“What should I do?” Darcy wondered aloud. Report her missing? Call the police and inquire about accidents?

A sudden thought made her shiver. Suppose Erin had had an accident in the apartment. She had a habit of tilting back in her chair when she was concentrating. Suppose she’d been lying there unconscious all this time! It took her three minutes to throw on a sweater and slacks, grab a coat and gloves. She waited agonizing minutes on Second Avenue before getting a cab. “ One-oh-one Christopher Street, and please hurry.” “Everybody says ‘hurry.’ I say take it easy, you’ll live longer.” The cabbie winked into the rearview mirror.

Darcy turned her head. She was in no mood to banter with the driver. Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility of an accident? Last month, just before she went to California, Erin had dropped by for dinner. They’d watched the news. One of the commercials showed a frail old woman falling and getting help by touching the emergency signal on a chain around her neck. “That’ll be us in fifty years,” Erin had said. She’d imitated the commercial, moaning, “Hel-l-l-p, hel-l-l-p! I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”

Gus Boxer, the superintendent of 101 Christopher Street, had an eye for pretty women. That was why when he hurried to the lobby to answer the persistent ring of the doorbell, his annoyed scowl was quickly replaced by an ingratiating twist of his mouth.

He liked what he saw. The visitor’s light brown hair was tossed by the wind. It fell forward on her face, reminding him of the Veronica Lake movies he stayed up to watch. Her hip-length leather jacket was old but had that classy look that Gus had come to recognize since taking this job in Greenwich Village. His appraising eyes lingered on her long, slim legs. Then he realized why she looked familiar. He’d seen her a couple of times with 3B, Erin Kelley. He opened the vestibule door and stepped aside. “At your service,” he said in what he considered to be a winning manner.