Time to Die

by Hilda Lawrence

  “I mean I knew about Harris,” Miss Brady explained. “She used to have a friend here, used to visit the friend before she moved in herself.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Suddenly I am very, very sick and tired of this job,” she said. “There’s nothing to it any more, I don’t know why I stay. If I had half the sense I was presumably born with, I’d chuck the whole works and take you with me.”

  “Monny, darling! You’re thinking about Europe again!”

  “I am, and why not? Don’t look at me like that; you know it’s been on my mind for weeks. Listen. I get my grandmother’s money next month, so why don’t we resign? Reasons of health, and that’s no lie, you look a wreck; and we’ll grab the first boat and stay for a year. Two years, five years, forever. . . . Angel, you look about ten when you smile like that. How old are you anyway? I’ve never known.”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “I’m forty-five and don’t tell me I don’t look it. . . . Paris, Angel, and Bavaria if they’ll let us in, and I’ll buy you a little blue hunting jacket and cut your hair in a bang. Look at that clock, after twelve and I meant to go to bed early. Oh well, if you’re cheered up it’s worth it. Feel better now?”

  “Much!”

  “That panic about Miller was probably your nerves. You’re exhausted and I don’t wonder. All these messy brats pouring out their beastly little troubles. Did you tell Miller about April Hooper?”

  “Monny! I forgot!”

  Miss Brady flushed. “That’s too bad,” she said. “You knew I hadn’t time to do it myself, you knew I was counting on you. It was a very little thing to ask and I should think you’d want to remember—”

  “Monny, I’m heartbroken! But honestly, she went away so quickly, she almost ran, and I didn’t see her again. Monny, I can’t follow a girl around, I have other things to do, you know that! I’ll go up there now, I’ll go at once—”

  “Too late.” Miss Brady’s voice was cool. “I counted on you and you failed me.”

  Miss Small said nothing. She winked back sudden tears and turned away. They sat without speaking.

  After a while Miss Brady spoke gruffly. “I’m tired too. Have I time for another cigarette?”

  “Of course.” Miss Small offered the box as if Miss Brady were a stranger.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” Miss Brady said. “Forget it. I’ll talk to the girl myself tomorrow.”

  “No, I will! I want to!” Miss Small seized the matches and struck one. They both laughed.

  “We mustn’t do that again,” Miss Brady said.

  “No, Monny.”

  “We nearly quarreled.”

  “I know. It was my fault.”

  “No dear, mine.”

  As things turned out, no one told Ruth Miller anything. She returned at eleven-thirty with the once-coveted blue in a paper box. She had forced herself to buy it. It was all she had left of the new life she had planned.

  A few hours before, when she had confidently walked into the future, she had come face to face with the past. Run, she had said to herself, run; you still have a chance. But she had been running for years, from city to city, from job to job, putting time and distance between herself and a screaming promise, and her route had been a circle. Above the chatter in the lobby she had heard one voice. In a sea of strange faces one face was not strange. It’s a scheme, she’d said, it’s a destiny. I’m lost.

  But she had run again, out into the night, pleading with herself to be calm. She’d thought of Mrs. Sutton, maybe Mrs. Sutton would take her in and ask no questions. Maybe she’d listen and advise. But then she’d remembered that Mrs. Sutton was leaving town. And she’d told herself that Mrs. Sutton was too young, it wouldn’t be fair to frighten her.

  She’d begun to cry, standing on a corner and turning slowly and steadily as if she were surrounded. The fog was thick and the passers-by were dim and shapeless. She could follow me and I wouldn’t know it, she wept; I wouldn’t see her. My eyes—

  That was when she’d remembered the eye doctor. The only man she knew except Mr. Benz. And his office wasn’t far away, an office and apartment combined. She’d talk to him and he’d tell her what to do. He’d been, well—friendly. He’d been, well—interested.

  She’d climbed the stairs to his office, but no one had answered her ring. She’d slipped a note under the door, asking him to call her at Hope House. “Leave a message if I’m not there,” she’d written, “and tell me where I can reach you. I need some advice. It’s important to me.” She couldn’t tell him how important. She couldn’t write a word like death. It would look hysterical.

  She’d left the doctor’s building and walked to Fourteenth Street, telling herself to buy the blue because he would see her in it. But the scheme took care of that.

  Ten minutes after she left the building a cleaning woman swept the note into the hall, down the single flight of stairs, and out into the gutter. Later on the rain washed the words away.

  Outside the shopwindow she had looked at the blue and talked to herself again. Talked and argued and planned. Talked about the economy of spending money, argued about the possibility of mistaken identity, planned what she’d say to the doctor when he called. Maybe I made a mistake, she’d said. Lots of people look alike, you’re always hearing of cases. There was even a man who looked like the President. And she didn’t act queer when she saw me, she acted like she’d never seen me before. So I could be wrong. . . . But she saw her own shaking hands and knew in her heart that there was no mistake.

  But I’ll go back there tonight, she’d said. I’ve got to. There’s my suitcase and the telephone call. Nothing can happen if I go straight to my room tonight and lock the door. A big houseful of people, I’ll be safe for one night. That’s all I’ll need, one night. He’ll call tonight or tomorrow and he’ll tell me what to do. Maybe I’ll laugh about this in a day or so. I bet I laugh, I bet I do. . . . She’d tried to laugh then but it had sounded wrong.

  If I stay in my room, she’d said, I’ll be safe. They can put the message under the door. No matter what, I’ll keep out of sight until he calls. They have trays, I’ll ask my roommate to bring me a tray. I’ll tell her I have a headache. If I keep out of sight and don’t let her see me again—

  Buy the blue, she’d said, buy the blue and then you’ll always have it.

  Miss Plummer looked up from her embroidery when Ruth came in. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said kindly.

  “Has a telephone call come for me?”

  “No dear. You had me worried, staying out so late all by yourself. We lock up at midnight, except in the case of a special pass, and I wondered if you understood. Been buying something pretty?”

  “I bought a suit.”

  “That’s nice. My name’s Plummer, Ethel Plummer. My sister’s the housekeeper here and if you’re hungry I think I can get you a little something.”

  “No thank you, Miss Plummer. I’d rather go to bed.”

  “You’re a sensible girl, I can see that. I’ve no patience with late hours, although goodness knows I keep them! Your suitcase is in your room, dear, and you can run yourself up in the elevator, that is if you’re not timid about machinery.”

  “I guess I am a little. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to run an elevator.”

  “Well, never you mind, I used to be afraid myself, but you’ll get over it the same as I did. I’ll take you up this time and you’ll see how easy it is.”

  On the seventh floor Miss Plummer pointed down a bare, dim hall lined on one side with closed doors. “You see that big door straight ahead? That’s the fire door. You go right on through to the other side. There’s a short hall back there, with the bath, the telephone, and your own room. It’s the only room at that end and it’s nice and quiet, almost like a little house set off to itself.”

  “Miss Plummer?” Her voice broke and she tried again. “Miss Plummer, do outside calls come in on that phone?”

  “Oh yes. When that happens we ring a bell in your room
.” Miss Plummer smiled a good night, and the elevator closed.

  Her room was dark. She could hear nothing but she knew someone was there. The unknown roommate, already in bed and asleep. It had to be the roommate, it couldn’t be anyone else. She waited in the cool darkness, listening.

  A voice spoke, a thin, sweet voice like a child’s. “Turn on the light,” it said. “There beside the door. It won’t bother me.”

  She found the switch and turned it. In one of the two beds a small girl sat up in a welter of blankets, rubbing her short, fair curls and yawning. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked like an animated doll.

  “Hello,” she said. “I had to go back to work after dinner, did you?”

  “No, I went shopping.” Ruth hesitated. “I’m sorry, but they didn’t tell me your name. I’m Ruth Miller.”

  The small girl laughed. “I knew that. There’s not much I miss! I’m April Hooper. That sounds silly, the April part, but my mother was English and she always said there was nothing prettier than an English April. So she called me that. You see, she was always homesick. Are your father and mother dead?”

  “Yes.” Her suitcase was lying on the other bed and she went over to it.

  “Are your grandparents dead, too?”

  “Yes.” This was an odd conversation. She stared at the little creature smiling and nodding among the blankets.

  “So are mine,” April ran on. “All of my people are dead. I was born in this block, right on this very spot. They tore down three tenements to make this house, and then my grandmother died and I moved in here. I work around the corner, in the drugstore. Where do you work?”

  She prattles like a little kid, Ruth thought. She can’t be more than sixteen if she’s that. She untied the string on the suit box. “I work at Blackman’s.”

  “Like Moke and Poke. They were born in this neighborhood like me. You’ll die laughing, but they have the same name and they’re not even related. Mary Smith. But I guess you knew that. That’s why they call themselves Moke and Poke. That’s cute, isn’t it? Have you known them very long? You do know them, don’t you?”

  “They sent me here.” She held up the suit and shook out the folds. She was tired, and April’s chatter was too shrill. But she knew she had to be polite. She needed April. April would bring her the trays. “Look, April,” she said. She held up the suit.

  But April had no eyes for clothing. She rattled on. “Moke and Poke are nice. Some people think they’re fresh, but I don’t. When the weather’s bad and there’s ice on the pavement, they call for me. Even when they have dates, they call for me. They take the time. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “It surely is.” She hung the suit in the closet and closed the door. Chatterbox, she thought wearily. She could have made some comment, she could have said something. I’d have said something in her place.

  “I think they’re pretty, too,” April said. “Their hair is so soft, and they take good care of their skin. It’s like velvet. I like to touch their faces and they don’t mind. It isn’t often that you find a nice person who’s pretty too. . . . What do you look like, Ruth?”

  Ruth looked aghast at the small figure huddled in the middle of the bed. Why, the child’s feeble-minded, she told herself with horror. Why didn’t they tell me about her. Feeble-minded. And even Moke and Poke didn’t say anything. I can’t bear it, I can’t, it’s too much. She backed away from the clear gaze that was as innocent and candid as the voice.

  A cloud came over April’s face. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, Ruth. That’s a shame, that’s what it is. Nobody told you about me and I’ve scared you. But you’re not to feel bad about me because I don’t mind at all. I’m blind.”

  Ruth went slowly to the tumbled bed. Her hands automatically smoothed the covers and rearranged the pillow. April’s hand found one of hers and held it fast.

  “You’re not to feel bad, do you hear?” she insisted. “When you’re born that way, it doesn’t make any difference. But there’s one thing you’ve got to remember, please. You’ve got to make me turn the lights on. I’ve got the habit of not doing it because what’s the use, but just the same I ought to. That’s why I asked for a roommate, to make me remember. It scares the other girls to find me in the dark, like taking a bath and things. So you make me turn the lights on every time, even when you’re going out on a date and I’m staying here. . . . I think the room looks nicer that way, too.”

  “They’re on now. . . . Wait.” Ruth went to the lamps on the two small desks. “Now everything’s on. And you’re right, it does look nicer.”

  She let April talk. April sold cigarettes and magazines at the drugstore. She knew where each kind was. She could ring up sales and make change without a mistake. She was worried about getting old and having to use rouge. She was afraid she’d put on too much.

  When the lights were finally out, Ruth lay awake for a long time. She had promised to breakfast with April, in the dining room. There was no help for it. She had no choice. She went back to the first day she had gone to work at Blackman’s, to the first time she had talked to Moke and Poke, to all the little things that had fallen into their allotted places in the scheme that led to Hope House. Whose scheme? She covered her face.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AMERICAN mystery writer Hilda Lawrence (1906–1976) published her first book, Blood upon the Snow, in 1944. Its commercial success inspired two more novels featuring detective Mark East, A Time to Die in 1945 and Death of a Doll in 1947. Her other books include The Pavilion (1948) and a collection of novellas, Duet of Death (1949).

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