Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

The girl with Cotton Hawes had cold feet.

He didn’t know what to do about her feet because he’d already tried everything he could think of, and they were still cold. He had to admit that driving in subzero temperatures with a storm some fifteen minutes behind him wasn’t exactly conducive to warm pedal extremities. But he had turned the car heater up full, supplied the girl with a blanket, taken off his overcoat and wrapped that around her — and she still had cold feet.

The girl’s name was Blanche Colby, a very nice euphonic name which she had adopted the moment she entered show business. That had been a long time ago. Blanche’s real name was Bertha Cooley, but a press agent those many years back told her that Bertha Cooley sounded like a mentholated Pullman, and not a dancer. Blanche Colby had class, he told her, and if there was one thing Bertha Cooley wanted, it was class. She had taken the new name and gone into the chorus of a hit musical twenty-two years ago, when she was only fifteen. She was now thirty-seven, but all those years of prancing the boards had left her with a youthful body, lithe and long-legged. She was still, with a slight assist from Clairol, a soft honey-blonde. Her green eyes were intelligent and alert. Her feet, unfortunately, ahhhh, her feet.

“How are they now?” he asked her.

“Freezing,” she said.

“We’re almost there,” Hawes told her. “You’ll like this place. One of the guys on the squad — Hal Willis — comes up here almost every weekend he’s off. He says the skiing is great.”

“I know a dancer who broke her leg in Switzerland,” Blanche said.

“Skiing?”

“Sure, skiing.”

“You’ve never skied before?”

“Never.”

“Well ...” Hawes shrugged. “Well, I don’t think you’ll break any legs.”

“That’s reassuring,” Blanche said. She glanced through the window on her side of the car. “I think that storm is catching up to us.”

“Just a few flurries.”

“I wonder how serious it’ll be. I have a rehearsal Monday night.”

“Four to six inches, they said. That’s not very much.”

“Will the roads be open?”

“Sure. Don’t worry.”

“I know a dancer who got snowed in for six days in Vermont,” Blanche said. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, but she was with a Method actor.”

“Well, I’m a cop,” Hawes said.

“Yeah,” Blanche answered noncommittally.

They were silent for several moments. The light snow flurries drifted across the road, turning it into a dream-like, white, flowing stream. The headlights illuminated the shifting macadam. Sitting behind the wheel, Hawes had the peculiar feeling that the road was melting. He was glad to see the sign for Rawson Mountain Inn. He stopped the car, picking out the sign from the tangle of other signs announcing accommodations in the area. He set the car in motion again, turning left over an old wooden bridge, the timbers creaking as the convertible passed over them. A new sign, blatant red and white, shouted the features of the area — a sixteen-hundred-foot mountain, two chair lifts, a T-Bar, a rope tow, and, definitely not needed with a storm on the way, a snow-making machine.

The inn lay nestled in the foothills at the base of the mountain. The trees around the inn were bare, standing in gaunt silhouette against the snow-threatening sky. Snow-nuzzled lights beckoned warmly. He helped Blanche out of the car, put on his overcoat, and walked with her over old packed snow to the entrance. They stamped their feet in the doorway and entered the huge room. A fire was going at one end of the room. Someone was playing the piano. A handful of tired weekday skiers were sprawled around the fireplace, wearing very fashionable after-ski boots and sweaters, drinking from bottles onto which they’d hand-lettered their names. Blanche went directly to the fire, found a place on one of the couches, and stretched her long legs to the blaze. Hawes found the desk, tapped a bell on it, and waited. No one appeared. He tapped the bell again. A skier passing the desk said, “He’s in the office. Over there on your left.”

Hawes nodded, found the door marked OFFICE, and knocked on it. A voice inside called, “Yes, come in,” and Hawes twisted the knob and entered.

The office was larger than he’d expected, a good fifteen feet separating the entrance door from the desk at the opposite end of the room. A man in his late twenties sat behind the desk. He had dark hair and dark brows pulled low over deep brown eyes. He was wearing a white shirt open at the throat, a bold reindeer-imprinted sweater over it. He was also wearing a plaster cast on his right leg. The leg was stretched out stiffly in front of him, the foot resting on a low ottoman. A pair of crutches leaned against the desk, within easy reach of his hands. Hawes was suddenly glad he’d left Blanche by the fire.

“You’re not a new skier, I hope,” the man said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Good. Some of them get scared by the cast and crutches.”

“Was it a skiing accident?” Hawes asked.

The man nodded. “Spiral break of the tibia and fibula. Someone forgot to fill in a sitzmark. I was going pretty fast, and when I hit the hole ...” He shrugged. “I won’t be able to walk without the crutches for at least another month.”

“That’s too bad,” Hawes said. He paused, and then figured he might as well get down to business. “I have a reservation,” he said. “Adjoining rooms with bath.”

“Yes., sir. What was the name on that?”

“Cotton Hawes and Blanche Colby.”

The man opened a drawer in his desk and consulted a typewritten sheet. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Two rooms in the annex.”

“The annex?” Hawes said. “Where’s that?”

“Oh, just a hundred yards or so from the main buildings sir.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’ll be ...”

“And that’s one bath, you understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re adjoining rooms, but the bathroom is in 104. 105 doesn’t have a bath.”

“Oh. Well, I’d like two rooms that do have baths,” Hawes said, smiling.

“I’m sorry, sir. 104 and 105 are the only available rooms in the house.”

“The fellow I spoke to on the phone ...”

“Yes, sir, that’s me. Elmer Wollender.”

“How do you do?” Hawes said.

“You told me both rooms had baths.”

“No, sir. You said you wanted adjoining rooms with bath, and I said I could give you adjoining rooms with bath. And that’s what I’ve given you. Bath. Singular.”

“Are you a lawyer, Mr. Wollender?” Hawes asked, no longer smiling.

“No, sir. Out of season, I’m a locksmith.”

“What are you in season?”

“Why, a hotel-keeper, sir,” Wollender said.

“Don’t test the theory,” Hawes answered. “Let me have my deposit back, Mr. Wollender. We’ll find another place to stay.”

“Well, sir, to begin with, we can’t make any cash refunds, but we’ll be happy to keep your deposit here against another time when you may wish ...”

“Look, Mr. Wollender,” Hawes said menacingly, “I don’t know what kind of a ...”

“And of course, sir, there are lots of places to stay here in town, but none of them, sir, none of them have any private baths at all. Now if you don’t mind walking down the hall ...”

“All I know is ...”

“... and sharing the John with a hundred other skiers, why then ...”

“You told me on the phone ...”

“I’m sure you can find other accommodations. The lady, however, might enjoy a little privacy.” Wollender waited while Hawes considered.