I could hear a heavy tread ahead of me and guessed it was my anonymous visitor. When I got to the top, I quietly opened the stairwell door and watched him in the dim light. He was knocking at my office door. I couldn’t see him very well, but got the impression of a short stocky man. He held himself aggressively, and when he got no answer to his knocking, he opened the door without hesitation and went inside. I walked down the hallway and went in after him.

A five-foot-high sign from Arnie’s Steak Joynt flashed red and yellow across the street, providing spasms of light to my office. I saw my visitor whirl as I opened the door. “I’m looking for V. I. Warshawski,” he said, his voice husky but confident-the voice of a man used to having his own way.

“Yes,” I said, going past him to sit behind my desk.

“Yes, what?” he demanded.

“Yes, I’m V.I. Warshawski. You call my answering service for an appointment?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it would mean walking up four flights of stairs to a dark office. Why the hell doesn’t the elevator work?”

“The tenants in this building are physical fitness nuts. We agreed to get rid of the elevator-climbing stairs is well known as a precaution against heart attacks.”

In one of the flashes from Arnie’s I saw him make an angry gesture. “I didn’t come here to listen to a comedienne,” he said, his husky voice straining. “When I ask questions I expect to hear them answered.”

“In that case, ask reasonable questions. Now, do you want to tell me why you need a private investigator?”

“I don’t know. I need help all right, but this place-Jesus-and why is it so dark in here?”

“The lights are out,” I said, my temper riding me. “You don’t like my looks, leave. I don’t like anonymous callers, either.”

“All right, all right,” he said placatingly. “Simmer down. But do we have to sit in the dark?”