"Yes sir."
I finished pouring out the coffee and set the two mugs on the counter. The man took his, swung around, and stomped over to one of the tables. He sat down and stared at the door, blowing into the mug, using it to warm his hands.
"All right," the woman said, "all right, all right. All right." Four times like that, all to herself. Her eyes had cold little lights in them now, like spots of fox fire.
I said hesitantly, "Ma'am? You still want the tuna sandwich to eat here?"
She blinked then, for the first time, and focused on me. "No. To hell with it. I don't want anything to eat." She caught up her mug and took it to another of the tables, two away from the one he was sitting at.
I went down to the sandwich board and got out two pieces of rye bread and spread them with butter. The stillness in there had a strained feel, made almost eerie by the constant wailing outside. I could feel myself getting more jittery as the seconds passed.
While I sliced ham I watched the two of them at the tables—him still staring at the door, drinking his coffee in quick angry sips; her facing the other way, her hands fisted in her lap, the steam from her cup spiraling up around her face. Well-off married couple from New York City, I thought: they were both wearing the same type of expensive wedding ring. On their way to a weekend in the mountains, maybe, or up to Canada for a few days. And they'd had a hell of a fight over something, the way married people do on long, tiring drives; that was all there was to it.
Except that that wasn't all there was to it.
I've owned this diner thirty years and I've seen a lot of folks come and go in that time; a lot of tourists from the city, with all sorts of marital problems. But I'd never seen any like these two. That tension between them wasn't anything fresh-born, wasn't just the brief and meaningless aftermath of a squabble. No, there was real hatred on both sides—the kind that builds and builds, seething, over long bitter weeks or months or even years. The kind that's liable to explode some day.
Well, it wasn't really any of my business. Not unless the blowup happened in here, it wasn't, and that wasn't likely. Or so I kept telling myself. But I was a little worried just the same. On a night like this, with that damned black wind blowing and playing hell with people's nerves, anything could happen. Anything at all.
I finished making the sandwich, cut it in half, and plastic-bagged it. Just as I slid it into a paper sack, there was a loud banging noise from across the room that made me jump half a foot; it sounded like a pistol shot. But it had only been the man slamming his empty mug down on the table.
I took a breath, let it out silently. He scraped back his chair as I did that, stood up, and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. Without looking at her, he said to the woman, "You pay for the food," and started past her table toward the restrooms in the rear.
She said, "Why the hell should I pay for it?"
He paused and glared back at her. "You've got all the money."
"I've got all the money? Oh, that's a laugh. I've got all the money!"
"Go on, keep it up." Then in a louder voice, as if he wanted to make sure I heard, he said, "Bitch." And stalked away from her.
She watched him until he was gone inside the corridor leading to the restrooms; she was as rigid as a chunk of wood. She sat that way for another five or six seconds, until the wind gusted outside, thudded against the door and the window like something trying to break in. Jerkily she got to her feet and came over to where I was at the sandwich board. Those cold lights still glowed in her eyes.
"Is his sandwich ready?"
I nodded and made myself smile. "Will that be all, ma'am?"
"No. I've changed my mind. I want something to eat too." She leaned forward and stared at the glass pastry container on the back counter. "What kind of pie is that?"
"Cinnamon apple."
"I'll have a piece of it."
"Okay—sure. Just one?"
"Yes. Just one."
I turned back there, got the pie out, cut a slice, and wrapped it in waxed paper. When I came around with it she was rummaging in her purse, getting her wallet out. Back in the restroom area, I heard the man's hard, heavy steps; in the next second he appeared and headed straight for the door.
The woman said, "How much do I owe you?"
I put the pie into the paper sack with the sandwich, and the sack on the counter. "That'll be three-eighty."
The man opened the door; the wind came shrieking in, eddying drafts of icy air. He went right on out, not even glancing at the woman or me, and slammed the door shut behind him.
She laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. Caught up the sack, pivoted, and started for the door.
"Ma'am?" I said. "You've got change coming."
She must have heard me, but she didn't look back and she didn't slow up. The pair of headlights came on out front, slicing pale wedges from the darkness; through the front window I could see the evergreens at the far edge of the lot, thick swaying shadows bent almost double by the wind. The shrieking rose again for two or three seconds, then fell back to a muted whine; she was gone.
I had never been more glad or relieved to see customers go. I let out another breath, picked up the flyer, and moved over to the cash register. Outside, above the thrumming and wailing, the car engine revved up to a roar and there was the ratcheting noise of tires spinning on gravel. The headlights shot around and probed out toward the county highway.
Time now to close up and go home, all right; I wanted a glass of brandy and a good hot fire more than ever. I went around to the tables they'd used, to gather up the coffee cups. But as much as I wanted to forget the two of them, I couldn't seem to get them out of my mind. Especially the woman.
I kept seeing those eyes of hers, cold and hateful like the wind, as if there was a black wind blowing inside her, too, and she'd been listening to it too long. I kept seeing her lean forward across the counter and stare at the pastry container. And I kept seeing her rummage in that big alligator purse when I turned around with the slice of pie. Something funny about the way she'd been doing that. As if she hadn't just been getting her wallet out to pay me. As if she'd been—
Oh my God, I thought.
I ran back behind the counter. Then I ran out again to the door, threw it open, and stumbled onto the gravel lot. But they were long gone; the night was a solid ebony wall.
I didn't know what to do. What could I do? Maybe she'd done what I suspicioned, and maybe she hadn't; I couldn't be sure because I don't keep an inventory on the slots of utensils behind the sandwich board. And I didn't know who they were or where they were going. I didn't even know what kind of car they were riding in.
I kept on standing there, chills racing up and down my back, listening to that black wind scream and scream around me. Feeling the cold sharp edge of it cut into my bare flesh, cut straight to the bone.
Just like the blade of a knife . . .
A CASE FOR QUIET
(With Jeffrey M. Wallmann)
The ivy-covered Kings Head Hotel sat stern and austere on the edge of little-traveled Ickley Moors in England's North Country. Constructed in the Elizabethan manner of red brick that had faded and eroded over the three centuries it had been standing, the hotel wore its garland of shredded fog like an expensive if somewhat dowdy fur wrap, and looked upon the bleak and barren moors with haughty aloofness.
Inside, beyond a small reception lobby, was a massive, rather antiquarian lounge. A deep inglenook fireplace dominated most of one wall; on its hearth logs were kept burning as long as there were guests about. The furniture was dark and heavy, composed mostly of wing chairs and long couches with ornamentally carved frames and legs.
On this night, as on most nights, the chairs and couches were occupied by some dozen ladies and gentlemen of varying ages beyond that of threescore. They sat in a silence that, to an outsider, might have seemed almost funereal—the men reading the London Times or the Manchester Guardian with careful scrutiny, drinking brandy and soda or very old Sco
tch; the women crocheting antimacassars and doilies or knitting argyles while they sipped cream sherry or tea laced liberally with milk and sugar. They spoke to one another rarely, and then only in whispers. An elderly waiter named Peters circulated among the guests now and then to refill glasses and empty the heavy pewter ashtrays of cigar ash and pipe dottle.
The gentle crackle of the fire in the inglenook was the only sound when the stranger made his appearance at a quarter past ten.
The stranger was a big, florid-faced man in a bulky tweed overcoat, silk muffler, and expensive driving gloves. He came into the reception lobby with a flourish, letting the thick oaken door slam behind him, and stood for a moment blowing his breath noisily through his opened mouth. Then, having spotted the bar inside the lounge, he nodded once to old Hathaway, the night clerk, and strode purposefully through the archway.
"Scotch on the rocks," he demanded of Michaels, the barman, who was manufacturing a brandy-and-soda.
"Sir?" Michaels said, looking up. He was a somewhat younger, spryer version of Peters.
"Scotch on the rocks," the stranger repeated. "And hurry it up, would you?"
"Yes, sir."
Michaels finished mixing the brandy-and-soda and placed it on the silver serving tray that Peters held waiting. Then he turned to the rows of bottles and glasses on the backbar.
The stranger took off his driving gloves. "Where's the nearest garage?" he demanded.
"Garage, sir?"
"These damned roads of yours have done something to the steering on my car. I can't go any farther until a mechanic checks it out."
"The only mechanic hereabouts is Jerome Bosley, sir," Michaels said. "He mainly repairs tractors."
"Tractors?"
"Yes, sir." Michaels carefully placed a serviette before the stranger, then centered a crystal tumbler on the napkin. He made certain the Kings Head crest on both faced the newcomer. "And a lorry now and then. But he's gone into Bridlington to visit his mum and won't be back until tomorrow evening. I'm afraid there's no one else for forty miles, sir."
"Oh, that's fine, just fine," the stranger said with heavy sarcasm. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
"I wouldn't know, sir," Michaels said. He poured a generous dollop of Scotch into the tumbler and stepped back. The stranger scowled. "The rocks," he said.
"Sir?"
"Damn it, man, the rocks, the rocks!" The stranger pointed accusingly at his drink. "You forgot the ice. You don't expect me to drink it warm, do you?"
"No, sir. Of course not, sir. Peters, would you. . . ?" Peters bowed and moved away slowly through the lounge and across the darkened dining room beyond. The stranger watched his retreating form for a moment, then turned to survey the remainder of the lounge. Its occupants studiedly ignored him.
The stranger made a derisive sound and swung back to Michaels, thumping his gloves on the polished surface of the bar. Then, in what to him was an undertone, he said to himself, "An archaeologist's dream—a tomb full of old fossils."
This comment stiffened the backbone of Michaels, produced a harsh intake of breath from Colonel (Ret.) Gloucester-Smith, and caused the widow Pemblington to drop a stitch. Other than that, the lounge was reminiscent of a forest glade on a windless day.
The stranger said, "I have to make an important call. Where's your telephone?"
"There is no telephone, sir."
"What's that?"
"We have no telephone here."
"Nonsense! Every hotel has a phone!"
"Not the Kings Head, sir. Not any longer. We had ours taken out some time ago."
"What the devil for?"
"Our guests have no use for them," Michaels said. "They've a nasty habit of ringing in the late hours. Very disturbing."
The stranger stared at him in exasperation. "I don't suppose there's anyplace I can send a wire?"
"No, sir. Not at this time of night."
"Damn it, man, I have to contact my business associates in London and tell them where I am. They have no idea I was driving up to Manchester today; won't have the faintest suspicion of where I've gone."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Damned well ought to be," the stranger muttered. He looked up as Peters returned with a bowl containing four ice cubes. "Well, it's about time. I thought maybe you got lost."
Some of the guests had now taken notice. There was a raising of eyes over the top edges of the Times and the Guardian, a lowering of unfinished antimacassars and doilies and argyles. Sir Pruitt, sitting in the corner near the disconnected phonograph, had sipped just enough brandy to sit up and glower at the stranger before sinking back out of sight behind his chair's wing.
If the stranger felt the gazes on him, he gave no indication. Impatiently he watched as Peters lowered two ice cubes into his Scotch with a pair of sugar tongs; then he swirled the liquid with his index finger and lifted the glass. "Well, here's mud in your eye!" he said and drained the Scotch in one swallow. He smacked his lips, put the glass down, and demanded a refill.
Michaels poured.
"Got anything to eat around here?" the stranger asked. "The dining room is closed, sir."
"I can see that. What about sandwiches, or some cheese and crackers?"
"I'm afraid not, sir."
"Peanuts, then? Pretzels? Onion rings?"
"I shall see, sir," Michaels said.
After some searching, he located a half-empty box of arrowroot biscuits. He shook some of the biscuits into a silver serving dish and placed the dish before the stranger.
"What're these things?"
"Biscuits, sir. We serve them at teatime, occasionally."
"Biscuits?" The stranger picked one up, nibbled it, made a face, and said, "Chalk, you mean!"
"I believe they are all we have at the moment, sir."
The stranger mumbled something incoherent and ate another biscuit. He chewed with a harsh grating intensity that caused the widow Pemblington to drop another stitch.
His mouth still full of biscuit, the stranger said, "You have any rooms available here, or do I have to sleep in my car tonight?"
"We have accommodations, sir."
"Well, well, don't tell me." The stranger turned toward the archway and shouted, "Clerk! Hey, clerk!"
Several of the guests started at this outburst. There was a scuttling sound in the reception lobby and Hathaway appeared. "Sir?"
The stranger pitched him a leather keycase. Hathaway failed to raise his arms in time to catch it, and the case made a loud jangling noise as it hit the floor. The old fellow bent over slowly to retrieve it, one hand braced on his knee for support.
"Take my bags out of the orange Porsche outside and check me in, will you? Name's Rasmussen, Harold J. Rasmussen."
Hathaway was having difficulty regaining an upright position. "For the night only, sir?"
"I damned well hope so. But who knows what's wrong with my car? I could be here days, God forbid." He popped another biscuit into his mouth. "Make that a room with a bath—and there'd better be some hot water to go with it."
"Yes, sir," Hathaway said. He took his leave.
The stranger turned back to the bar. "I hope he doesn't have a heart attack or something, carrying my bags." He seemed to think such a prospect was uproariously funny; his laugh was sharp and loud, almost a bark.
After a time he stopped laughing, wiped his eyes, blew his nose into a silk handkerchief, and said to Michaels, "How about some music?"
"Sir?"
"Music. You hard of hearing? If I'm going to be stuck in a place like this tonight, I might as well enjoy myself. So come on, let's liven up this mausoleum."
He had finally managed to collect the undivided attention of each of the guests. His words were like a sudden chill wind through that proverbial forest glade. An almost imperceptible rustling, like that of disturbed leaves, could be heard throughout the lounge.
Colonel (Ret.) Gloucester-Smith sighed softly and rose from his chair. He glanced around the room, sighed ag
ain, then crossed to the bar in a stiff military stride.
"Who're you?" Rasmussen demanded.
"Colonel Gloucester-Smith, Retired, at your service. I wonder, sir, if you would care to join me in a drink."
"What's that? You offering to buy a round, Corporal?"
"Colonel," Gloucester-Smith corrected, wincing. "Yes, my good man, I am so offering. Local hospitality, you know."
"Well, that's damned decent of you, Corporal."
"Indeed," Gloucester-Smith said. He looked at Michaels.
"Some of the vintage blend for our guest, I believe."
"Very good, sir." Michaels withdrew a short, amber-colored bottle from beneath the bar and poured a generous dollop over the melting ice cubes in Rasmussen's glass.
"Aren't you having any, Corporal?"
"Brandy is my tipple and I've a full snifter."
"Your loss," Rasmussen told him. "Nothing like good Scotch. Well, cheers, old boy." He lifted the glass, sniffed, nodded approvingly, and tossed off half the drink. He smacked his lips, nodded again, and finished it. "Not bad, Corporal, not bad at all. It—"
Rasmussen's eyes suddenly bulged wide, and his mouth opened and a strangled sound came from his lips. His right hand clutched his throat. Then, abruptly, he toppled over onto the carpet, twitched once, and lay still.
The room was very quiet. Colonel Gloucester-Smith knelt beside the stranger and felt his wrist. Then he rose and motioned to Peters and to Michaels. The two servants lifted Rasmussen's inert form and carried it through the darkened dining room, through the kitchen and out the rear door and away onto the fog-shrouded moors.
In the still and silent lounge, circumspect hands resumed their chores and the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the inglenook. No one spoke until Colonel Gloucester-Smith returned once more to his chair.
Cecil Whitehead, on his immediate right, leaned forward. "How many does that make now, Colonel?"
"Six, I believe."
"I do hope there won't be any more," Whitehead whispered. "I so enjoy this lovely quiet."
Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories Page 25