Ed McBain - He Who Hesitates

"Well, honey, the priest didn't know what to tell her. He could see she was very upset, and that she wouldn't sit still for a lecture on what a big sin murder was. She hadn't come there to ask the priest's permission, you understand, all she wanted was his forgiveness. She wanted to be blessed in advance for knocking off her husband, and then for taking her own life. Well, the priest took a chance and told the woman it would be nice if they prayed together a little, and then while they were praying he sneaked in a little subliminal commercial about how sinful it was to kill, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the fifth commandment, and then he explained how she was about to commit a double mortal sin by first putting her husband on ice and then doing a job on herself, didn't she have any children? No, the woman said.

"Well, the priest wasn't too happy to learn she was childless because children are usually a good thing to play on. So he very quickly said Haven't you got parents or brothers or sisters who'll be worrying about you, and the woman said Yes she had parents but she didn't give a damn what they thought and then said Forgive me, Father, because she'd just cursed in the confessional box, no less church. The priest forgave her and they continued to pray together for a little while, with the priest furiously wondering what he could do to stop this woman from polishing off hubby as he came out of his shop with his lunch box under his arm.

"That was why he'd come up to the office, hon. He told me that a priest, of course, is sworn to keep the sanctity of the confessional, which is exactly what was causing his dilemma. Had the woman confessed to anything, or hadn't she? How can a person confess to a sin that hasn't been committed yet? Was the thought the same thing as the act? If so, the world was full of thoughtful sinners. If not, then the woman hadn't done anything and her confession wasn't a confession at all. And if it wasn't a confession, then what sanctity was the priest protecting? If it wasn't a bona fide confession, then why wasn't it perfectly all right for him to go to the police and tell them all about the woman's plans?

"It's perfectly all right, Father, I said to him, Now what's the woman's name, and where does her husband work? Well, I couldn't get to him quite that fast. He wanted to discuss all the philosophical and metaphysical aspects of the difference between contemplated sin and committed sin, while all the while the clock on the wall was ticking away, and lunchtime was getting closer and closer, and that poor woman's husband was also getting closer and closer to a couple of holes in the head. I finally convinced him by saying I thought he had come to the police for the same reason the woman had gone to him, and when he said What reason was that? I told him I thought he wanted to be absolved. What do you mean absolved? he said. I told him he wanted to be absolved of possibly causing the death of two people by remaining silent when he wasn't even positive of the doctrine involved, the same way the woman wanted to be absolved. I told him I thought both of them wanted those deaths to be stopped and that was why the woman had gone to him, and that was why he had come to me, so what was the woman's name, and where did her husband work? This was a quarter to twelve. He finally told me, and I had a patrol car sent out to pick her up. We can't book her for anything since she hasn't committed a crime or even attempted one, and there's no such thing as suspicion of anything in this city. But we can hold her for a while until she cools off, and maybe scare her a little . . . Oh, wait a minute."

Roger, who was listening intently, almost turned to the detective and nodded in anticipation.

"We have got her on something, haven't we? Or maybe, anyway."

The woman raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

"The gun," the detective said. "If she hasn't got a permit for it, we can charge her with that. Or at least we can scare her with threatening to charge her. We'll see how it goes. Boy." He shook his head. "The thing about it, though, is I'm still not sure whether the priest copped out or not. Did she confess, or didn't she? It bothers me, hon. What do you think?"

The woman's hands began to speak again. Roger did not know what she was saying. Occasionally, he glanced at her as the wonderfully fluid fingers moved in front of her face. He had never been loved by a beautiful woman in his life — except, of course, his mother.

The waiter brought his omelette.

Silently, he ate.

Beside him, the detective and his wife finished their drinks, and then ordered lunch.

8

He followed the detective and his wife to a subway kiosk, where they embraced and kissed briefly, and then the woman went down the steps and the detective stood on the sidewalk for a moment or two, watching her as she descended. The detective smiled then, secretly and privately, and began walking back toward the station house. The snow was very thick now, thick in the air, falling in great loose silent flakes, and thick underfoot where it clung to the pavement and made walking difficult.

Several times on the way back to the station house, he almost approached the detective and told him the whole story. He had overheard enough during lunch to know that this was the kind of man he could trust, and yet something still held him back. As he thought about it, as he walked behind the detective and wondered for perhaps the fifth time whether he should approach him now or wait until they were back at the station house, it seemed to him the reason he felt he could trust this man was simply because of the way he'd treated his wife. There had been something very good and gentle about the way those two looked at each other and talked to each other, something that led Roger to believe this man would understand what had happened. But at the same time — and curiously, considering it was the man's wife who had caused Roger to trust him — the wife was also responsible for his reluctance to approach the man. Sitting alongside them, Roger had shared their conversation, become almost a part of it. He had watched the woman's face and had seen the way she looked at her husband, had watched her hands covering his, had watched the score of gentle tender things she did, the secret winks, the glances of assurance, and had been suddenly and completely lonely.

Walking behind the detective now in a silent white world, he thought of Amelia and wanted to call her.

But wait, he thought, you have to tell the detective.

They were approaching the station house now. The detective stopped at a patrol car parked outside the building, and the patrolman sitting closest to the curb rolled down the window on his side. The detective bent down and looked into the car and exchanged a few words with the cops inside, and then he laughed, and the patrolman rolled up the window again, and the detective started walking up the seven flat steps to the front doors of the precinct.

Wait, Roger thought, I have to He hesitated on the sidewalk.

The detective had opened the door and gone inside. The door eased shut behind him. Roger stood on the pavement with the snowflakes falling fat and wet and floppy all around him, and then he nodded once, sharply, and turned and began looking for a telephone booth. The first one he found was in a combination pool room and bowling alley on the Stem. He changed a dollar bill at the desk — the proprietor made it clear he didn't like making change for the telephone — and then went to the booth and closed the door and carefully took from his wallet the folded slip of paper with Amelia's number on it.

He dialed the number and waited.

A woman answered on the fourth ring. It was not Amelia.

"Hello?" the woman said.

"Hello, could I talk to Amelia, please?" Roger said.

"Who's this?" the woman said.