Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense

by Linda Landrigan

“Stop right there.” Denton had risen now and stood glaring at the furious ineffectual comic. “Don’t you forget the contract, Eddie,” he said. “Don’t you ever forget it. It’s still got four and a half years to run. And I can always throw you off the show, cut off your pay, and still hold you to the contract. I can keep you from making a nickel, Eddie boy, and don’t you forget it. Unless you’d like to wash dishes for your dough.”

  Eddie retreated to the door, obviously not trusting himself to stay in the dressing room any longer. “Don’t push it, Don,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t push it too far.”

  “X plus y,” said the heavily-accented voice on the television set, “iz somezing unprrronounceable!”

  Denton blinked, trying to keep his eyes in focus. His sight kept blurring. He stared at the grinning figure on the screen. Eddie Blake? Could it have been Eddie Blake?

  He could see the way Eddie might figure it. With Denton out of the way, the contract between them was no longer a problem. And who would be the most likely immediate replacement for Denton on the show? Why, Eddie Blake, of course, who already knew the show. Denton’s death, in Eddie’s eyes, might be the stepping-stone to top banana.

  But Eddie Blake? That weak, ineffectual, fidgety little nothing?

  There were new voices coming from the TV now. He stared, trying to make out the picture, and finally saw it was the commercial. A husband and wife, a happy and devoted couple, and the secret of their successful marriage was—of course—their brand of toilet paper.

  Successful marriage. He thought of Nancy. And of the writer, Herb Martin.

  “I want a divorce, Don.”

  He paused in his eating. “No.”

  The three of them were at the table together in the Athens Room, Denton and Nancy and Herb. Nancy had said, this afternoon, that she wanted to talk to him about something important, and he had told her it would have to wait until after the show. He didn’t want to be made upset by any domestic scenes just before airtime.

  Herb now said, “I don’t see what good it does you, Don. You obviously don’t love Nancy, and she just as obviously doesn’t love you. You aren’t living together. So what’s the sense of it?”

  Denton glared sourly at Herb and pointed his fork at Nancy. “She’s mine,” he said. “No matter what, she’s mine. It’ll take a better man than you, buddy, to take anything of mine away from me.”

  “I can get a divorce without your consent,” Nancy said. She was a lovely girl, oval face framed by long blonde hair. “I can go to Nevada—”

  “Let’s put it this way, sweetheart,” Denton interrupted. “If there’s any divorce—which there won’t be—I’ll be the plaintiff. And I won’t even have to leave the state. Adultery will do very nicely. And the correspondent, just incidentally, used to be a Commie.”

  “How long do you think you can use that threat?” Herb demanded angrily.

  “For as long as there’s a blacklist, baby,” Denton told him.

  “Nineteen thirty-eight—”

  “Baby, it doesn’t matter when you were a Commie, you know that. Now, basically, I like you, Herb; I think you write some fine material. I’d hate to see you thrown out of the industry—”

  “Why won’t you let us alone?” wailed Nancy, and diners at nearby tables looked curiously around.

  Denton patted his lips with the napkin and got to his feet. “You’ve asked your question,” he said, “and I’ve given you the answer. I don’t see any point in discussing it any more than that, do you? Oh, and I know you won’t mind paying for your own dinners.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Herb. “On your way home, get run over by a cab.”

  “Oh, don’t joke with him, Herb,” said Nancy, her voice shrill. She was—as usual—on the verge of hysterical tears.

  “Who’s joking?” said Herb grimly.

  “All joking aside, friends,” his voice said, “Dan and Ann are one of the finest dance teams in the country.”

  Slumped in the chair, Denton stared desperately at himself on the screen. That little self there on the screen, he could talk, he could move around, he could laugh and clap his palms together. He was alive, and content, not hurt.

  Who? Who? Who? Herb or Nancy, or both of them together? He tried to think back, tried to visualize that silhouetted figure again, tried to see in memory whether it had been a man or a woman. But he couldn’t tell; it had been only a bulky shape inside an overcoat, only a black shape outlined against the hall light. Inside the overcoat, it could have been as thin as Eddie, as shapely as Nancy, as muscular as Herb, as fat as Morry Stoneman.

  Morry Stoneman?

  Dan and Ann, one of the poorest dance teams in the country, were stumbling through their act before the cameras. Backstage, fat Morry Stoneman was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief and saying, “They looked good, Don, honest to God they did. They got all kinds of rave notices on the coast—”

  “They’re stumblebums,” Denton told him coldly. He glanced out at Dan and Ann. “And I do mean stumble.”

  “You approved the act, Don. You gave it the okay.”

  “On your say-so, Morry. Or is it my fault?”

  Morry hesitated, dabbing his face with the handkerchief, looking everywhere but at Denton. “No, Don,” he said finally. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “How much of a kickback, Morry?”

  Morry’s face was a white round O of injured innocence. “Don, you don’t think—”

  “How much are they giving you, Morry?”

  The white round O collapsed, mumbled, “Five.”

  “Okay, Morry. We’ll take that off your percentage.”

  “They got rave notices on the coast, Don. I swear to God they did. I can show you the clips.”

  Denton brushed that aside, said, “By the way, the five hundred doesn’t come off the IOUs, you know that.”

  “Don,” cried Morry, “what the hell difference does it make? This television business is lousy with money. What difference does it make if I try to promote a couple extra bills for myself?”

  “You saw what happened to the quiz shows, you idiot. And to the guys who took money for plugs. And to the guys who took payola.”

  “I’m not as dumb as those clowns, Don, I couldn’t be.” Morry’s left hand held the handkerchief, dab-dab-dabbing at his forehead. His right hand clutched Don Denton’s sleeve. “All I’m trying to do,” he said urgently, “is promote some extra cash so I can start paying back those IOUs. You want that money back, don’t you?”

  “So you can thumb your nose and walk out on me? That’ll be the day, Morry.”

  “Listen, would I walk out on you? Don, I—”

  “You aren’t as bright as that chimpanzee, that monkey we had on last week,” Denton snapped. “Don’t you think I know you’ve been trying to get next to that Carlyle dame?”

  Injured innocence again. “Who told you a dumb thing like that, Don? I wouldn’t—”

  “You won’t,” Denton interrupted him. “The minute you quit me, those IOUs become payable. So you can just forget Karen Carlyle.”

  Canned applause. It was time to go back and give Dan and Ann a big round of applause. Denton jabbed a thumb at the bowing, smiling dancers onstage. “Get them out of here,” he said. “I don’t want them around for the final bow.” Then he trotted onstage, ignoring Morry’s glare behind him.

  He found the right camera and beamed at it. “For our last act tonight.”

  THE IMAGE ON the screen told his dying likeness, “We have that wonderful new singer—she’s going to have her own show starting in March, you know—Karen Carlyle!”

  Denton watched his black-and-white self, teeth gleaming, hands beating together. “She wants Morry,” he whispered at that unhearing image. “And Morry wants her.”

  Morry? Was it Morry who’d shot him?

  Who was it?

  The space between himself and the television set seemed to blur and mist, as though a dim fog were rising there. He blinked, blinked, blinked
, afraid it was death.

  And in the fog, he seemed to see the four who could have done this. Herb and Nancy, directly in front of him, arms around each other, studying him in somber triumph. Eddie Blake, off to the right, his left hand playing his shirt buttons with jittery fingers as he stared at Denton with tentative defiance. And Morry, behind the others and off to the left, stood stocky and unmoving, glaring with frustration and hate.

  “Which one of you?” Denton whispered. Fighting back the pain in his chest, he strained forward at them, demanding, willing them to speak, having to know.

  And they spoke. “When you are dead,” said Nancy, “I can marry Herb.”

  “When you are dead,” said Eddie, “it will be The Eddie Blake Variety Show.”

  “When you are dead,” said Herb, “so is that blacklist threat.”

  “When you are dead,” said Morry, “so are those IOUs. I can make a mint with Karen Carlyle.”

  “Which one of you? Which one of you?”

  The fog shifted and swam; the figures faded. Straining, he could once more see that other figure, the black silhouette framed by the doorway, lit only from behind.

  He stared at the silhouette, needing to know, demanding to know which one it had been.

  He searched the bulky, shapeless outline, looking for something that would tell him. The remembered outline of the head, the ears, the neck, then the collar of the coat, the—

  The ears. He squinted, trying to see, trying to remember, and yes, the ears were outlined plainly, and the four possibilities had just been reduced to three. For Nancy had long blonde hair, curling around her face, covering her ears. It hadn’t been Nancy.

  Three. It was one of three now, Herb or Eddie or Morry. But which one?

  Height. That would help, if he could visualize the figure well enough, if he could see it in relation to the doorframe, the height—Eddie and Herb were both tall; Morry was short. Probably Eddie even seemed taller than he was because he was so thin. But really he was—

  Denton pulled himself back. His mind was beginning to wander, and he recognized that as a danger sign. He couldn’t lose consciousness, he couldn’t lose awareness, not until he knew.

  He stared at the outlined figure in the fog, and slowly he forced himself to visualize the door frame around it again, and slowly he saw it, and the figure was tall.

  Eddie or Herb. Eddie or Herb.

  It had to be one or the other, but that was as close as he could get. He tried to superimpose the figures of Eddie and Herb on the figure of the silhouette and got nowhere. The bulky coat ruined that; it was impossible.

  Death was creeping closer, across his shoulders and down among his ribs, up from his legs to touch his stomach with icy fingers. He had to know soon, he had to know soon.

  He visualized what had happened again, in the fog between himself and the television set, seeing it like a run-through for the show, seeing every step. The door opening, the black figure standing there, the bright flash—

  From the figure’s right side!

  “Herb!” he shouted. Eddie was left-handed, and his impaired right hand would never have been able to lift the gun or squeeze the trigger, it had been Herb.

  With his shout, the fog faded completely away, the outlined figure was gone. Sight and sound returned, and he heard Karen Carlyle singing her song. It was the last number of the show. It must be almost nine o’clock; he’d been sitting here wounded now for almost an hour.

  Karen Carlyle stopped at last, and there was thunderous canned applause and he saw himself come striding into camera range. He saw that whole and walking, strong and smiling self come out and wave at the imaginary audience, wave at Don Denton dying in his chair.

  He stared at that tiny image of himself. That was him! Him, at six o’clock, with two hours left, and that self could somehow change this, could somehow keep what had and was happening from happening.

  Dream and reality, desire and fact, need and truth, shifted and mingled confusedly in his mind. He was barely real himself. He was dying faster now, becoming less and less real, and the image on the television screen was almost all that was left of him.

  And so Denton felt the need to warn the image. “It’s Herb!” he called, whispering, at that tiny blue-gray self across the room. Reality was going, like the lights of a city flicking out one by one, and darkness was spreading in. “Be careful! It’s Herb!”

  “That’s about all the show there is, folks,” answered his image.

  The lights flicked out, and Denton’s mind broke. “Don’t go home!” he shrieked. “It’s Herb!”

  “I certainly hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” said the image, smiling at him.

  “Stay away!” screamed Denton.

  The image waved a careless hand, as though to tell Denton not to be silly, there was nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all. “We’ll be seeing you!”

  He had to get away, he had to live, he had to warn himself not to come here tonight. There was that image, the real Don Denton, in the television set, and right beside him was the telephone.

  “Help me!” shrieked Denton all at once. “Call! Call! Help me!” And it seemed to him as though it should be the easiest thing in the world, for that real image of himself to reach over and pick up the telephone and call for help.

  But, instead, that image merely waved and cried, “Good night!” The blind and stupid image of himself, blowing a kiss at the dying man in the chair.

  “Help me!” Denton screamed, but the words were buried by a bubbling-up of blood, filling his throat.

  The image receded, down and down, growing smaller and ever smaller as the boom camera was raised toward the ceiling. “Love you! Love you!” cried the tiny doomed image to the dead man in the chair. “Good night! Good night!”

  AVRAM DAVIDSON

  THE COST OF KENT CASTWELL

  July 1961

  AVRAM DAVIDSON is well known not only to readers of mysteries but also to readers of science fiction and fantasy. Indeed, he served as editor of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction for several years, and he was a winner of the Hugo Award and the World Fantasy Award (three times), in addition to the Edgar Award. And this story, in fact, was cited in AHMM’s own story contest.

  Clem Goodhue met the train with his taxi. If old Mrs. Merriman were aboard, he would be sure of at least one passenger. Furthermore, old Mrs. Merriman had somehow gotten the idea that the minimum fare was a dollar. It was really seventy-five cents, but Clem had never been able to see a reason for telling her that. However, she was not aboard that morning. Sam Wells was. He was coming back from the city—been to put in a claim to have his pension increased—but Sam Wells wouldn’t pay five cents to ride any distance under five miles. Clem disregarded him.

  After old Sam a thin, brown-haired kid got off the train. Next came a girl, also thin and also brown-haired, who Clem thought was maybe the kid’s teenage sister. Actually, it was the kid’s mother.

  After that came Kent Castwell.

  Clem had seen him before, early in the summer. Strangers were not numerous in Ashby, particularly strangers who got ugly and caused commotions in bars. So Clem wouldn’t forget him in a hurry. Big, husky fellow. Always seemed to be sneering at something. But the girl and the kid hadn’t been with him then.

  “Taxi?” Clem called.

  Castwell ignored him, began to take down luggage from the train. But the young girl holding the kid by the hand turned and said, “Yes—just a minute.”

  “Where to?” Clem asked, when the luggage was in the taxi.

  “The old Peabody place,” the girl said. “You know where that is?”

  “Yes. But nobody lives there anymore.”

  “Somebody does now. Us.” The big man swore as he fiddled with the handle of the right-hand door. It was tied with ropes. “Why don’t you fix this thing or get a new one?”

  “Costs money,” Clem said. Then, “Peabody place? Have to charge you three dollars for that.”

  “Let’s
go dammit, let’s go!”

  After they’d started off, Castwell said, “I’m giving you two bucks. Probably twice what it’s worth, anyway.”

  Half-turning his head, Clem protested. “I told you, mister, it was three.”

  “And I’m telling you, mister,” Castwell mimicked the driver’s New England accent, “that I’m giving you two.”

  Clem argued that the Peabody Place was far out. He mentioned the price of gas, the bad condition of the road, the wear on the tires. The big man yawned. Then he used a word that Clem rarely used himself, and never in the presence of women and children. But this young woman and child didn’t seem to notice.

  “Stop off at Nickerson’s real estate office,” Castwell said.

  LEVI P. NICKERSON, who was also the county tax assessor, said, “Mr. Castwell. I assume this is Mrs. Castwell?”

  “If that’s your assumption, go right ahead,” said Kent. And laughed.

  It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. The woman smiled faintly, so L. P. Nickerson allowed himself an economical chuckle. Then he cleared his throat. City people had odd ideas of what was funny. Meanwhile, though—

  “Now, Mr. Castwell. About this place you’re renting. I didn’t realize—you didn’t mention—that you had this little one, here.”

  Kent said, “What if I didn’t mention it? It’s my own business. I haven’t got all day—”

  Nickerson pointed out that the Peabody place stood all alone, isolated, with no other house for at least a mile and no other children in the neighborhood. Mrs. Castwell (if, indeed, she was) said that this wouldn’t matter much, because Kathie would be in school most of the day.

  “School. Well, that’s it, you see. The school bus, in the first place, will have to go three miles off what’s been its regular route, to pick up your little girl. And that means the road will have to be plowed regular—snow gets real deep up in these parts, you know. Up till now, with nobody living in the old Peabody place, we never had to bother with the road. Now, this means,” and he began to count off on his fingers, “first, it’ll cost Ed Westlake, he drives the school bus, more than he figured on when he bid for the contract; second, it’ll cost the county to keep your road open. That’s besides the cost of the girl’s schooling, which is third.”