“ ‘And you got a dirty mind,’ I say. ‘You’re making this up.’
“ ‘I am not,’ he says.‘She was just now up on Ten before I came down and leering at me sideways, giving me the come on.’
“ ‘What were you doing up on Ten?’ I ask him loud.
“ ‘I always go up a floor before I buzz the elevator,’ he answers me quick, ‘so’s those old dames won’t know it’s me and buzz it away from me.’
“ ‘All right, quiet down, kid,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going up to Ten right now, to check this out, and you’re coming with me.’
“So we go on up to Ten and there’s nobody there and right away the kid starts yammering,‘I bet you she picked up a trick in this building and they’re behind one of these doors screwing, right now. Old Mr. Lucas—’
“I was really going to give him a piece of my mind then, tell him off, but on the way up I’d been remembering that girl of Stensor’s who lingered behind, maybe for a long time, if there was anything to what the other guy told me. And somehow it gave me a sort of funny feeling, so all I said was something like‘Look here, kid, maybe you’re making this up and maybe not. Either way, I still think you got a dirty mind. But if you did see this hooker and you ever see her again, don’t you have anything to do with her—and don’t go off with her if she should ask you. You just come straight to me and tell me, and if I’m not here, you find a cop and tell him. Hear me?’
“You know, that sort of shut him up.‘All right, all right!’ he said and went off, taking the stairs going down.”
“And did
he
disappear?” Ryker asked after a bit. He seemed vaguely to remember the youth in question, a pallid and lumbering lout who tended to brush against people and bump into doorways when he passed them.
“Well, you know, in a way that’s a matter for argument,” Clancy answered slowly. “It was the last time I saw him—that’s a fact. And the Mrs. never saw him again either. But when she asked his mother about him, she just said he was off visiting friends for a while, but then a month or so later she admitted to the Mrs. that he had gone off without telling them a word—to join a commune, she thought, from some of the things he’d been saying, and that was all right with her, because his father just couldn’t get along with him, they had such fights, only she wished he’d have the consideration to send her a card or something.”
“And that was the last of it?” Ryker asked.
Clancy nodded slowly, almost absently.“That was damn all of it,” he said softly. “About ten months later the parents moved. The kid hadn’t turned up. There was nothing more.”
“Until now,” Ryker said, “when I came to you with my questions about a woman in black—and on Three at that, where this Stensor had lived. It wasn’t a fur coat, of course, and I didn’t think of her being a hooker—” (Was that true? he wondered) “—and it brought it all back to you, which now included what the young man had told you, and so you checked out the floors and then very kindly told me the whole story so as to give me the same warning you gave him?”
“But you’re an altogether different sort of person, Mr. Ryker,” Clancy protested.“I’d never think— But yes, allowing for that, that about describes it. You can’t be too careful.”
“No, you can’t. It’s a strange business,” Ryker commented, shaking his head, and then added, making it sound much more casual, even comical, than he felt it, “You know, if this had happened fifty years ago, we’d be thinking maybe we had a ghost.”
Clancy chuckled uneasily and said, “Yeah, I guess that’s so.”
Ryker said, “But the trouble with that idea would have been that there’s nothing in the story about a woman disappearing, but three men—Stensor, and the man who lived alone, and the young man who lived with his parents.”
“That’s so,” Mr. Clancy said.
Ryker stirred himself. “Well, thanks for telling me all about it,” he said as they shook hands. “And if I should run into the lady again, I won’t take any chances. I’ll report it to you, Clancy. But not to the Mrs.”
“I know you will, Mr. Ryker,” Clancy affirmed.
Ryker himself wasn’t nearly so sure of that. But he felt he had to get away to sort out his impressions. The dingy silvery walls were becoming oppressive.
Ryker made his walk a long one, brisk and thoughtful to begin with, dawdling and mind-wandering to finish, so that it was almost sunset by the time he reentered the apartment tree (and our story), but he had his impressions sorted. Clancy had—possibly—given the Vanishing Lady a history, funny to start with (that “hookers’ convention”!) but then by stages silly, sad, sinister. Melancholy, moody, and still mysterious.
The chief retroactive effect of Clancy’s story on his memories of his own encounters with the Vanishing Lady had been to intensify their sexual color, give them a sharper, coarser erotic note—an Ultrabooth note, you could say. In particular Ryker was troubled that ever since hearing Clancy narrate the loutish youth’s steamy adolescent imagining that his “little hooker” had worn nothing but black stockings and a garter belt under her black fur coat, he was unable to be sure whether he himself had had similar simmering fantasy flashes during his encounters with her.
Could he be guilty, at his age, he asked himself, of such callow and lurid fantasies? The answer to that was, of course, “Of course.” And then wasn’t the whole romantic business of the Vanishing Lady just a retailoring of Ultrabooth to his own taste, something that made an Ultrabooth girl his alone? Somehow, he hoped not. But had he any real plan for making contact with her if she ever did stop vanishing? His unenterprising behavior when he’d had the chance to get into the elevator with her alone, and later the chance to get off the elevator at the same floor as she, and today the opportunity to meet her face to face on the third floor, indicated clearly that the answer to that question was “No.” Which depressed him.
To what extent did Clancy believe in his story and in the reality of the girl who’d reportedly lingered on? He obviously had enjoyed telling it, and likely (from his glibness) had done so more than once, to suitable appreciative listeners. But did he believe she was one continuing real entity, or just a mixture of suggestion, chance, and mistaken resemblances, gossip, and outright lies? He’d never seen her himself—had this made Clancy doubt her reality, or contrariwise given him a stubborn hankering to catch sight of her himself for once at least? On the whole, Ryker thought Clancy was a believer—if only judging by his haste to search for her.
And as for the ghost idea, which you couldn’t get around because it fitted her appearing and disappearing behavior so well, no matter how silly and unfashionable such a suggestion might be—Clancy’s reaction to that had seemed uneasy skepticism rather than outright “Nonsense!” rejection.
Which was very much like Ryker’s own reaction to it, he realized. He knew there’d been some feelings of fear mixed in with the excitement during all his later encounters with her, before he’d heard Clancy’s story. How would he feel now, after hearing it, if he should see her again, he wondered uncomfortably. More fear? Or would he now spot clues to her unreality? Would she begin to melt into mist? Would she look different simply because of what he’d heard about her?
Most likely, reality being the frustrating thing it was, he thought with an unamused inward guffaw, he’d simply never glimpse her again and never know. The stage having been set, all manifestations would cease.
But then, as he let the front door slip from his hand and swing toward its click-solemnized self-locking, he saw the Vanishing Lady forty feet away exactly as he had the first two times, real, no ghostliness anywhere (the name for the material of her coat came to his mind—velour), her shadowed face swung his way, or almost so, and modestly reaverted itself, and she moved out of sight on her black oxfords.
He reached the foyer fast as he could manage, its emptiness neither startling nor relieving him, nor the emptiness of the long back hall. He looked at the Clancys’ door and the shuttered office window and shook his head and smiled. (Report this adventure? Whyever?) He started toward the stairs, but shook his head again and smiled more ruefully—he was already breathing very hard. He entered the elevator, and as he firmly pressed the 14 button with his thumb and heard the cage respond, he saw the dark gleaming eyes of the Vanishing Lady looking in at him anxiously, imploringly—they were open very wide—through the narrowing small window in the doors.
The next thing he was aware of, the cage was passing Three and he had just croaked out a harsh “Good evening”—the chalky aftertaste of these words was in his throat. The rest of the trip seemed interminable.
When the cage reached Fourteen, his thumb was already pressing the One button—and that trip seemed interminable too.
No sign of anyone anywhere, on One. He looked up the stairs, but he was breathing harder than even before. Finally he got back into the elevator and hovered his thumb over the 14 button. He could touch but not press it down. He brought his face close to the empty little window and waited and waited—and waited.