by Ed McBain
"You're beautiful," he said.
"No, please . . ."
"Yes."
"Please don't lie to me."
"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever known in my life."
"Ahhh," she said.
"Yes."
"Ahhh."
"Molly, you're beautiful," he whispered.
"I'm a good lay, is what you mean?"
"Yes, you're a good lay, but"
"Mmmm, and that's it."
"No."
"Yes, that's all of it. Roger, please, I know."
"How do you know?"
She shrugged. "You're a man. I know what men want."
"That's not all I want," he said.
She moved closer to him. She buried her face in his shoulder. Her lips vibrated against his skin as she spoke. "You're the only man who ever told me I was beautiful," she whispered. She paused for a long time. "Roger?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me."
"What?"
"Tell me again."
"What?"
"Don't make me beg."
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You embarrass me," she whispered.
"I want to hold you," he said.
"Ahhh."
"I want to kiss you."
She moved into his arms. "What's this?" she whispered.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she whispered. "Oh, it's something. Oh, I can tell it's something. Oh, I'm sure it's something. Oh yes. Yes, yes, that's it, yes."
"Molly, Molly . . ."
"Ooooh, kiss you," she whispered. "Ooooh, hold you, kiss you, kiss you."
"Beautiful," he whispered, "beautiful."
Her scarf was in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He walked to the dresser now and opened the drawer and took out the scarf and held it in his hands. It was a pale-blue scarf, light, almost transparent, made of nylon, he supposed, he didn't really know. It was the only article of her clothing left behind in the apartment. He had discovered it afterward near the closet door, he supposed it had dropped from the hanger when he'd gone to get her coat.
He looked at the scarf and wondered what he should do with it. Suppose those two detectives came back to ask more questions, suppose they search the room? Well, no, they needed a warrant to do that, didn't they? Or did they? Suppose they came back while he was out with Amelia? He'd have to get rid of the scarf, that was for sure. Or else, he could simply take it with him when he went to the police station to tell them about it, yes, that would make things a lot simpler, sure. He would go there with the scarf and that would make it easier to talk about Molly. He would ask for the detective with the deaf-mute wife. He hadn't really liked any of the others, not Parker in the luncheonette, and not those two who had just been here, either, although they weren't too bad still, he preferred the one with the beautiful wife.
Amelia, he thought.
I'd better get rid of this scarf, first, he thought, and wondered how he should do it.
I suppose I can cut it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet. That would probably be best. Only trouble is I haven't got a scissors, nor even a knife. I can tear it in my hands, I suppose.
He looked at the scarf again.
He grasped it firmly in both hands and tried to rip it, but it wouldn't start because there was a tight, strong welting all around the edge of it. He put the end of the scarf into his mouth and tore the welting with his teeth, and then ripped it in half along a jagged line, and then decided throwing it down the toilet wouldn't be any good. Suppose the damn toilet got stuffed, that would be just great.
He went to the dresser. A book of matches was lying in the ash tray near the lamp. He picked up the matches and went to the bathroom with the scarf. He struck a match, and then held the scarf hanging from one hand over the toilet bowl, almost touching the water. He brought the other hand, with the lighted match, toward the dangling end of the scarf and was about to set fire to it when he heard someone calling him.
He recognized Mrs. Dougherty's voice, and wondered how in hell she had known he was about to set fire to a scarf in her bathroom. He shook out the match and dropped it into the bowl, and went back to his room. There he wadded the scarf into a ball and put it into the bottom dresser drawer again.
Mrs. Dougherty was still yelling his name in the hallway. "Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome!"
He went to the door and opened it.
"Yes," he said, "what is it?"
"Mr. Broome, there's a phone call for you."
"What?" he said.
"The telephone," she said.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"I don't know. It's a woman."
My mother, he thought, and wondered how she had got the number.
"I'll be right down," he said. He closed the door, went back into the room, opened the bottom dresser drawer, and shoved the blue scarf all the way to the back of it. Then he closed the drawer and went out into the hall. The pay phone was on the wall of the first-floor landing. Mrs. Dougherty was standing near the phone, waiting for him.
"Did the detectives talk to you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"They were nice boys, weren't they?"
"Yes, they seemed very nice. Are they still in the building?"
"They're talking to Mrs. Ingersol on the fifth floor."
"Then they're almost finished, I guess," Roger said. He took the receiver from her hand. "Thank you," he said.
"Do you think they'll get my refrigerator back?" Mrs. Dougherty asked.
"I hope so," Roger said, and he smiled and put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"
Mrs. Dougherty smiled and nodded and started down the steps to her apartment on the ground floor just as the voice at his ear said, "Roger, is it you? This is Amelia."
"Amelia? How Amelia, did you say?"
"I was hoping you hadn't left yet."
"No, I'm still here. What time is it?"
"It's three-twenty. I was afraid you might have left."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"I'm going to be a little late."
"Why?"
"Something unexpected."
"Like what?"
"I'll tell you when I see you."
"How late will you be?"
"Four-thirty?" she said. "Is that too late?"
"No, that's fine."
"Same place?"
"Yes, outside the drugstore."
"Aren't you curious?"
"About what?"
"About how I got your phone number?"
"Yeah, how about that?" he said.
"Some memory, huh?"
"What do you mean? I never gave you the number here. I don't even know the number here myself."
"Aha," she said.
"How'd you get it?"
"Agnes Dougherty," she said.
"What?"
"The name on one of your valentines. The cards. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah, that's right," he said, smiling.
"Your landlady."
"That's right."
"Or so you said."
"She is. I'll introduce you to her, if you like."
"When?"
"Later."
"Sure," Amelia said. "You can't kid me. She's some big old blond broad you're living with, you can't kid me."
"No," he said, grinning, "she's my landlady."
"Hey, you know something?"
"What?"
"I like you."
"I like you, too, Amelia."
"Good."
"Four-thirty, okay?"
"Yes." She paused. "Roger?"
"Yes?"
"I more than just like you."
"Okay."
"Okay, look at the brushoff," she said, and laughed.
"What brushoff?"
"You're supposed to say you more than just like me, too."
"I do."
"Ah, such enthusiasm," Amelia said. "Okay, I'll see you later. You think you can keep out of trouble between now an
d four-thirty?"
"I'll try," Roger said.
"Yeah, try," she answered. "Try real hard."
"I will."
"You're very cute," she said, and hung up.
He stood grinning at the receiver for a moment, and then replaced it on the cradle.
He went up to the apartment then and burned Molly's scarf and flushed the ashes down the toilet, and then opened the bathroom window to let out the smoke.
11
The snow had stopped.
There was a silence to the city.
There was a clean silence that reached somewhere deep inside him the moment he stepped outside and began walking toward the garage. His footfalls were hushed, his breath plumed out ahead of him in visible silence, there was the normal hush of late afternoon, the whispering minutes before twilight, intensified now by the cushion of snow, deepened, the gentle rhythmic sound of skid chains, muffled. I'll have to put chains on the truck, he thought.
The thought came into his mind with a suddenness that was totally surprising because it carried with it the idea of going home; if he was planning to put chains on the truck, then he was planning to use the truck, to go someplace with it, and the only place he would take the truck would be home to Carey. He knew that was what he ought to do, put chains on the truck, and then call his mother and tell her he was leaving the city, probably be home this evening sometime, that was the thing to do. But there were also a few other things he knew he should do, or at least felt he ought to do, and suddenly everything seemed mixed up, suddenly the silence of the city was irritating to him rather than soothing. He knew he should call his mother and then head for home, and he also knew he should go to the police station and talk to that detective with the deaf-and-dumb wife, but he also knew he should meet Amelia at four-thirty because Amelia was the most beautiful woman he had ever known in his life and he had the feeling he should not allow her to get away from him, colored or otherwise. It still bothered him that she was colored, but not as much as it had bothered him earlier. He thought suddenly of Molly and how she had become beautiful all at once at two o'clock last night, but that was something different, that wasn't the way he felt about Amelia, that was something entirely different. Amelia really was beautiful, everything about her was beautiful the way she looked, and the soft way she had of speaking, and that fine bright quickness about her, and the way she kissed, she really was a beautiful girl. His mother certainly wouldn't be able to kid about her the way she had kidded about all the ugly ducklings he took out in Carey, not by a long shot. It troubled him that he would be seeing Amelia when he knew he should be going home to his mother. After all, somebody had to take care of her now that his father was dead. But at the same time he really did want to see Amelia, to know Amelia, and this frightened him because at some point last night when he was in bed with Molly he had begun to think that he would really like to know her, too, and not just as somebody to take to bed, some ugly girl to take to bed, but as a beautiful person secret and private inside this very plain outside shell. That was when he supposed he began to get angry with her, that was when he supposed the argument started.
He did not want an argument to start with Amelia, and yet he had the feeling that if he met her later on he would argue with her, too, and all because he knew he should be home in Carey taking care of his mother and not getting involved with pretty girls in the city, especially pretty girls who were colored. He didn't see how he could get involved with a colored girl. Hell, he wouldn't even have asked her to take the afternoon off if he'd thought there was the slightest possibility of getting involved with someone who was colored. But then he hadn't thought he'd get involved with anyone as ugly as Molly, either, until he found himself really wondering about her and looking at her as if she was beautiful, and really believing she was beautiful, that was what had caused all the trouble.
So the thing he should do, he supposed, was to go to the police and tell them about Molly, and then go home to Carey. No, that wouldn't exactly work, either. Going to the police would keep him away from Amelia, would keep him from getting involved with her, or of getting angry with her the way he'd got angry with Molly, but it would also keep him away from his mother in Carey, well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. He was suddenly very confused.
Look, he told himself, I'd better Look, I think the police Well, look, let me put the chains on the truck for now. Let me do that, and I'll work out the rest.
I mean, what the hell, she's sitting all the way up there, somebody's got to take care of her.
Buddy's just a kid.
Somebody's got to take care of her.
The garage attendant was a short fellow with curly black hair and very white teeth. He was wearing an old World War II flight jacket, the same jacket he'd been wearing the other day when Roger pulled in with the truck loaded.
"Hey," he said, "how you doing?"
"Fine," Roger said. "I just thought I'd stop by to put my chains on. I wasn't expecting this kind of snow."
"Something, huh?" the attendant said. "You could freeze your ass off in this city."
"It gets a lot colder up where I live," Roger said.
"Yeah, where you live?" the attendant asked, grinning. "Siberia? Or Lower Slobovia, which?"
Roger didn't know where Lower Slobovia was, so he just said, "Well, it gets pretty cold up there, believe me."
"I see you got rid of all your stuff," the attendant said.
"Yes. I sold it all yesterday."
"That's good, huh?"
"Yes, that's fine," Roger said.
"Late last night?" the attendant said.
"What?"
"That when you sold it?"
"No. No," Roger said. He stared at the attendant, puzzled. "I don't think I get you."
"The benches and stuff, the bowls. You know?"
"Yes?"
"Did you sell them late last night?"
"No. I sold the last of them yesterday afternoon sometime. Downtown."
"Oh."
"Why?"
"Oh, nothing," the attendant said. "Only I must've been gone when you came back, and the night man said you took the truck out again later."
"He did?"
"Yeah. He only told me about it because he wasn't sure he should have let it go out, you know, so he was just checking. To make sure he didn't pull a boner. You know?"
"Mmm," Roger said.
"That was pretty late."
"Yes."
"Three o'clock in the morning." The attendant grinned. His teeth were very white. "Or early, depending how you look at it, huh? Three o'clock could be very early."
"It was early," Roger said. "I had to carry some stuff."
"More of that wood stuff, huh?"
"No," Roger said quickly. "I . . ." He paused. "A man offered me a job. Yesterday afternoon, while I was downtown."
"Oh? Yeah?"
"Hauling some vegetables for him. From the market."
"Hey, that's a lucky break, huh?" the attendant said.
"Yes, I had to take them over the bridge to the other side of the river. Over there. I had to pick them up at the market."
"Downtown, huh?"
"Yes."
"Where? Down near Cummings?"
"What?"
"Cummings Street? The market down there?"
"Yes, the market."
"Sure, they open very early," the attendant said.
"Yes, I had to be there at three-thirty to make the pickup. And then I had to drive all way to the bridge and across the river."
"All the way to Lower Slobovia, huh?" the attendant said, and laughed. "Well, you're a hard worker, that's good. I admire guys who are willing to work to earn a buck. Christ knows I work hard enough. Your truck's over there near that '62 Caddy. You want a hand with the chains?"
"No, I think I can manage. Thanks." "Don't mention it. You want the keys?" "I don't know. How much space have I got?" "I think you can get them on without moving it. But if you need the keys, they're right here
on the board."
"Okay," Roger said, and walked to where the truck was parked at the far end of the garage. He glanced at the Cadillac alongside it, and then lowered the tailgate and climbed up into the back. His chains were in the right-hand forward corner of the truck, up near the cab, wrapped in burlap. He always dried them carefully each time he took them off, and then wrapped them in burlap so they wouldn't rust. He picked up the chains and was heading for the rear of the truck again when he saw the stain.
The stain was no larger than a half-dollar, circular, with a sawtooth edge and tiny spatters radiating from the rim.
That must've been from her nose, he thought. He climbed down from the truck and dropped the chains near the left rear wheel, and then looked around the garage and saw a hose attached to a faucet, and alongside that a can. He glanced toward the front of the garage to check if the attendant was anywhere in sight. He walked to the hose and picked up the can and filled it about a quarter full, and then went back to the truck again. He put the can down near the tailgate. From under the front seat he took an old soiled rag, and he carried that with him to the back of the truck again, where he dipped it into the can of water.
He was very lucky. The blood had dripped onto one of the metal strips running the length of the truck, and had not fallen on the wooden floor of the body. It might have been difficult to remove a bloodstain from a wooden floor. Instead, he wiped the blood off the metal in as long as it took him to pass the wet cloth over it.
He rinsed the cloth out several times until it was clean. The water in the can showed hardly any discoloration, hardly any trace of red or even pink. He poured the water down the open drain near the hose attachment, and rinsed the can out several times.
He went back to the truck and put on the chains.
She was waiting for him outside the drugstore.
She spotted him as he turned the corner, and waved immediately and came running up to him.
"Hi," she said, and looped her arm through his. "You're late."
"I haven't got a watch," he said.
"Well, you're not too late, it's only about twenty to. Where were you?"
"Putting chains on my truck."
"Fine thing. Guy'd rather put chains on his truck than be with me."
"No, I'd rather be with you, Amelia."
"There are times, you know," she said, smiling, "when I think you have absolutely no sense of humor."
