Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

“Anything between him and Helga?”

“Why, no. Not that I know of. They teach together, but ...”

“What about Davidson?”

“Larry Davidson?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean, is he dating Helga, or ...”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Larry’s married,” Wollender said. “I would hardly think ...”

“What about you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You and Helga. Anything?”

“Helga’s a good friend of mine,” Wollender said.

“Was,” Hawes corrected.

“Huh?”

“She’s dead. She was killed on the mountain this afternoon.”

There was the fast ball, and it took Wollender smack between the eyes. “Dea—” he started, and then his jaw fell slack, and his eyes went blank. He staggered back a pace, collided with the white dresser. The crutches dropped from his hands. He struggled to maintain his balance, the leg with the cast stiff and unwieldy; he seemed about to fall. Hawes grabbed at his elbow and pulled him erect. He stooped down for Wollender’s crutches and handed them to him. Wollender was still dazed. He groped for the crutches, fumbled, dropped them again. Hawes picked them up a second time, and forced them under Wollender’s arms. Wollender leaned back against the dresser. He kept staring at the wall opposite, where a poster advertising the pleasures of Kitzbühel was hanging. -

“She…she took too many chances,” he said. “She always went too fast. I told her ...”

“This wasn’t a skiing accident,” Hawes said. “She was murdered.”

“No.” Wollender shook his head. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Everyone liked Helga. No one would ...” He kept shaking his head. His eyes stayed riveted to the Kitzbühel poster.

“There are going to be cops here, Mr. Wollender,” Hawes said. “You seem like a nice kid. When they start asking questions, you’d better have a more plausible story than the one you invented about being in my room. They’re not going to fool around. They’re looking for a killer.”

“Why ... why do you think I came here?” Wollender asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe you were looking for some pocket money. Skiers often leave their wallets and their valu—”

“I’m not a thief, Mr. Hawes,” Wollender said with dignity. “I only came here to give you some heat.”

“That makes it even,” Hawes answered. “The cops’ll be coming here to give you some.”

He found the two loaders in the lodge cafeteria. The lifts had been closed at four- thirty, the area management having reached the conclusion that most skiing accidents took place in the waning hours of the afternoon, when poor visibility and physical exhaustion combined to create gentle havoc. They were both burly, grizzled men wearing Mackinaws, their thick hands curled around coffee mugs. They had been loading skiers onto chairs ever since the area was opened, and they worked well together as a team. Even their dialogue seemed concocted in one mind, though it issued from two mouths.

“My name’s Jake,” the first loader said. “This here is Obey, short for Obadiah.”

“Only I ain’t so short,” Obadiah said.

“He’s short on brains,” Jake said and grinned. Obadiah returned the grin. “You’re a cop, huh?”

“Yes,” Hawes said. He had shown them his buzzer the moment he approached them. He had also told an outright lie, saying he was helping with the investigation of the case, having been sent up from the city because there was the possibility a known and wanted criminal had perpetrated the crime, confusing his own double-talk as he wove a fantastic monologue which Jake and Obadiah seemed to accept.

“And you want to know who we loaded on them chairs, right? Same as Teddy wanted to know.”

“Teddy?”

“Teddy Watt. The sheriff.”

“Oh. Yes,” Hawes said. “That’s right.”

“Whyn’t you just ask him?” Obadiah said.

“Well, I have,” Hawes lied. “But sometimes a fresh angle will come up if witnesses can be questioned directly, do you see?”

“Well, we ain’t exactly witnesses,” Jake said. “We didn’t see her get killed, you know.”

“Yes, but you did load her on the chair, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. We did, all right.”

“And someone was in the chair with her, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Jake said.

“Who?” Hawes asked.

“Seems like everybody wants to know who” Jake said.

“Ain’t it the damndest thing?” Obadiah said.

“Do you remember?” Hawes asked.

“We remember it was snowing, that’s for sure.”

“Couldn’t hardly see the chairs, it was snowing that hard.”

“Pretty tough to reckernize one skier from another with all that wind and snow, wouldn’t you say, Obey?”

“Next to impossible,” Obadiah answered.

“But you did recognize Helga,” Hawes suggested.

“Oh, sure. But she said hello to us, you see. She said, ‘Hello, Jake. Hello, Obey.’ And also, she took the chair closest to the loading platform, the inside chair. The guy took the other chair.”

“Guy?” Hawes asked. “It was a man then? The person who took the chair next to her was a man?”

“Well, can’t say for sure,” Jake said. “Was a time when men’s ski clothes was different from the ladies’, but that don’t hold true no more.”

“Not by a long shot,” Obadiah said.

“Nowadays, you find yourself following some pretty girl in purple pants, she turns out to be a man. It ain’t so easy to tell them apart no more.”

“Then you don’t know whether the person who sat next to her was a man or a woman, is that right?” Hawes asked.

“That’s right.”

“Coulda been either.”

“Did this person say anything?”

“Not a word.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Well, we ain’t established it was a he” Jake reminded him.

“Yes, I know. I meant the ... the person who took the chair. It’ll be easier if we give him a gender.”

“Give him a what?”

“A gen— if we assume for the moment that the person was a man.”

“Oh.” Jake thought this over. “Okay, if you say so. Seems like pretty sloppy deduction to me, though.”

“Well, I’m not actually making a deduction. I’m simply trying to facilitate…”

“Sure, I understand,” Jake said. “But it’s sure pretty sloppy.”

Hawes sighed. “Well ... what was he wearing?”

“Black,” Jake said.

“Black ski pants, black parka,” Obadiah said.

“Any hat?” Hawes asked.

“Nope. Hood on the parka was pulled clear up over the head. Sunglasses over the eyes.”

“Gloves or mittens?” Hawes asked.

“Gloves. Black gloves.”

“Did you notice whether or not there was an insignia on the man’s parka?”

“What kind of insignia?”

“An R-M interlocked,” Hawes said.

“Like the instructors wear?” Jake asked.

“Exactly.”

“They wear it on their right sleeves,” Obadiah said. “We told you this person took the outside chair. We couldn’ta seen the right sleeve, even if there was anything on it.”

Hawes suddenly had a wild idea. He hesitated before he asked, and then thought, What the hell, try it.

“This person,” he said, “was he ... was he carrying crutches?”

“Carrying what?” Jake asked incredulously.

“Crutches. Was his leg in a cast?”

“Now how in hell ... of course not,” Jake said. “He was wearing skis, and he was carrying ski poles. Crutches and a cast! My God! It’s hard enough getting on that damn lift as it is. Can you just picture ...”