They came racing down the lawn toward him. Then Bette tripped and stumbled, the torch flying from her hands. And at practically the same instant, Babe collided head-on with the steel flagpole. The impact knocked her senseless. Leaving her to listen to the birdies. Mitch sat down by Bette and drew her onto his lap. Bette threw her arms around him, hugging him frantically.
“You’re all right, honey? I was so worried about you! You didn’t really think I meant the way I acted, did you?”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had,” Mitch said.
“Well, I didn’t. Of course, I was awfully mad at you, but you are my husband. I feel like murdering you myself lots of times, but I’m certainly not going to let anyone else do it!”
“That’s my girl.” Mitch kissed her fondly. “But—”
“I thought it was the best thing to do, honey. Just play dumb, and then go get some help. Well—”
“Just a minute,” Mitch interrupted. “Where’s your car?”
“Over by the ocean.” Bette pointed, continued. “Like I was saying, I found her listening out in the hall. I mean, she ducked away real fast, but I knew she had been listening. So I figured you’d probably be all right for a little while, and I’d better see about her.”
“Right,” Mitch nodded. “You did exactly right, honey.”
“Well, she had a room just a few doors away, Mitch. I guess they had to move her nearby because they didn’t have much time. Anyway, she went in and I went right in with her …”
She had asked Babe the score. Babe had told her to go jump, and Bette had gone to work on her, ripping off her clothes in the process. Babe had spilled, after a time. Bette had learned, consequently, that there would be no help for Mitch unless she provided it.
“So I locked her in and went back to your room. But you were gone, and I guessed you must be all right from the looks of things. That guy in the bathtub, I mean.” Bette burst into giggles, remembering. “He looked so funny, Mitch! How in the world do you ever think of those stunts?”
“Just comes natural, I guess,” Mitch murmured modestly. “Go on, precious.”
“Well, I went back to her room, and the clerk called and said you were threatening to blow up the place. But she wouldn’t go for it. She said she was going to stay right there, no matter what, and anyway you were just bluffing. Well, I was pretty sure you were, too, but I knew you wanted to get her outside. So I went out in the hall again and dug up that big cigar lighter—”
Mitch chuckled, and kissed her again. “You did fine, baby. I’m really proud of you. You gave her a good frisk, I suppose? Searched her baggage?”
Bette nodded, biting her lip. “Yes, Mitch. She doesn’t have the money.”
“Don’t look so down about it—” he gave her a little pat. “I didn’t figure she’d keep it with her. She’s ditched it outside somewhere.”
“But, Mitch, you don’t understand. I talked to her, and—”
“I know. She’s a very stubborn girl.” Mitch got to his feet. “But I’ll fix that.”
“But, Mitch—she told me where she put the money. When I was chasing her with the torch.”
“Told you! Why didn’t you say so? Where is it, for Pete’s sake?”
“It isn’t,” Bette said miserably. “But it was.” She pointed toward the hotel. “It was up there.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“She … she mailed it to herself.”
4.
SICK WITH SELF-DISGUST, Mitch climbed behind the wheel of Bette’s car and turned it onto the highway. Bette studied his dark face. She patted him comfortingly on the knee.
“Now, don’t take it so hard, honey. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Whose was it, then? How a guy can be so stupid and live so long! Fifty grand, and I do myself out of it! To do it to myself, that’s what kills me!”
“But you can’t expect to be perfect, Mitch. No one can be smart all the time.”
“Nuts!” Mitch grunted bitterly. “When was I ever smart?”
Bette declared stoutly that he had been smart lots of times. Lots and lots of times. “You know you have, honey! Just look at all the capers you’ve pulled! Just think of all the people who are trying to find you! I guess they wouldn’t be, would they, if you hadn’t outsmarted them.”
“Well …” Mitch’s shoulders straightened a little.
Bette increased her praise.
“Why, I’ll bet you’re the best hustler that ever was! I’ll bet you could steal the socks off a guy with sore feet, without taking off his shoes!”
“You—uh—you really mean that, honey?”
“I most certainly do!” Bette nodded vigorously. “They just don’t make ’em any sneakier than my Mitch. Why—why, I’ll bet you’re the biggest heel in the world!”
Mitch sighed on a note of contentment. Bette snuggled close to him. They rode on through the night, moving, inappropriately enough, toward the City of Angels.
HENRY SLESAR
THE DAY OF THE EXECUTION
June 1957
A PROLIFIC WRITER of short stories and television screenplays, Henry Slesar was a mainstay of the early years of AHMM. He was also one of a limited number of writers who moved between the magazine and the television show Alfred Hitchcock Presents. This story was actually adapted for Alfred Hitchcock Presents, where it aired as “Night of the Execution.” Slesar wrote more than five hundred short stories in his career, including the popular Inspector Cross series; he also won the Edgar Award for Best First Novel in 1960 for The Gray Flannel Shroud.
When the jury foreman stood up and read the verdict, Warren Selvey, the prosecuting attorney, listened to the pronouncement of guilt as if the words were a personal citation of merit. He heard in the foreman’s somber tones, not a condemnation of the accused man who shriveled like a burnt match on the courtroom chair, but a tribute to Selvey’s own brilliance. “Guilty as charged …” No, Warren Selvey thought triumphantly, guilty as I’ve proved …
For a moment, the judge’s melancholy eye caught Selvey’s and the old man on the bench showed shock at the light of rejoicing that he saw there. But Selvey couldn’t conceal his flush of happiness, his satisfaction with his own efforts, with his first major conviction.
He gathered up his documents briskly, fighting to keep his mouth appropriately grim, though it ached to smile all over his thin, brown face. He put his briefcase beneath his arm, and when he turned, faced the buzzing spectators. “Excuse me,” he said soberly, and pushed his way through to the exit doors, thinking now only of Doreen.
He tried to visualize her face, tried to see the red mouth that could be hard or meltingly soft, depending on which one of her many moods happened to be dominant. He tried to imagine how she would look when she heard his good news, how her warm body would feel against his, how her arms would encompass him.
But this imagined foretaste of Doreen’s delights was interrupted. There were men’s eyes seeking his now, and men’s hands reaching toward him to grip his hand in congratulation. Garson, the district attorney, smiling heavily and nodding his lion’s head in approval of his cub’s behavior. Vance, the assistant DA, grinning with half a mouth, not altogether pleased to see his junior in the spotlight. Reporters, too, and photographers, asking for statements, requesting poses.
Once, all this would have been enough for Warren Selvey. This moment, and these admiring men. But now there was Doreen, too, and the thought of her made him eager to leave the arena of his victory for a quieter, more satisfying reward.
But he didn’t make good his escape. Garson caught his arm and steered him into the gray car that waited at the curb.
“How’s it feel?” Garson grinned, thumping Selvey’s knee as they drove off.
“Feels pretty good,” Selvey said mildly, trying for the appearance of modesty. “But, hell, I can’t take all the glory, Gar. Your boys made the conviction.”
“You don’t really mean that.” Garson’s eyes twinkled. “I wa
tched you through the trial, Warren. You were tasting blood. You were an avenging sword. You put him on the waiting list for the chair, not me.”
“Don’t say that!” Selvey said sharply. “He was guilty as sin, and you know it. Why, the evidence was clear-cut. The jury did the only thing it could.”
“That’s right. The way you handled things, they did the only thing they could. But let’s face it, Warren. With another prosecutor, maybe they would have done something else. Credit where credit’s due, Warren.”
Selvey couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. It illumined his long, sharp-chinned face, and he felt the relief of having it relax his features. He leaned back against the thick cushion of the car.
“Maybe so,” he said. “But I thought he was guilty, and I tried to convince everybody else. It’s not just A-B-C evidence that counts, Gar. That’s law school sophistry, you know that. Sometimes you just feel …”
“Sure.” The DA looked out of the window. “How’s the bride, Warren?”
“Oh, Doreen’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Lovely woman, Doreen.”
SHE WAS LYING on the couch when he entered the apartment. He hadn’t imagined this detail of his triumphant homecoming.
He came over to her and shifted slightly on the couch to let his arms surround her.
He said: “Did you hear, Doreen? Did you hear what happened?”
“I heard it on the radio.”
“Well? Don’t you know what it means? I’ve got my conviction. My first conviction, and a big one. I’m no junior anymore, Doreen.”
“What will they do to that man?”
He blinked at her, tried to determine what her mood might be. “I asked for the death penalty,” he said. “He killed his wife in cold blood. Why should he get anything else?”
“I just asked, Warren.” She put her cheek against his shoulder.
“Death is part of the job,” he said. “You know that as well as I do, Doreen. You’re not holding that against me?”
She pushed him away for a moment, appeared to be deciding whether to be angry or not. Then she drew him quickly to her, her breath hot and rapid in his ear.
They embarked on a week of celebration. Quiet, intimate celebration, in dim supper clubs and with close acquaintances. It wouldn’t do for Selvey to appear publicly gay under the circumstances.
On the evening of the day the convicted Murray Rodman was sentenced to death, they stayed at home and drank hand-warmed brandy from big glasses. Doreen got drunk and playfully passionate, and Selvey thought he could never be happier. He had parlayed a mediocre law school record and an appointment as a third-class member of the state legal department into a position of importance and respect. He had married a beautiful, pampered woman and could make her whimper in his arms. He was proud of himself. He was grateful for the opportunity Murray Rodman had given him.
It was on the day of Rodman’s scheduled execution that Selvey was approached by the stooped, gray-haired man with the grease-spotted hat.
He stepped out of the doorway of a drug store, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dirty tweed overcoat, his hat low over his eyes. He had white stubble on his face.
“Please,” he said, “Can I talk to you a minute?”
Selvey looked him over and put a hand in his pocket for change.
“No,” the man said quickly. “I don’t want a handout. I just want to talk to you, Mr. Selvey.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Selvey. I read all about you.”
Selvey’s hard glance softened. “Well, I’m kind of rushed right now. Got an appointment.”
“This is important, Mr. Selvey. Honest to God. Can’t we go someplace? Have coffee maybe? Five minutes is all.”
“Why don’t you drop me a letter, or come down to the office? We’re on Chambers Street—”
“It’s about that man, Mr. Selvey. The one they’re executing tonight.”
The attorney examined the man’s eyes. He saw how intent and penetrating they were.
“All right,” he said. “There’s a coffee shop down the street. But only five minutes, mind you.”
It was almost two-thirty; the lunchtime rush at the coffee shop was over. They found a booth in the rear and sat silently while a waiter cleared the remnants of a hasty meal from the table.
Finally, the old man leaned forward and said: “My name’s Arlington, Phil Arlington. I’ve been out of town, in Florida, else I wouldn’t have let things go this far. I didn’t see a paper, hear a radio, nothing like that.”
“I don’t get you, Mr. Arlington. Are you talking about the Rodman trial?”
“Yeah, the Rodman business. When I came back and heard what happened, I didn’t know what to do. You can see that, can’t you? It hurt me, hurt me bad to read what was happening to that poor man. But I was afraid. You can understand that. I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
The man talked to his coffee. “I had an awful time with myself, trying to decide what to do. But then I figured—hell, this Rodman is a young man. What is he, thirty-eight? I’m sixty-four, Mr. Selvey. Which is better?”
“Better for what?” Selvey was getting annoyed; he shot a look at his watch. “Talk sense, Mr. Arlington. I’m a busy man.”
“I thought I’d ask your advice.” The gray-haired man licked his lips. “I was afraid to go to the police right off, I thought I should ask you. Should I tell them what I did, Mr. Selvey? Should I tell them I killed that woman? Tell me. Should I?”
The world suddenly shifted on its axis. Warren Selvey’s hands grew cold around the coffee cup. He stared at the man across from him.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “Rodman killed his wife. We proved that.”
“No, no, that’s the point. I was hitchhiking east. I got a lift into Wilford. I was walking around town, trying to figure out where to get food, a job, anything. I knocked on this door. This nice lady answered. She didn’t have no job, but she gave me a sandwich. It was a ham sandwich.”
“What house? How do you know it was Mrs. Rodman’s house?”
“I know it was. I seen her picture, in the newspapers. She was a nice lady. If she hadn’t walked into that kitchen after, it would have been okay.”
“What, what?” Selvey snapped.
“I shouldn’t have done it. I mean, she was real nice to me, but I was so broke. I was looking around the jars in the cupboard. You know how women are; they’re always hiding dough in the jars, house money they call it. She caught me at it and got mad. She didn’t yell or anything, but I could see she meant trouble. That’s when I did it, Mr. Selvey. I went off my head.”
“I don’t believe you,” Selvey said. “Nobody saw any—anybody in the neighborhood. Rodman and his wife quarreled all the time—”
The gray-haired man shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Mr. Selvey. I don’t know anything about those people. But that’s what happened, and that’s why I want your advice.” He rubbed his forehead. “I mean, if I confess now, what would they do to me?”
“Burn you,” Selvey said coldly. “Burn you instead of Rodman. Is that what you want?”
Arlington paled. “No. Prison, okay. But not that.”
“Then just forget about it. Understand me, Mr. Arlington? I think you dreamed the whole thing, don’t you? Just think of it that way. A bad dream. Now get back on the road and forget it.”
“But that man. They’re killing him tonight—”
“Because he’s guilty.” Selvey’s palm hit the table. “I proved him guilty. Understand?”
The man’s lip trembled.
“Yes sir,” he said.
Selvey got up and tossed a five on the table.
“Pay the bill,” he said curtly. “Keep the change.”
THAT NIGHT, DOREEN asked him the hour for the fourth time.
“Eleven,” he said sullenly.
“Just another hour.” She sank deep into the sofa cushions. “I
wonder how he feels right now …”
“Cut it out!”
“My, we’re jumpy tonight.”
“My part’s done with, Doreen. I told you that again and again. Now the state’s doing its job.”
She held the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth, thoughtfully. “But you put him where he is, Warren. You can’t deny that.”
“The jury put him there!”
“You don’t have to shout at me, attorney.”
“Oh, Doreen …” He leaned across to make some apologetic gesture, but the telephone rang.
He picked it up angrily.
“Mr. Selvey? This is Arlington.”
All over Selvey’s body, a pulse throbbed.
“What do you want?”
“Mr. Selvey, I been thinking it over. What you told me today. Only I don’t think it would be right, just forgetting about it. I mean—”
“Arlington, listen to me. I’d like to see you at my apartment. I’d like to see you right now.”
From the sofa, Doreen said: “Hey!”
“Did you hear me, Arlington? Before you do anything rash, I want to talk to you, tell you where you stand legally. I think you owe that to yourself.”
There was a pause at the other end.
“Guess maybe you’re right, Mr. Selvey. Only I’m way downtown, and by the time I get there—”
“You can make it. Take the IRT subway, it’s quickest. Get off at 86th Street.”
When he hung up, Doreen was standing.
“Doreen, wait. I’m sorry about this. This man is—an important witness in a case I’m handling. The only time I can see him is now.”
“Have fun,” she said airily and went to the bedroom.
“Doreen—”
The door closed behind her. For a moment, there was silence. Then she clicked the lock.
Selvey cursed his wife’s moods beneath his breath and stalked over to the bar.
By the time Arlington sounded the door chimes, Selvey had downed six inches of bourbon.
Arlington’s grease-spotted hat and dirty coat looked worse than ever in the plush apartment. He took them off and looked around timidly.
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense Page 4
