"Yes, you're a good lay, but"
"Mmmm, and that's it."
"No."
"Yes, that's all of it. Roger, please, I know."
"How do you know?"
She shrugged. "You're a man. I know what men want."
"That's not all I want," he said.
She moved closer to him. She buried her face in his shoulder. Her lips vibrated against his skin as she spoke. "You're the only man who ever told me I was beautiful," she whispered. She paused for a long time. "Roger?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me."
"What?"
"Tell me again."
"What?"
"Don't make me beg."
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You embarrass me," she whispered.
"I want to hold you," he said.
"Ahhh."
"I want to kiss you."
She moved into his arms. "What's this?" she whispered.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" she whispered. "Oh, it's something. Oh, I can tell it's something. Oh, I'm sure it's something. Oh yes. Yes, yes, that's it, yes."
"Molly, Molly . . ."
"Ooooh, kiss you," she whispered. "Ooooh, hold you, kiss you, kiss you."
"Beautiful," he whispered, "beautiful."
Her scarf was in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He walked to the dresser now and opened the drawer and took out the scarf and held it in his hands. It was a pale-blue scarf, light, almost transparent, made of nylon, he supposed, he didn't really know. It was the only article of her clothing left behind in the apartment. He had discovered it afterward near the closet door, he supposed it had dropped from the hanger when he'd gone to get her coat.
He looked at the scarf and wondered what he should do with it. Suppose those two detectives came back to ask more questions, suppose they search the room? Well, no, they needed a warrant to do that, didn't they? Or did they? Suppose they came back while he was out with Amelia? He'd have to get rid of the scarf, that was for sure. Or else, he could simply take it with him when he went to the police station to tell them about it, yes, that would make things a lot simpler, sure. He would go there with the scarf and that would make it easier to talk about Molly. He would ask for the detective with the deaf-mute wife. He hadn't really liked any of the others, not Parker in the luncheonette, and not those two who had just been here, either, although they weren't too bad still, he preferred the one with the beautiful wife.
Amelia, he thought.
I'd better get rid of this scarf, first, he thought, and wondered how he should do it.
I suppose I can cut it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet. That would probably be best. Only trouble is I haven't got a scissors, nor even a knife. I can tear it in my hands, I suppose.
He looked at the scarf again.
He grasped it firmly in both hands and tried to rip it, but it wouldn't start because there was a tight, strong welting all around the edge of it. He put the end of the scarf into his mouth and tore the welting with his teeth, and then ripped it in half along a jagged line, and then decided throwing it down the toilet wouldn't be any good. Suppose the damn toilet got stuffed, that would be just great.
He went to the dresser. A book of matches was lying in the ash tray near the lamp. He picked up the matches and went to the bathroom with the scarf. He struck a match, and then held the scarf hanging from one hand over the toilet bowl, almost touching the water. He brought the other hand, with the lighted match, toward the dangling end of the scarf and was about to set fire to it when he heard someone calling him.
He recognized Mrs. Dougherty's voice, and wondered how in hell she had known he was about to set fire to a scarf in her bathroom. He shook out the match and dropped it into the bowl, and went back to his room. There he wadded the scarf into a ball and put it into the bottom dresser drawer again.
Mrs. Dougherty was still yelling his name in the hallway. "Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome, Mr. Broome!"
He went to the door and opened it.
"Yes," he said, "what is it?"
"Mr. Broome, there's a phone call for you."
"What?" he said.
"The telephone," she said.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"I don't know. It's a woman."
My mother, he thought, and wondered how she had got the number.
"I'll be right down," he said. He closed the door, went back into the room, opened the bottom dresser drawer, and shoved the blue scarf all the way to the back of it. Then he closed the drawer and went out into the hall. The pay phone was on the wall of the first-floor landing. Mrs. Dougherty was standing near the phone, waiting for him.
"Did the detectives talk to you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"They were nice boys, weren't they?"
"Yes, they seemed very nice. Are they still in the building?"
"They're talking to Mrs. Ingersol on the fifth floor."
"Then they're almost finished, I guess," Roger said. He took the receiver from her hand. "Thank you," he said.
"Do you think they'll get my refrigerator back?" Mrs. Dougherty asked.
"I hope so," Roger said, and he smiled and put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"
Mrs. Dougherty smiled and nodded and started down the steps to her apartment on the ground floor just as the voice at his ear said, "Roger, is it you? This is Amelia."
"Amelia? How Amelia, did you say?"
"I was hoping you hadn't left yet."
"No, I'm still here. What time is it?"
"It's three-twenty. I was afraid you might have left."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"I'm going to be a little late."
"Why?"
"Something unexpected."
"Like what?"
"I'll tell you when I see you."
"How late will you be?"
"Four-thirty?" she said. "Is that too late?"
"No, that's fine."
"Same place?"
"Yes, outside the drugstore."
"Aren't you curious?"
"About what?"
"About how I got your phone number?"
"Yeah, how about that?" he said.
"Some memory, huh?"
"What do you mean? I never gave you the number here. I don't even know the number here myself."
"Aha," she said.
"How'd you get it?"
"Agnes Dougherty," she said.
"What?"
"The name on one of your valentines. The cards. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah, that's right," he said, smiling.
"Your landlady."
"That's right."
"Or so you said."
"She is. I'll introduce you to her, if you like."
"When?"
"Later."
"Sure," Amelia said. "You can't kid me. She's some big old blond broad you're living with, you can't kid me."
"No," he said, grinning, "she's my landlady."
"Hey, you know something?"
"What?"
"I like you."
"I like you, too, Amelia."
"Good."
"Four-thirty, okay?"
"Yes." She paused. "Roger?"
"Yes?"
"I more than just like you."
"Okay."
"Okay, look at the brushoff," she said, and laughed.
"What brushoff?"
"You're supposed to say you more than just like me, too."
"I do."
"Ah, such enthusiasm," Amelia said. "Okay, I'll see you later. You think you can keep out of trouble between now and four-thirty?"
"I'll try," Roger said.
"Yeah, try," she answered. "Try real hard."
"I will."
"You're very cute," she said, and hung up.
He stood grinning at the receiver for a moment, and then replaced it on the cradle.
He went up to the apartment then and burned Molly's scarf and flushed the ashes down the toilet, and then opened the bathroom window to let out the smoke.
11
The snow had stopped.
There was a silence to the city.
There was a clean silence that reached somewhere deep inside him the moment he stepped outside and began walking toward the garage. His footfalls were hushed, his breath plumed out ahead of him in visible silence, there was the normal hush of late afternoon, the whispering minutes before twilight, intensified now by the cushion of snow, deepened, the gentle rhythmic sound of skid chains, muffled. I'll have to put chains on the truck, he thought.