101 Mystery Stories

23 Creature of Habit William Campbell Gault

Without the Friday nights he might have gone on and on. He had his own world, after office hours, his printed world, and adversity troubled him very little.

But always on Friday nights Bertha would be waiting in front of Bloom’s, her two hundred and seventeen pounds outlined by the white store behind her. She’d be smiling. She was always smiling.

What the hell was so funny?

Two hundred and seventeen pounds, an even hundred more than Fred weighed, and her hand would be out and he’d put the week’s wages in that, and she’d shove it into her tiny purse.

When they were first married Bertha had been young, shapely and romantic. Now she was still romantic and the Friday evenings were a must. In the interests of peace. Not that she’d scream, but she’d pout. A two-hundred-and-seventeen-pound pout is a horrible sight, and Fred avoided it by meeting her in front of Bloom’s at 5:08 each Friday evening.

At the long counter in Bloom’s Bertha would have a Double Banana Royale. Fred would have a sandwich and coffee.

Then the movie. Very few movies interested Fred; none failed to enchant Bertha. She held his hand all through the double feature. He loathed its damp capaciousness; he loathed Bertha.

One hundred and seventeen pounds and two hundred and seventeen pounds. People would turn as they walked by, would smile at them. Fred was sensitive, being the lighter one. Bertha? Who knows?

The street is so busy in front of Bloom’s. There are so many people. Some are men, tall and superior. Some are women, beautiful and young. Smiling at Fred and Bertha.

One of Fred’s favorite writers was the minor-league philosopher, Ramsay Elleson. In one of the thin books Ramsay published — infrequently and at his own expense — Ramsay got going on Hell.

Eternity, itself, Ramsay claimed, was Hell, though it would be a personal matter. For the author, Hell would be an eternal seat at an eternal football game, Ramsay being an intellectual (self-proclaimed). For football fans Hell would be an eternity in the library of Ramsay Elleson. And so on.

Fred gave the matter some thought and his personal view of Hell would be an eternity with Bertha. Eternity is only a word; he’d actually gone through most of it already. Twenty-two years of Friday nights. Twenty-two years of the Hollywood product for a man who could enjoy the profundity of Ramsay Elleson.

Only a little less than twenty-two years of — avoirdupois.

Eternity can end. It can be brought violently to a stop. With determination and fortitude and something heavy to swing, a man can establish a better destiny than an eternity with Bertha.

Fred had this thought on a Wednesday night, while working out a cryptogram. He looked over at Bertha, monumental and placid under a reading lamp, and waited for the thought to go away.

The thought didn’t go away.

He slept with it. He carried it, along with his lunch, to work the next day. The figures in his ledgers seemed to dance and form strange shapes, leering at him. He left early, his head aching.

At home. Bertha said, “Honey, you’re sick...”

“What makes you think I’m sick...”

“You’re home early. And you look sick, Honey.”

“I’m not sick. I’m just a little tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a trembling hand. “I’m going down to look at the furnace.”

It was July.

She stared at him.

He said irritably, “Well, I can look at it, can’t I? Damn it!”

She said soothingly, “Of course you can. I’ll make some tea. I’ll have it ready for you.”

The floor in the cellar was dirt. It was a cheap house. He paid more rent for it than it was worth. But the floor was dirt, which suited his present purpose.

After a little while, she called, “Honey, the tea is ready.”

He didn’t answer.

“Fred?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fred — answer me!”

He didn’t answer, and she started down the stairs...

It was a restless, fretful night. Well, it was done; nothing could change that. He’d grown weary, digging, and had covered her very skimpily. But he could finish that tonight. He could use the time they usually wasted in the movie.

He ate his breakfast at a coffee shop near the office. He spent the day rereading meaningless figures. Ahead of him stretched a Berthaless Elysium; to hell with figures, today.

Then, around five, one figure jumped to the front of his consciousness and burned a hole in his brain. It was the figure on his desk calendar.

Today was the 21st of July.

Today was the day the gas man read the meter in the cellar, using the duplicate key Bertha thoughtfully left for him under the rear-door mat.

Fred stood up, his stomach filled with flying birds. He stood up and saw the men talking to Mr. Pritchard at the front of the office. One was obviously a detective. The other was a blue-uniformed patrolman.

Mr. Pritchard was indicating Fred now, and both officers started his way. Their faces were grave, watchful and ominous.

Fred didn’t wait for his hat. There was a door at the rear, and old wooden steps going down to the alley. Fred bolted.

He saw the startled faces of the other employees and heard the shouted, “Stop, in the name of the law! Stop that man!”

Now Fred was through the door and going down the steps. From the head of the steps, as he was halfway down, he heard the “Stop!” again. He heard the single deafening shot.

One shot — that missed. He was in the alley, running. He came out of the alley on Eighth and turned north. He was still running, and no more commands reached his ears.

Eight to Grand and down Grand.

And then, suddenly, he stopped without the command. Stopped to stare, stopped to realize that single shot hadn’t missed.

For there, outlined against the front of Bloom’s, Bertha was waiting. Smiling, holding her purse, but her hand wasn’t out for his wages.

What need was there for money — where they were?