Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

Watt was silent. “Maybe,” he said at last.

“May I hear the autopsy report?”

Watt was silent again. Then he nodded. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and said, “Death caused by fatal stab wound of the heart, penetration of the auricles and pulmonary artery. That’s where all the blood came from, Hawes. Wounds of the ventricles don’t usually bleed that much. Coroner figures the girl died in maybe two or three minutes, there was that much loss of blood.”

“Anything else?”

“Broke her ankle when she fell out of that chair. Oblique fracture of the lateral malleolus. Examiner also found traces of human skin under the girl’s fingernails. Seems like she clawed out at whoever stabbed her, and took a goodly part of him away with her.”

“What did the skin tell you?”

“Not a hell of a lot. Our killer is white and adult.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. At least, that’s all from the skin, except the possibility of using it later for comparison tests — if we ever get anybody to compare it with. We found traces of blood on her fingers and nails, too, not her own.”

“How do you know?”

“Blood on the chair, the girl’s blood, was in the AB grouping. Blood we found on her hands was in the O grouping, most likely the killer’s.”

“Then she scratched him enough to cause bleeding.”

“She took a big chunk of skin from him, Hawes.”

“From the face?”

“Now how in hell would I know?”

“I thought maybe ...”

“Couldn’t tell from the skin sample whether it came from the neck or the face or wherever. She coulda scratched him anyplace.”

“Anything else?”

“We found a trail of the girl’s blood in the snow under the lift. Plenty of it, believe me, she bled like a stuck pig. The trail started about four minutes from the top. Took her two or three minutes to die. So, assuming the killer jumped from the chair right soon’s he stabbed her, then the girl ...”

“... was still alive when he jumped.”

“That’s right.”

“Find any tracks in the snow?”

“Nothing. Too many drifts. We don’t know whether he jumped with his skis on or not. Have to have been a pretty good skier to attempt that, we figure.”

“Well, anyway, he’s got a scratch.”

Hawes said. “That’s something to look for.”

“You gonna start looking tonight?” Watt asked sarcastically.

Blanche Colby was waiting for him when he got back to the room. She was sitting up in his bed propped against the pillows, wearing a shapeless flannel nightgown which covered her from her throat to her ankles. She was holding an apple in her hand, and she bit into it angrily as he entered the room, and then went back to reading the open book in her lap.

“Hi,” he said.

She did not answer him, nor did she even look up at him. She continued destroying the apple, continued her pretense of reading.

“Good book?”

“Excellent book,” she answered.

“Miss me?”

“Drop dead,” Blanche said.

“I’m sorry. I ...”

“Don’t be. I enjoyed myself immensely in your absence.”

“I got arrested, you see.”

‘You got what?”

“Arrested. Pinched. Pulled in. Collared. Apprehen—”

“I understood you the first time. Who arrested you?”

“The cops,” Hawes said, and he shrugged.

“Serves you right.” She put down the book. “Wasn’t it you who told me a girl was killed on this mountain today? Murdered? And you run off and leave me when a killer ...”

“I told you where I was going. I told you ...”

“You said you’d be back in an hour!”

“Yes, but I didn’t know I was going to be arrested.”

“What happened to your cheek?”

“I got hit with a hammer.”

“Good,” Blanche said, and she nodded emphatically.

“Aren’t you going to kiss my wound?” Hawes asked.

“You can kiss my ...”

“Ah-ah,” he cautioned.

“I sat by that damn fireplace until eleven o’clock. Then I came up here and ... what time is it, anyway?”

“After midnight.”

Blanche nodded again. “I would have packed up and gone home, believe me, if the roads were open.”

“Yes, but they’re closed.”

“Yes, damn it!”

“Aren’t you glad I’m back?”

Blanche shrugged. “I couldn’t care less. I was just about to go to sleep.”

“In here?”

“In the other room, naturally.”

“Honey, honey ...”

“Yes, honey-honey?” she mimicked. “ What, honey-honey baby?”

Hawes grinned. “That’s a very lovely nightgown. My grandmother used to wear a nightgown like that.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Blanche said sourly. “I put it on especially for you.”

“I always liked the touch of flannel,” he said.

“Get your big hands ...” she started, and moved away from him swiftly. Folding her arms across the front of her gown, she sat in the center of the bed and stared at the opposite wall. Hawes studied her for a moment, took off his sweaters, and then began unbuttoning his shirt.

“If you’re going to undress,” Blanche said evenly, “you could at least have the modesty to go into the ...”

“Shhh!” Hawes said sharply. His hands had stopped on the buttons of his shirt. He cocked his head to one side now and listened. Blanche, watching him, frowned.

“What ... ?”

“Shhh!” he said again, and again he listened attentively. The room was silent. Into the silence came the sound.

“Do you hear it?” he asked.

“Do I hear what?”

“Listen.”

They listened together. The sound was unmistakable, faint and faraway, but unmistakable.

“It’s the same buzzing I heard last night,” Hawes said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs. To the ski shop,” he answered, and swiftly left the room. As he went down the corridor toward the steps, a door at the opposite end of the hall opened. A young girl wearing a quilted robe over her pajamas, her hair done in curlers, came into the hallway carrying a towel and a tooth brush. She smiled at Hawes and then walked past him. He heard the bathroom door locking behind her as he went down the steps.

The lights were on in the ski shop. The buzzing sound came from somewhere in the shop, intermittent, hanging on the silent night air, ceasing abruptly, beginning again. He walked silently over the snow, stopping just outside the door to the shop. He put his ear to the wood and listened, but the only sound he heard was the buzzing. He debated kicking in the door. Instead, he knocked gently.

“Yes?” a voice from inside called.

“Could you open up, please?” Hawes said.

He waited. He could hear the heavy sound of ski boots approaching the locked door. The door opened a crack. A suntanned face appeared in the opening. He recognized the face at once — Helmut Kurtz, the ski instructor who had helped him the night before, the man he’d seen today on the mountain just before he’d got on the chair lift.

“Oh, hello there,” Hawes said.

“Yes? What is it?” Kurtz asked.

“Mind if I come in?”

“I’m sorry, no one is allowed in the shop. The shop is closed.”

“Yes, but you’re in it, aren’t you?”

“I’m an instructor,” Kurtz said. “We are permitted ...”

“I just saw a light,” Hawes said, “and I felt like talking to someone.”

“Well ...”

“What are you doing, anyway?” Hawes asked casually, and casually he wedged one shoulder against the door and gently eased it open, casually pushing it into the room, casually squeezing his way into the opening, casually shouldering his way past Kurtz and then squinting past the naked hanging light bulb to the work bench at the far end of the room, trying to locate the source of the buzzing sound which filled the shop.