Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  But there was still a bag to buy. Well, why not take the record player out and pawn it? Then he could buy some sort of suitcase or bag in the same pawnshop. Yes, and stop off at the bank to close out the account. Then come back here and pack, and leave forever, and go off to catch his bus. By tomorrow night he’d be with Edna again.

  He couldn’t stop smiling.

  32

  There was snow everywhere along the route, so the bus was always behind schedule. Cole had to make changes at Chicago, and again at Lincoln. He missed his connection at Lincoln because his bus had run into a snowstorm through Iowa, and he had to wait six hours for the next bus to Deer-ville. Though he had no way of knowing it, this was a different bus company and a different route from the one he had taken when returning to New York and, despite the bad weather and the missed connection, it proved to be somewhat quicker.

  To while away the time, he started a list of names, any name he could remember from the town. Edna, of course, and Malloy, and 542 Charter Street. Then other isolated names began to come to him, now he was trying to remember the town; someone named Black Jack, and someone named Bellman. A bar named Cole’s Tavern? No, he must be making that up. Still, just in case, he wrote it down.

  The thought of his coming meeting with Edna was somewhat embarrassing, because he could still remember how he’d treated her when he’d left the town. But the first meeting would be gotten through someway, and then everything would be good again.

  Two days on the road. A little after three o’clock Thursday afternoon, the bus pulled to a stop at the storefront depot in Deerville. Cole got down from the bus and stood smiling at the depot, recognizing it. When he was waiting for his bag to be unloaded, he tried to decide whether to call the Malloys first or just go straight to the house and surprise them. It would be better to go straight there, Mrs. Malloy would get a kick out of it that way, opening the door and him just standing there.

  But he knew he wouldn’t be able to find his way around without help; he hadn’t been able to find his way around too well while he was living here, and now he’d been gone a while. When he got his bag he went into the depot and asked directions to Charter Street.

  “Charter Street? You go down here to the second traffic light, turn right. Fourth block up is Charter. It starts there and goes east. This side it’s Raymor Street.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was a long walk. It wasn’t snowing here now, though the sky was grey and overcast, but it had snowed heavily just recently; a hip-high ridge of snow separated the sidewalk from the street. Cole walked along, carrying his bag and repeating the directions over and over in a whisper, so he wouldn’t forget them. He didn’t recognize anything he passed, but that was only to be expected. He was surprised he’d recognized the bus depot. But he’d know the house when he came to it.

  He found Charter Street, and the first house on the right was number 4, so he still had a long walk ahead of him. He rested a while in front of number 4, putting his bag down, flexing his fingers, and lighting a cigarette. Then he walked on.

  516

  518

  520

  522

  524

  It wasn’t the right house.

  He stood frowning at it, not understanding. The house was wrong, all wrong. It was a two-family gray clapboard, with porches upstairs and down, neither porch enclosed. It wasn’t the right house at all.

  He looked up and down the block, trying to figure out what had happened. He knew the address was right, 542 Charter Street. It was where the Malloys lived, he knew that.

  Could he be wrong? Could it be somebody else’s address? Maybe Edna’s. But this wasn’t her house either. His memory of her house was so vague as to be almost non-existent, but he knew that this house wasn’t it. Besides, he was sure. 542 Charter Street was home.

  Why else would he have had it in a note? Why should he remember it as being the address of the Malloys’ house if it wasn’t? His memory lost things, but it didn’t mix things up.

  He went up the walk and stood by the stoop, staring up at the two doors. This just wasn’t the right house, and he couldn’t understand it, he couldn’t begin to understand it, or think about what to do next.

  The right-hand door opened and a woman stuck her head out. “What do you want?” She was suspicious of him, ready to duck back inside and slam the door again if he made a wrong move.

  He said, “I’m looking for the Malloys.”

  “Nobody here by that name.”

  “Did they—” He looked up and down the street, trying to understand. “Did they change the numbering on this street?”

  “Not since I’ve been here.”

  “Did you just move?”

  “Been here twelve years. You’ve got the wrong street.”

  “Is there another Charter Street in this town?”

  “Of course not. Why should there be two Charter Streets in the same town?”

  “They ought to be here,” said Cole. He looked across the street, up and down in both directions, recognizing nothing, and while he was turned away the woman went back into her house and shut the door.

  He had to find a phone book, that was all. He should have done that in the first place, called the house from the bus depot. He turned away and retraced his steps; three or four blocks back there’d been a small grocery store on a corner, and they might have a phone booth.

  There was no phone booth in the grocery store, but the proprietor let Cole look at the directory. Cole held it in his hands, frightened, afraid of what he would find or what he wouldn’t find, and then he turned to the M section and found the group of Malloys listed there.

  There was no Malloy anywhere on Charter Street.

  What was his first name, what was Mr. Malloy’s first name? He’d remembered it last night, he’d written it down on the list. Matt! Matt Malloy, that would be Matthew Malloy, that would be Malloy, Matthew.

  There was no Malloy, Matthew in the Deerville telephone directory.

  “They’re changing the set,” he muttered. He could visualize the Malloy house now, with broad white X’s painted on all the windows, and swarming around were the black machines and the men in yellow helmets.

  The proprietor said, “What?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening.”

  The proprietor watched him warily.

  What next? The Malloys had disappeared, they’d never existed. He couldn’t find Edna direct, he didn’t know her last name. He didn’t know anyone else’s address.

  The tannery. There’d be people there he knew, and they could tell him what had happened. He turned to the proprietor, saying, “How do I get to the tannery?”

  “The what?”

  “The tannery. The factory where they— The leather plant, the tannery!”

  “Take it easy, will you? There ain’t no tannery around here.”

  “Where, then? The other side of town?”

  “There ain’t any tannery in this town at all.”

  “But there is! I used to work there! God damn you, God damn you, what are you doing?”

  “You back off there! I’ll call the police, I swear to God. You get on out of here.”

  “I used to work in the tannery, I know I did.”

  “Not in Deerville, Mister. There ain’t any tannery here and there never has been.”

  Cole stared at the man, but he was only the proprietor of a small grocery store, he had no reason to lie. He had to be telling the truth.

  “Did I make it up?”

  “You better get on out of here now.”

  “I couldn’t have made it up.”

  “I’m not telling you again.”

  Cole went outside. Something was terribly wrong, terribly wrong, and he didn’t know what to do, where to go, who to ask for help.

  That man had mentioned the police. Could the police help him? He didn’t like the idea of going to the police, but what else was there to try?

  He stuck his head in the door, ca
utiously, and called, “Excuse me.”

  “Now, I told you—”

  “I just want directions, that’s all. How do I get to the police station?”

  “The police station?” That seemed to shock him. He blinked, and looked helpless for a second, and then he waved an arm vaguely and said, “Downtown. You go on downtown and ask again there.”

  “Downtown is that way?”

  “That’s right. You go on downtown.”

  Cole retraced his steps, headed back in the direction of the bus depot again. When he came to the street with the stores on it, he stopped a man coming toward him and asked again where the police station was.

  “Two blocks down, turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cole walked the two blocks, turned right, and there it was in front of him, a blunt brick building with green globes flanking the entrance. He went inside, and put his suitcase down, and walked over to the high desk behind which the uniformed policeman sat.

  The policeman looked at him. “Can I help you?”

  Cole opened his mouth to tell him everything, ask him everything, but it couldn’t be done. He said, “Could you tell me where the bus depot is?”

  “Bus depot?” The policeman pointed with a pencil, giving Cole the directions. Cole thanked him, and picked up his suitcase, and left.

  There was no place for him to go, so he went to the bus depot. Walking toward it, trying to think, he struggled with the problem of his memory and this town. He remembered almost nothing in the world but this town, and that memory turned out to be totally false.

  Was there no Edna at all? Were there no Malloys, was there no tannery? Had he dreamed it all?

  But he couldn’t have, no, it was impossible. Edna was real, everything else was real.

  He was in the wrong town, that’s all. Somehow or other he’d gotten to the wrong town.

  Helen must have told him wrong, must have looked at the wrong list or some such thing.

  He reached the depot as he came to his decision, and went inside to ask the old woman behind the counter where he could find the Western Union office. He’s send Helen a telegram, ask her to check again, she’d given him the wrong town to come to.

  He stopped in front of the ticket window. “Excuse me.”

  The old woman looked at him. “Ticket?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like to know—”

  “Say! Aren’t you that fellow—?”

  He stopped, saw her frowning at him, said, “What?”

  “That fellow the detective made leave town,” she said. “Back last fall.”

  “Me?”

  “You look like him,” she said doubtfully. “Actor, he was.”

  “Yes!” Suddenly, there was light; this was the right town after all, for where he’d had the accident, but he hadn’t stayed here! He said, “That’s me, I’m an actor.”

  “Well, if you’re the same fellow, you shouldn’t have come back here.”

  “I shouldn’t? Why not?”

  “Well, you know why not just as well as I do.” She was beginning to get indignant, apparently believing he was making fun of her.

  He said, “No, wait. I had an accident, I don’t remember things too well. You say a detective made me leave town?”

  “Well, of course he did! Told you if you stuck your face back around here he’d put you in jail. The two of you sat right over there, waited for the bus.”

  “The bus. The bus to where?”

  “The bus to where? How should I know? I give out a lot of tickets here, young man, you can’t expect me to remember every last one of them.”

  “Well, you remember me.”

  “Of course I remember you! First time I ever saw anybody get run out of town, naturally I remember you.”

  “Then why,” Cole asked desperately, “don’t you remember where I went?”

  “A ticket,” she said, “is a ticket.” Then her expression got more kindly. “I don’t know what sort of trouble you’re in, young fellow,” she said, “but I do believe that was a very mean detective. I think you ought to clear out of town again.”

  “But where to? Where to?”

  “I really don’t know, just so you keep out of that man’s way.”

  “Would he know?” Cole asked. “He threw me out, maybe he knows where I went.”

  “Why should he know? All he wanted was you out of town on the next bus, it didn’t matter to him where that bus went.”

  Cole sagged against the counter. “Oh, God,” he said. “Please.”

  “Are you going to faint, young fellow? You’d best sit down over there. Go on, you go over there and sit down.”

  He went over to the bench along the wall and sat down. He and the old woman were alone in the depot. He sat there, the canvas bag between his feet, and stared at the opposite wall.

  He was so close, so close. He’d been here, in this room, and he’d bought a ticket—somewhere. Some other town. With a tannery, and people named Malloy at 542 Charter Street, and a girl named Edna. But where? He didn’t even know which direction. If the detective had put him on the first bus through, it could have been in any direction at all. It could be fifty miles from here, or ten miles from here, or a hundred miles from here.

  A tannery. People named Malloy at 542 Charter Street. A girl named Edna.

  What was the name of that town?

  He wasn’t going to find it. He knew that as he sat there, knew it even as he fought his brain for the name of the town. How many towns would there be in a hundred mile radius around Deerville? And how did he know he hadn’t traveled more than a hundred miles?

  A name, that’s all he needed. The name of the town. Or the name of the tannery. If only the Malloys had had a less common name, that might help. No, it wouldn’t. How could it help, if he didn’t know where to look? A million people there might be, or more, in a hundred towns or more in the area where he might have gone from here.

  Damn this memory! If only it would give him this one name, just this one name, he’d never ask it for anything again, he could forget everything else, everything, just this one lousy stinking rotten name, one name!

  The old woman came over and sat down on the bench beside him. “You’re making awful noises, young fellow,” she said. “You know that?”

  He looked at her concerned face, and said, “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it. I won’t do it anymore.”

  “Should I call you a doctor?

  “No. I don’t need a doctor. Listen—do you know—is there someplace around here—some town—”

  “Oh, easy! Easy!” She rested a hand on his trembling forearm. “Be calm,” she told him. “Just say it out calm and easy.”

  He inhaled deeply; it hurt his chest. “A tannery,” he said. “I want a town with a tannery.”

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose there’s lots of those in this part of the country.”

  “Just one,” he said. “Near here, that buses go to.”

  “There’s Hammunk,” she said. “That isn’t very far.”

  “Hammunk.” He touched the name, prodded it, but it gave off no echo of memory. Still, that wasn’t any proof one way or the other. He said, “How much would a ticket cost me?”

  “Three dollars and twenty-two cents.”

  “Then it isn’t very far at all.” Meaning it might be the place, it could be the place. If he’d been thrown out of town, and didn’t have much money, he wouldn’t have gone very far on the bus. He said, “Are there any other stops before Hammunk?”

  “No, that’s the first stop on that route.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll buy a ticket to Hammunk.” It was a long chance, he had no real belief this town called Hammunk would turn out to be the right place, but anything was better than staying here. Besides, what the woman had told him about the detective had frightened him; maybe he was the policeman with the square of shiny metal, and if so Cole had no desire to meet him.

  The old woman sold h
im a ticket to Hammunk, and told him the next bus for that town would be coming through in an hour and twenty minutes. Cole went to the lunch counter next door for something to eat while waiting.

  Hammunk. No, it wouldn’t be the right place. But he couldn’t stop himself from wishing.

  33

  There was only an hour on the bus, crossing flat white land, and then the road curved into a low scattered town covered by a black smudge of smoke. Along the way, Cole had continued to grate his mind with the foolish fantasy in which it would turn out that this town of Hammunk was the right place after all, the place to which the detective had sent him last time and in which he would find Edna and the life he had stupidly abandoned, but when the town began to appear in the bus windows Cole knew at last it was the wrong place.

  The bus sighed to a stop in front of the storefront depot that was the one standard inevitable similarity among all these towns. Cole stepped down onto the snow-packed sidewalk, carrying his canvas bag, and the bus went off again. He’d been the only passenger to alight, and no one had boarded here.

  What now? In his pockets he had nine dollars and eight cents, and a dead man’s identification, and a list of meaningless names, and half a pack of cigarettes, and half a pack of matches. He was in a place called Hammunk, a wrinkled town forming a little smudge on the flat table of the Plains States. In his canvas bag was some clothing. What now?

  Next to the depot door was an iron newspaper rack, half filled with dogeared newspapers. In looking at it, Cole’s eye was caught by a secondary headline over on the left:

  STAR DEATH SUICIDE?

  “No,” he said. He said it aloud, and immediately was embarrassed and looked around, but he was alone on the sidewalk.

  Someone had mentioned suicide, not too long ago. The doctor? Yes, the doctor, warning him against thinking of it for himself. But it would be silly for him to commit suicide, or think of it, particularly silly for him, sillier for him than for anyone else alive. Why should he kill himself? His problems could never be anything but temporary. Already, so much of that town had faded that he couldn’t even remember its name. In a month or two the name Malloy would have lost its meaning. Sooner or later he would even forget Edna. It probably wouldn’t even take a year. Maybe, now that there was no hope at all of ever finding her again, she would begin to fade right away. He’d forget her completely, name and face and place and person and meaning. Everything would be forgotten, everything smoothed out and silent and dark, in only a little while. What did he, of all people, what did he need with self-destruction?