by Ed McBain
* * *
The girl had read the advertisement six times, and she was now on her fifth revision of the letter she was writing in answer to it.
She was not a stupid girl, nor did she particularly believe anything romantic or exciting would happen after she mailed her letter. She was, after all, thirty-seven years old, and she had come to believe—once she’d turned thirty-five—that romance and excitement would never be a part of her life.
There was, in the girl’s mind, a certain cynicism. There were some who would call her cynicism a simple case of sour grapes, but she honestly believed it was a good deal more than that. She had been weaned on the Big Romance legend, had had it bleated at her in radio serials, flashed before her eyes at the local movie house, seen it and heard it since she was old enough to understand the English language. She had been more susceptible to the legend because she was a girl—and a rather imaginative girl, at that. For her, the knight in shining armor did exist, and she would wait until he came along.
When you’re not so pretty, the waiting can take a long time.
“Marty” is a nice-enough fiction, but the girls outnumber the men in this world of ours, and not many people care whether or not you can do differential calculus so long as you’ve got a beautiful phizz. Besides, she couldn’t do differential calculus. Nor had she ever considered herself a particularly intelligent girl. She had gone to business school and scraped through, and she was a fairenough secretary at a small hardware concern, and she was convinced at the age of thirty-seven that the Big Romance legend that had been foisted upon her by the fiction con men was just a great big crock.
She didn’t mind it being a great big crock.
She told herself she didn’t mind.
She had said good-bye to her virginity when she turned twenty-nine. She had been disappointed. No trumpets blasting, no banners unfurling, no clamorous medley of gonging bells. Just pain. Since that time, she had dabbled. She considered sex the periodic gratification of a purely natural urge. She approached sex with the paradoxical relentlessness of an uncaged jungle beast and the precise aloofness of a Quaker bride. Sex was like sleep. You needed both, but you didn’t spend your life in bed.
And now, at thirty-seven, long since her parents had given up all hope for her, long since she herself had abandoned the Big Romance, the Wedding in June, the Honeymoon at Lovely Lake Lewis legend, she felt lonely.
She kept her own apartment, primarily because her jousting with sex would never have been understood by her parents, partly because she wanted complete independence—and alone in the apartment, she could hear the creaking of the floor boards and the unrelenting drip of the water tap, and she knew complete aloneness.
It is a big world.
From somewhere out in that big world, a mature attractive man of thirty-five sought an alliance with an understanding woman of good background.
Cut and dried, cold and impersonal, stripped of all the fictional hoop-dee-dah. The man could have been advertising for a Pontiac convertible or a slightly used power mower. She supposed it was this directness of approach that appealed to her. Understanding. Could she understand his appeal? Could she understand his loneliness, the single cipher in a teeming world of matched and mismatched couples? She thought she could. She thought she could detect honesty in his simple appeal.
And because she detected honesty there, her own dishonesty left her feeling somewhat guilty. This was the fifth draft of her letter, and her age had changed with each draft. In the first letter, she’d claimed to be thirty. The second letter advanced her age by two years. The third letter went back to thirty again. Number four admitted to thirty-one. She had done a bit of soul-searching before starting on the fifth rewrite.
He was, when you considered it, thirty-five. But he’d said he was mature. A mature man of thirty-five isn’t a college kid with a briar pipe. A mature man of thirty-five wanted and needed a woman of understanding. Could this not mean a woman who was slightly older than he, a woman who could…mother him? Sort of? Besides, wasn’t complete honesty essential at this stage of the game? Especially with this man whose plea was devoid of all frills and fripperies?
But thirty-seven sounded so close to forty.
Who wants a forty-year-old spinster? (Should she mention that she was wise in the ways of the world?)
Thirty-three, on the other hand, sounded too suburban housewife—skirt and blouse and nylons and loafers, going to meet the 6:10. Was that what he wanted? A scatterbrained little blonde who hopped into the station wagon in compliance with the Commuter Romance legend—the automaton who set the roast according to her husband’s train schedule? The robot who had the shaker full of martinis waiting for dear, tired, old hubby: Hard day at the mine today, sweetheart?
Or was he looking for the sleeker model? The silver-toned beauty in the red Thunderbird rushing over country lanes. Gray flannel pedal-pushers, white blouse, bright-red scarf at the throat, push-button control, push-pull-click-click: Dahling, we’re terribly late for the Samalsons. Do tie your tie.
He wanted honesty.
I am thirty-six years old, she wrote.
Well, almost honesty.
She crossed out the words. This man deserved complete honesty. She tore up the fifth letter, picked up the pen, and in a neat, precise hand—except for the t’s, which were crossed with somewhat animalistic ferocity—she began writing her letter again:
Dear Sir:
I am thirty-seven years old.
I start my letter with this fact because I do not wish to waste your time. Your appeal seemed, to me, an honest one—and so I am being completely honest in return. I am thirty-seven. This is the fact of the matter. If you are now tearing up this letter and throwing it into the waste basket, so be it.
You asked for an understanding woman. I ask for an understanding man. It is not easy to write this letter. I can imagine how difficult it was for you to place your ad, and I can understand what led you to do so. I can only ask for the same understanding on your part.
I felt almost as if I were applying for a position somewhere. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can see no other way of letting you know what I am like and I wish (if you decide to answer my letter) that you will follow the same pattern. I am going to tell you what I am, and who I am.
Physically, I am five-feet-four inches tall. I am one hundred and ten pounds without dieting. I mention that because I’m not one of these women who have to watch everything they eat. I always stay slim. I’ve been the same weight, give or take a few pounds, for the longest time. I can still wear skirts I bought when I was twenty-one.
My hair is brown, and my eyes are brown. I wear glasses. I had to start wearing them when I was twelve because I ruined my eyes reading so much. I don’t read very much anymore. I’ve become disillusioned with fiction, and the non-fiction is either inspirational stuff or stuff about mountain climbing, and I neither want to be inspired nor do I desire to climb Everest. I thought for a while that foreign novels might offer me something American novels didn’t—but everyone is selling the same thing these days, and the product usually suffers in translation. Perhaps you’ve run across some reading which I haven’t discovered yet, and which could offer me the deep pleasure I got from books when I was a little girl. If so, I’d appreciate knowing about it.
I dress quietly. The brightest dress I own is a yellow taffeta, and I haven’t worn that for ages. I usually prefer suits. I work in an office, you see, and it’s a somewhat staid place. I have a lot of clothes, incidentally, which I’ve accumulated over the years. I wouldn’t call myself exactly penniless, either. I’m a secretary, and I’ve been earning close to ninety dollars a week for a long time. Twenty of that I send to my parents, but the remaining seventy or so is more than enough to keep me going. This may sound ridiculously businesslike, but I do have almost five thousand dollars in the bank, and I’d honestly like to know what your financial setup is, too.
My tastes are simple. I like good music. I don’t mean
Rock and Roll. I’ve sort of outgrown the candy stick and dungaree set. I like Brahms and I like Wagner-Wagner especially. There is something wild in his music, and I find it exciting. I like pop music on the sentimental side. I don’t mean the current hit parade rages. I mean old standards done up in albums. Stuff like Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Stardust and This Love Of Mine, you get the idea. I think my favorite record album is Sinatra’s In The Wee Small Hours. I’ve always liked him, and whatever his trouble with Ava Gardner, it’s none of my business. I listen to records a lot. Living alone can be too quiet. I play my albums at night, and they help to pass the time.
I generally sew while I’m listening. I’m a good seamstress and I’ve made many of my own clothes. I hate darning socks. I feel I should tell you that right now. I feel I should also tell you that my indoor activities are not confined to playing records alone.
(She stopped here, wondering if she had said too much, wondering if she sounded too bold. Would he understand what she meant? A widower couldn’t possibly want a girl with absolutely no experience! Still…)
I do a lot of other things indoors. Like cooking. And other things. I’m a good cook. I can make potatoes forty-two different ways. I’m not exaggerating, and my specialty is Southern fried chicken, though I have never been down South. My ambition is to travel around the United States someday. I half think that’s why I’ve been saving my money so religiously.
Oh…religion.
I’m Protestant.
I hope you’re Protestant, too, but it really doesn’t matter that much. I hope you’re white, too, because I am and that would matter to me—not that I’m prejudiced or anything. Honestly, I’m not. But I’m too mature to be defiant, and I don’t feel like battling the good fight for democracy, not at this late stage of the game. I hope you understand this isn’t bigotry. It’s caution, it’s fear, it’s wanting to belong, it’s whatever you choose to call it. But it’s not bigotry.
I ride a little, usually in the Spring and in the Fall. I like the outdoors, though I’m not a very good athlete. I swim pretty well. I have a fast crawl. I was once a swimming counselor at a children’s camp, and I learned to dislike children that Summer. Of course, I’ve never had any of my own so I wouldn’t know. I imagine it’s different with your own. You said you are a widower. Do you have any children?
So far, you are just a post office box number, and here I’ve told you almost everything I could think of about myself. I like movies. John Wayne is my favorite. He’s not very good-looking, but there is a manliness about him, and I think that’s very important.
Well, I suppose that’s it.
I hope you’ll answer this letter. I’ll send you a picture if you like after I hear from you again. I say “again,” because I feel by reading your ad I’ve already heard from you once. And I honestly feel I did “hear” you, if you know what I mean.
Sincerely,
PRISCILLA AMES
41 La Mesa Street
Phoenix, Arizona
Priscilla Ames read her letter over. It seemed honest and sincere to her. She had no desire to make herself sound more attractive than she really was. Why start out with a bunch of lies and then get tangled up in them later? No, this was the best way.
Priscilla Ames folded the letter—which ran to some six pages— and then put it into the envelope. She copied the address from the magazine onto the face of the envelope, sealed the envelope, and then went out to mail it.
Priscilla Ames didn’t know what she was asking for.
It’s the little things in life that get you down.
The big problems are the easy ones to solve. There’s a lot at stake with the big problems. It’s the little ones that are the tough bastards. Should I shave tonight for the big date with Buxom Blonde, or should I wait until tomorrow morning for the big conference with Amalgamated Aluminum? God, a man can go nuts!
The 87th’s big problem was the floater. It’s not often you get a floater.
The 87th’s little problem was the con man.
It was the con man who was driving Detective Arthur Brown nuts. Brown didn’t like to be conned, and he didn’t like other people to be conned, either. The man—or men, more accurately— who were fleecing honest citizens of Brown’s fair city rankled him. They invaded his sleep. They dulled his appetite. They were even ruining his sex life. He was surly and out of sorts, more impatient than ever, scowling, snapping, a very difficult man to work with. The men who worked with him, being kindly, considerate, thoughtful bulls, did everything in their power to make his working day even more difficult. A moment did not go by but what one or another of the 87th’s bulls would make some passing crack to Brown about the difficulties he was experiencing with the con man.
“Catch him yet, Artie?” they would ask.
“Hey, some guy conned my grandmother out of her false teeth yesterday,” they would say. “Think it’s your buzzard, Brown?”
Brown took all the patter and all the jive with enviable discourteousness, admirable lack of self-control, and remarkable short temper. His usual answer was short and to the point and consisted of a combination of two words, one of which was unprintable. Brown had no time for jokes. He only had time for the files.
Somewhere in those files was the man he wanted.
Bert Kling was occupied with another kind of reading matter.
Bert Kling stood before the bulletin board in the detective squadroom. It was raining again, and the rain oozed against the windowpanes, and the harsh light behind the panes cast a sliding, running, dripping silhouette on the floor at his feet so that the room itself seemed to be slowly dissolving.
The vacations schedule had been posted on the bulletin board.
Kling studied it now. Two detectives studied it with him. One of the detectives was Meyer Meyer. The other was Roger Havilland.
“What’d you draw, kid?” Havilland asked.
“June tenth,” Kling replied.
“June tenth? Well, well, well, ain’t that a dandy time to start a holiday?” Havilland said, winking at Meyer.
“Yeah, dandy,” Kling said disgustedly. He had honestly not expected a choicer spot. He was the newest man on the squad—promoted from a rookie, at that—and so he could hardly have hoped to compete with the cops who had seniority. But he was nonetheless disappointed. June 10! Hell, that wasn’t even summer yet!
“I like my vacations at the early part of June,” Havilland went on. “Excellent time for vacations. I always ask for the end of April. I like it chilly. I wouldn’t think of leaving this lovely squadroom during the suffocating months of July and August. I like heat, don’t you, Meyer?”
Meyer’s blue eyes twinkled. He was always willing to go along with a gag, even when the gag originated with a man like Havilland whom Meyer did not particularly like. “Heat is wonderful,” Meyer said. “Last year was marvelous. I’ll never forget last year. A cop hater loose and the temperature in the nineties. That makes for a memorable summer.”
“Just think, kid,” Havilland said. “Maybe this summer’ll be a hot one, too. You can sit over there by the windows, where you get a nice breeze from the park. And you can think back over your nice cool vacation in the beginning of June.”
“You slay me, Havilland,” Kling said. He turned to start away from the bulletin board, and Havilland laid a beefy hand on his arm. There was strength in Havilland’s fingers. He was a big cop with a cherubic face, and a leer-like smile was on that face now. Kling disliked Havilland. He had disliked him even when he’d been a patrolman and had only heard of Havilland’s questioning tactics with suspects. Since he’d made 3rd/grade, he had had the opportunity to see Havilland in action, and his dislike had mounted in proportion to the number of times Havilland used his ham like fists on helpless prisoners. Havilland, you see, was a bull. He roared like a bull, and he gored like a bull, and he probably even snored like a bull. In truth, he had once been a gentle cop. But he’d once tried to break up a street fight, and the fighters had ganged up on him
, taken away his service revolver, and broken his arm with a lead pipe. The compound fracture had to be broken and reset at the hospital. It healed painfully and slowly. It left Havilland with a philosophy: Hit first; ask later.
The broken arm, to Kling’s way of thinking, bought neither benediction nor salvation for Havilland. Neither did it buy understanding. It bought, perhaps, a little bit of insight into a man who was basically a son of a bitch. Kling wasn’t a psychiatrist. He only knew that he didn’t like the leer on Havilland’s face, and he didn’t like Havilland’s hand on his arm.
“Where you going on your vacation, kid?” Havilland asked. “You don’t want to waste that nice cool month of June, do you? Remember, it gets to be summer along about the twenty-first. Where you going, huh?”
“We haven’t decided yet,” Kling said.
“We? We? You going with somebody?”
“I’m going with my fiancée,” Kling said tightly.
“Your girl, huh?” Havilland said. He winked at Meyer, including him in a secret fraternity that Meyer did not feel like joining.
“Yes,” Kling said. “My girl.”
“Whatever you do,” Havilland said, winking at Kling this time, “don’t take her out of the state.”
“Why not?” Kling asked, the implication escaping him for a moment, immediately sorry as soon as Havilland opened his mouth in reply.
“Why, the Mann Act, kid!” Havilland said. “Watch out for those state lines.”
Kling stared at Havilland and then said, “How would you like a punch in the mouth, Havilland?”
“Oh, Jesus!” Havilland roared. “The kid breaks me up! There’s nothing dishonest about screwing, kid, unless you cross a state line!”
“Lay off, Rog,” Meyer said.
“What’s the matter?” Havilland asked. “I envy the kid. Vacation in June, and a sweet little shack-up waiting for—”
“Lay off!” Meyer said, more loudly this time. He had seen the spark of sudden anger in Kling’s eyes, and he had seen the involuntary clenching of Kling’s right fist. Havilland outweighed and outreached Kling, and Havilland was not famous for the purity of his fighting tactics. Meyer did not want blood on the squadroom floor—not Kling’s blood, anyway.