He Who Hesitates Read online

  He Who Hesitates

  Ed Mcbain

  1

  When he awoke, the windows were rimmed with frost and the air in the room was bitter cold. He could not remember where he was for a moment. His bedroom back home was always cold on a winter's morning, but this was not his bedroom, and for a moment he grappled with its alien look and then remembered he was in the city. He got out of bed in his underwear and walked swiftly across the wooden floor to where he had put his clothing on a chair the night before.

  The room was sparsely furnished. A bed was against one wall, a dresser on the wall opposite. There were two chairs in the room: the wooden one over which his clothes were hanging, and a stuffed easy chair near the curtained window. There was a sink in the comer, but the bathroom was in the hallway. He sat on the wooden chair as he tied his shoes, and then walked quickly to the sink, where he began washing. He was a huge man, six feet five inches tall and weighing two hundred and ten pounds. His hands were immense, brown and calloused like a farmer's. He soaped his face, and then scooped up water from the sink, splashing it onto his massive nose and high, chiseled cheekbones, his full mouth and roughhewn chin. He rinsed the soap away from his eyes and then opened them and stared at himself in the mirror for just a moment. He reached for the towel and dried himself.

  He supposed he should go to the police.

  God it was cold in this room.

  He wondered what time it was.

  He walked swiftly to the chair and pulled on his shirt and buttoned it, and then slipped his tie under the frayed collar without tying it, just letting the ends hang loose on his shirt front, putting his heavy tweed jacket over it, and then crossing his long arms in front of him and slapping his sides to generate a little warmth in his body. He went to the window and pulled back the yellowed lace curtain and looked down past the FURNISHED ROOMS sign to the street two stories below, trying to determine the time by the number of people awake and moving around.

  The street was empty.

  He knew he should go to the police, but he didn't want to go barging in there at six o'clock in the morning — well, it was probably later than that. If it was only six, it'd be dark out there, wouldn't it? The street was empty only because it was so damn cold, that was all. He wouldn't be surprised if it was nine, maybe ten o'clock already. He let the curtain fall and then walked to the closet and opened it. A small and very old suitcase rested on the floor of the closet. The suitcase belonged to his mother and there was a single sticker on it, a yellow and green one with the words NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK in a semicircle and a painting of the falls in white and blue in the middle of the sticker. She had gone there on her honeymoon. This was the only piece of luggage she had ever owned, and she gave it to him each time he came into the city to sell the woodenware. He usually came maybe three, four times a year. This was the first time he'd come in February.

  He remembered all at once that tomorrow was Valentine's Day.

  He would have to send his mother a card.

  He took his heavy green overcoat out of the closet, the one he always wore to the city during the winter months, and carried it over to the bed, dropping it there. He went to the dresser and picked up his small change, which he put into the right-hand pocket of his trousers, and then picked up his wallet, looked into it, and then removed the money he had got yesterday for the woodenware. He counted the money again — it was exactly a hundred and twenty-two dollars — and then put it back into the wallet and went to the bed again, and picked up his coat, and put it on, his massive shoulders shrugging into the air as he performed the operation.

  He buttoned the coat, then walked back to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror again. He looked all right. He didn't want the police to think no bum was walking in there.

  He wondered where the police station was.

  He would have to ask the landlady, what was her name?

  If she was awake.

  He was hungry too. He'd have to get him some breakfast before he went to the police.

  He wondered if he should pack the few things he'd put in the dresser or wait until later. He supposed it would be all right to pack them later. Maybe he ought to mail the money to his mother, though. That represented a lot of work, that hundred and twenty-two dollars, a lot of work. And it had to last until maybe April or May when he'd be coming to the city again — well, when his brother would be coming, anyway. Yes, he'd pack later.

  He went out of the room, locking the door behind him, and went down the steps to the first floor. The linoleum on the stair treads was old and worn; he had noticed that when he'd taken the room two nights ago. But the reason he'd come all the way uptown here for a room was because he knew it'd be a lot cheaper than a hotel. So he wasn't about to start complaining about the worn linoleum, hell with that. So long as the bed was all right and didn't have anything crawling in it, why that was good enough for him. He was only paying four dollars a night for the room, you couldn't do much better than that unless you wanted to go down to Skid Row, he wasn't about to go sleeping with a bunch of drunken bums.

  The landlady's apartment was on the ground floor at the end of the hall. The hall smelled nice and clean, she'd been scrubbing it on her hands and knees the day he'd taken the room, that was Tuesday. He'd known right off it was going to be a clean place without any bugs in the bed, that was the important thing, the bugs. Don't take no bed with bugs in it, his mother had said. He didn't know how you could tell if a bed had bugs in it until you got into the bed with them, and then it was probably too late to do anything about it, they'd eat you alive. But he figured the smell of that disinfectant in the hallway was a sure sign this lady was clean. She probably used something on the coils of the bedspring too, that was where the bugs hid. His mother always washed out the bedspring coils back home with a toothbrush and ammonia, he didn't know why ammonia, but he supposed it killed anything that was in there. Sometimes she sprayed them, too, with some kind of bug killer. She was very clean.

  He wished he knew what time it was because he didn't want to get the landlady out of bed if it was too early in the morning. Well, he had to tell her he was leaving today, anyway, settle up with her. He lifted his hand and tentatively knocked on the door.

  "Who is it?" she said.

  Good. She was awake.

  "It's me," he answered. "Mr. Broome."

  "Just a minute, Mr. Broome," the landlady answered. He waited while she came to the door. Somewhere in the building, upstairs, he heard a toilet flush. The door opened.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Good morning, Mr. Broome," the landlady said. Dougherty, that was her name. Agnes Dougherty, he remembered now.

  "I hope I didn't wake you up, Mrs. Dougherty," he said.

  "Nope, I was just having my breakfast," she answered. She was a small, thin woman wearing a faded wrapper imprinted with primroses. Her hair was in curlers. She reminded him of his mother, small like that. Don't ask me how I ever give birth to a young horse like you, his mother always said. It was kind of funny, when you thought of it, her so small.

  "What was it you wanted, Mr. Broome?"

  "Well, I'll be leaving today, and I thought—"

  "Oh, so soon?"

  "Well, I finished what I had to do here, you know, so—"

  "What was that, Mr. Broome? Come in, won't you, have some coffee with me."

  "Well, ma'am—"

  "Come in, come in," she said in a perky sort of bright cheerful voice; she was really a very nice little lady.

  "Okay," he said, "but only 'cause I have to come in anyway to settle up with you."

  He went into the apartment and she closed the door behind him. The apartment smelled as clean as the hallway did, with the same strong disinfectant smell. The kitchen linoleum ha
d been scrubbed bare in spots, so that the wooden floor beneath it showed through, and even the wood in those spots had been scrubbed almost white. A clean oilcloth with a seashell pattern covered the kitchen table.

  "Sit down," Mrs. Dougherty said. "How do you like your coffee?"

  "Well, ma'am, I usually have it black with three sugars." He chuckled and said, "My mother says I get my sweet tooth from my father. He died in a train accident when I was only seven."

  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Mrs. Dougherty said, bringing a clean cup to the table and then pouring it full to the brim with coffee.

  "Well, 1 hardly remember him."

  "Here's the sugar," she said, and moved the bowl toward him. She sat at the table opposite him, picking up a piece of toast she had bitten into before answering the door. Remembering her guest, she said, "Would you like some toast?"

  "No, thank you, ma'am."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Well . . ."

  "I'll make you some," she said, and rose and went to the counter near the sink where she took a slice of bread from its waxed wrapper and put it into the toaster. "Or would you like two slices?" she said.

  He shrugged and smiled and said, "I guess I could eat two, ma'am."

  "A healthy appetite's nothing to be ashamed of," she said, and put another slice of bread into the toaster. "Now," she said, and came back to the table. "You were telling me why you were here in the city."

  "Oh, to sell our wares, ma'am."

  "What wares?"

  "We've got a woodworking shop, just a small one, you know."

  "Who's we?"

  "Oh, me and my brother."

  "Where's that?"

  "Up in Carey, do you know it?"

  "I don't think so."

  "It's just a small town. Huddleston is the nearest big town, I suppose.

  "Oh, yes, Huddleston," Mrs. Dougherty said.

  "There's skiing up there, if you ski."

  Mrs. Dougherty laughed. "No, no, I don't ski," she said, and sipped at her coffee and then put down the cup and jumped up when she heard the toaster click. She brought the two slices of bread to the table, and moved the butter dish and the marmalade pot toward him. She sat again. As he buttered his toast, she said, "What do you make in your shop, Mr. Broome?"

  "All sorts of woodenware."

  "Furniture?"

  "Well, not really, We make benches and end tables, stuff like that, but nothing really big. Mostly, we do salad bowls and cutting boards and wooden utensils, you know, small things. Also, my brother does some carving."

  "That sounds very nice," Mrs. Dougherty said. "And you bring it into the city to sell, is that it?"

  "We sell it up there, too," he said, "but not really enough to keep us going, you know. During the summer, it's not so bad because there're a lot of people up that way looking for antiques, and we get some of them stop by the shop, you know. But in the winter, it's mostly skiers up that way, and only time they'll stop in is if it's a rainy day and they can't ski. So I try to get in the city three, four times a year, mostly during the winter months." He paused. "First time I ever been here in February."

  "Is that right?" she said.

  "That's a fact, ma'am," he said.

  "How do you like it?"

  "Well, it's sure cold enough," he said, and laughed. He bit into the toast, completely relaxed, and then lifted his coffee cup and said, "Say, what time is it anyway?"

  "A little bit past eight," she said.

  "I guess I overslept," he said, and laughed.

  He wondered if he should ask her about the police station.

  "What time do you usually get up?"

  "Back home? In Carey, do you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, my mother's up and bustling around the kitchen pretty early, you know. My father used to be a railroad man, and he had an early run, so she's used to getting up early, I guess she's puttering around out there at five, five-thirty every morning. My kid brother's a light sleeper and we share a bedroom, you know, we've just got this small little house there, not much more than a shack really, so when she starts puttering around and he starts stirring, well you just might as well get up yourself, that's all," he said, and began laughing again.

  "You've got a good hearty laugh," Mrs. Dougherty said. "Most big men have that kind of laugh."

  "That a fact?"

  "That's been my observation," she said.

  He thought this might be a good time to ask her about the police station, but he didn't want to get her upset or anything, so he lifted his coffee cup and sipped at it, and smacked his lips, and then bit into the second slice of toast.

  "I want to pay you for last night." he said, "I only paid you for one night in advance, you know."

  "That's right," Mrs. Dougherty said. He began reaching into his pocket for his wallet, and she quickly said, "well, finish your coffee first, Mr. Broome. There's nobody chasing you for the money."

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said, and smiled and took another bite of the toast.

  "How old are you, Mr. Broome?" she said. "Do you mind my asking?"

  "Not at all, ma'am. I'll be twenty-seven in May. May the twelfth."

  "I figured about that. How old is your brother?"

  "Twenty-two." He paused. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, you know," he said.

  "Isn't anyone going to send me a valentine."

  "You never can tell, Mrs. Dougherty," he said. "I'm going out to buy my mother one right this minute, soon as I leave here."

  "That's very nice," Mrs. Dougherty said. She paused, and then smiled weakly, and then said, "We never had any children."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am."

  She nodded. He finished his coffee and then reached into his wallet and handed her a five-dollar bill. "I'll get you your change," she said.

  He stood alongside the table while she went into the other room for her handbag. He decided not to ask her where the police station was. He didn't want to upset her, especially now that she seemed to be upset already about not having any children who could send her a valentine the way he was going to send his mother one. He wondered if his mother would get it in time. He supposed she would. If he bought it first thing, even before he went to the police station, and mailed it right away, he was sure she'd get it by tomorrow morning.

  "Here you are, Mr. Broome," she said, and came back into the kitchen. He took the dollar bill, tucked it into his wallet, and then put on his overcoat. "When you come to the city again, I hope you'll be back for a room," she said.

  "Oh, yes, ma'am, I will," he said.

  "You're a fine gentleman," she said.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said, embarrassed.

  "In this neighborhood..." she started, and then closed her mouth and shook her head.

  "I'll be back later to pack," he said.

  "Take your time," she said.

  "Well, I have a few errands to do, actually."

  'Take your time," she said again, and walked him to the door.

  The drugstore was on the comer of Ainsley Avenue and North Eleventh Street. A lunch counter ran along the left-hand side of the store. The remainder of the place was given over to drugs and sundries. A rack of paperback books, their titles and covers screaming for attention, stood before a row of hot-water bottles. Beyond that, and somewhat apart from the heap of combs and syringes behind it, was a rack of greeting cards. He walked past the books — something called HOW TO DO IT ON AIRPLANES caught his eye — and directly to the greeting cards. An assorted array of birthday cards was spread out on the rack — Birthday Son, Birthday Daughter, Mother, Father, Brother, Sister, Grandfather, Grandmother, and Miscellaneous Relatives. He scanned them quickly, glanced briefly at Condolences, Anniversary, and Birth and finally came to the section devoted exclusively to valentines. More and more of the cards each year were comical. He didn't care much for that kind of card. Most of them, matter of fact, he didn't get the humor of. He looked down the row of labels at the top of the rack, and saw that these
cards were classified, too, almost the way the birthday cards had been. There were cards for Sweetheart, Wife, Husband, Mother, Father; he didn't bother going down the rest of the row because what he was interested in was a card for his mother. He looked at two or three of them, and then found a nice card with a real satin heart on the front of it, and pink ribbons trailing from the heart, and the word Mother in delicate gold script across the top of the card. He opened it and started to read the little poem inside. Sometimes, you found a nice-looking card but the words were all wrong. You had to be careful.

  He read the verse over again, and then read it a third time, pleased with the sentiment, appreciative of the way the lines scanned. He wondered how much the card cost. He liked it, but he didn't want to go spending too much for a card. He walked over to the cash register. A colored girl was sitting behind it, reading a magazine.

  "How much is this card?" he asked.

  "Let's see it," she said. She took the card from him, turned it over, and looked at the price on the back. "It's seventy-five cents," she said. She saw his expression, and smiled. "There are cheaper ones there, if you look."

  "Well, I like this one," he said. "It is a nice one."

  My Mother The. joy you Bring to me each day Cannot in mere words be. e^ressed. The. mittion things you do and say Confirm, you are the very Best. And even when the day is done, And weary waCf^ I up the stair, 'Who Waits for me? The only one To smite, to greet, to Cove, to care — mother.

  "Yeah, I like the poem. Most of them have terrible poems."

  "It's a nice poem," the girl said, glancing at it.

  "Seventy-five, huh?"

  "Yes, that's what it says on the back. See?" She turned the card over and held it out to him. She had very long nails. She pointed to some letters and numerals printed on the bottom of the card. "See where it says XM-75? that means seventy-five cents."

  "Why don't they just mark it seventy-five cents?" he asked.

  The girl giggled. "I don't know. They want to be mysterious, I guess."

  "Yes, well, XM-75 is sure mysterious," he said, and smiled, and the girl smiled back. "Well, I guess I'll take it," he said.