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

by Linda Landrigan

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Hello, Harry.” And then, breaking a promise he had made to himself, he asked, “How is she?”

  Harry seemed to perk up a bit. He studied Bill’s face, then seemed to make up his mind about something. “She’s not well, sir.”

  “Not well?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Harry was silent.

  “Harry, did she put you up to this? Is she trying to get me to come back? Because I’m doing just fine on my own now.”

  Harry shook his head. “You disappoint me, sir.” He stepped back to the car.

  “Harry, wait.”

  Harry waited.

  “Does she know you watch over me?”

  “No, sir. But for some time now she has … I mean to say, sir, that whatever has gone before, at present she may be too ill to contact you herself.”

  Bill frowned. “I don’t like hearing that she’s ill.”

  Harry stayed silent.

  “I know she dislikes doctors. Has she been to a doctor about this illness?”

  “Miss Miriam has supplied a doctor, sir. He often comes to the house to care for Miss Eleanor.”

  “Oh.” He looked away from Harry’s studying gaze for a moment. “Well, I don’t suppose … that is, if Miriam has found a doctor who will make a house call, I don’t suppose Ellie needs me for anything.”

  Harry hesitated, then said, “Permit me to say, sir, that I’m not certain Miss Eleanor has done well under this physician’s care.”

  “Tell her that you saw me,” Bill said. “Tell her that you saw me here. She’ll know what that means. Tell her to—to let me know if she needs me.”

  Bill didn’t sleep at all that night. If she were seriously ill …

  HE HESITATED until late the next afternoon, then called the house. Miriam answered.

  “Miriam, this is Bill.”

  “Bill the caterer? Terrific. About this evening …”

  “No, no. Bill Gray. Let me talk to Ellie, please.”

  “Oh, that Bill.” After a long pause, Miriam said, “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Let me hear her say that herself.”

  “Listen, she has a new man in her life. One who doesn’t cause so many problems. We’re having a dinner party tonight, and he’s the guest of honor. So I really don’t think you’re someone she wants to talk to.”

  The line went dead.

  A new man. He half believed it. If the wrenching in his gut was any indication, he believed it more than half. But Harry said she was ill, seeing a doctor. Why would she throw a dinner party if she wasn’t well? Why would Harry look for him if she was seeing someone else?

  Not much later, he heard a car pull into his driveway. Bill looked out the window to see the Rolls. He hurried out the front door when he saw the look of worry on Harry’s face.

  “Is she all right?” Bill asked.

  “Sir, I’m to give you this.”

  Harry pressed a key into Bill’s palm.

  “There is a dinner party tonight, sir. I believe the persons in attendance are interested in acquiring the house and surrounding properties.”

  “Ellie is selling the house?”

  “No, sir. But there now exist documents that say Miss Miriam is given power of attorney over the sale of the house, due to her sister’s ill health. And indeed, her sister is ill.”

  Bill looked down at the key.

  “She said you could win the game, sir. Do you know what she means?”

  “The game? The Hitchcock game. It must be Notorious.”

  “The game is notorious, sir?”

  “No, Harry. Notorious is a Hitchcock film. Claude Rains plays one of the leaders of a group of Nazi scientists living in Brazil. They’re trying to build an atom bomb. Ingrid Bergman has married him, but as he discovers, she’s an American spy working with Gary Grant.”

  “Does the key give you some clue about her health, sir?”

  “No,” Bill said absently, “but in a Hitchcock film, the story is always larger than the objects that become the focus of the suspense.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Bill continued to stare at the key. “The key is to a wine cellar, where an important secret is kept. But the film isn’t really about spies and secrets. Gary Grant and Ingrid Bergman are in love, but misunderstandings and mistrust stand between them. It isn’t until the end of the film, when he realizes that …” Bill suddenly looked up at Harry. “Harry, when you said she was ill … oh no. Get me to the house at once! Drive like a bat out of hell!”

  HARRY COMPLIED. As they drove, Bill asked him questions that made Harry wonder if the young man had somehow spoken to Miss Eleanor, even though Miss Miriam had taken the phone out of Eleanor’s room long ago. Bill asked about Miss Eleanor’s symptoms, and every time Harry said, “Yes, sir; she’s had terrible stomach cramps,” or “Yes, sir, very dizzy,” Bill seemed to grow more frantic.

  “Keep the motor running,” he said as they pulled into the drive. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Bill burst through the front door, nearly knocking a startled maid off her feet. He could hear voices in the dining room, but he didn’t bother with the dinner party in progress. He ran up the stairs.

  “Sir!” the maid called. “You can’t go up there!”

  He ignored her.

  His only moment of hesitation came as he stepped inside Ellie’s bedroom and saw her for the first time in a month. He had expected to find her bedroom door locked but quickly realized why it wasn’t.

  She was too ill to run away.

  He forced himself to move again, went quickly to her side. Her skin was jaundiced, and she was so thin, almost skeletal, he thought, then pushed the thought away. Her hair, her beautiful hair, was dull in color and missing in patches. Her breathing was steady but rasping. He put his hands beneath her and lifted her frail body from the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. He told himself that self-recrimination must wait.

  Her big brown eyes were open now, watching him.

  “Good to see you,” she whispered.

  “My God, Ellie.” He tried to gather his wits. “How long has she been poisoning you?”

  “Little at a time,” she said, wincing as she spoke.

  “Don’t talk now, not if it hurts. Has it just been since I left?”

  She nodded, the effort seeming to wear her out.

  A month. A month of arsenic. “I’m not leaving again, Ellie. Except to take you with me.”

  She continued to watch him, but now the barest smile came to her lips.

  He had started down the stairs when Miriam, dinner party in tow, entered the foyer.

  “What are you doing?” Miriam screeched.

  “I’m taking her to a hospital. To see a real doctor. You had better pray to God that I’m not too late.”

  Miriam tried to block his way. “She’s too ill to move! You have no business …”

  “Careful, Miriam,” he said in a low voice. “She’s awake and lucid. Shall we discuss this in front of your guests, or do you want to wait until after Harry describes your so-called doctor to the gents at the sheriff’s office? Ellie’s blood work will probably give them all they need to go after both of you.”

  Miriam paled, then stepped out of the way.

  “What’s going on here?” one of the guests demanded.

  “My sister’s …”

  “Fiancé,” Bill supplied as he reached the front door. “Her fiancé is taking her to a hospital.”

  The group followed him toward the car. He wasn’t watching them. He was watching Ellie. She moved her hand, covered his with it. Her skin was cool and paper dry. “You’re safe now, Ellie,” he told her.

  “I’m coming with you!” Miriam said, hearing the guests murmuring behind her.

  “No, you aren’t, miss,” Harry said, helping Bill into the backseat.

  “She’s her sister!” one of the guests protested.
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  “Her sister will remain here with you,” Bill said. “She wants to tell you about a Hitchcock film.”

  “What are you talking about?” another man asked.

  “Notorious,” Bill said, closing the car door.

  “YOU’VE WON, sir, haven’t you?” Harry said as they drove off.

  “I’ve had help,” Bill replied. “All along, I’ve had help.”

  Ellie squeezed his hand.

  CAROL CAIL

  SINKHOLE

  December 1995

  THE AUTHOR OF a series of mysteries featuring Maxey Burnell, the owner of a Colorado newspaper, Cail has published poetry and romance novels in addition to mysteries. In this charmingly creepy story, a man finds that what goes down may very well come back up.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  He couldn’t believe Maudie had actually said that, in all seriousness, less than fifteen minutes ago at the Kentucky Hunker Inn.

  “Right,” he’d said, pointing his foot to slide on the first sock. “In the future I can just cross the street from my house to yours. Saves a motel bill, too.”

  Then she had pursed her rosebud mouth and uttered the next cliché. “If you don’t tell your wife about us, I will.”

  “Maudie! Love!” He twisted around to grab and agitate her. It was like shaking his ten-year-old son, all loose, light bones.

  “Let go,” she squealed. “No more touching me till Karen knows.” She brushed his hands off her arms and swatted his chest.

  Staring morosely at the flaccid sock caught on his toe, he said, “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

  “You’ll tell Karen tonight? You promise?”

  “I promise. Tomorrow night latest.”

  “Arrrrgh!” She flounced off the bed, snatching up clothes, red hair wild as a bonfire. “All right, Craig Richard Longworth. You have exactly two hours from this moment. That’s—” she wrenched his arm out of his lap to read his watch “—eight forty-six. If you haven’t broken the news to Karen by then, I’m telling her at eight forty-seven.”

  “Jeeze, Maudie—”

  The slamming bathroom door chopped off all appeals.

  Now on his way home, Craig turned the Camry in at Trudy’s Tavern, needing to soothe his nerves and shore up his resolve.

  The first beer disappeared as if he had a train to catch. Looking over the sparse early evening crowd, he sipped the second.

  “Burger and fries?” Trudy suggested.

  What the heck, might as well spoil his supper; Karen wasn’t going to feed him tonight after they had their little talk.

  Swiveling on his stool, leaning his elbows on the bar behind, he studied faces. Most of them were familiar, including Lionel Eads’s, who was nuzzling the pale ear of a buxom blonde boothmate. Craig didn’t recognize the lady, but he did know she wasn’t skinny, redheaded Mrs. Eads. Torn between being scandalized and being envious, he stared at their blatant billing and cooing till Trudy slammed his hamburger plate onto the counter.

  Turning around, he sighed. It was a whole different story for Lionel. He didn’t have any children for his wife to take away if he asked for a divorce.

  Divorce. The word conjured up horrendous visions of infinite alimony and inequitable division of property. Karen would get the stereo and the boat, and he’d get the Mickey Mouse telephone and the 1970 fake leather encyclopedias.

  Craig took a vicious bite of the hamburger, swabbed grease off his chin with the cocktail napkin, and lurched forward under a hearty slap to his back.

  “Hi, neighbor,” Lionel bellowed. “Whaddya know?”

  Squinting over his shoulder, Craig nodded at Lionel and took another look at the blonde waiting for the next round of beer and sweet talk.

  “I got a date with your wife in the morning,” Lionel said in the same robust volume, hand-signaling an order to Trudy.

  Grinning was an effort that made Craig’s face ache. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “We’re going to plant a half-ton boulder on that sinkhole in your backyard.”

  “Oh. Oh yeah. Karen did say she’d contracted to have that covered over. We’ve been afraid one of the kids would twist an ankle in it. Or worse.”

  “Hey, Trudy honey, how about some service?” Lionel called as she rushed by with empty pitchers.

  “Um, who’s the young lady with you?” Craig stage-whispered, curiosity overcoming tact.

  “My sister.” Lionel punched Craig’s arm.

  “Does your wife know you have a sister?”

  “You mean, does my sister know I have a wife!” Reaching across Craig for the mugs Trudy offered, Lionel roared a malty laugh.

  A few minutes later Craig watched them leave, holding hands and giggling like teenagers.

  He ought to go, too. Checking his watch, he decided to put it off till the last minute, and he stood up to challenge someone to darts.

  CRAZY CHESTER GOMPERS was telling another outrageous joke. Guffawing, Craig banged his forehead against his wrist on the bar, and one eye focused on the slime-green digits of his watch. Eight forty-two.

  Giving a Cinderella gasp, he slapped bills on the bar and caromed to the front door. In a few panting seconds he was spinning tires for home, thirty minutes away if he didn’t break any speed laws.

  Driving forty in a twenty-mile zone, he argued with himself. Maudie wouldn’t really march across their quiet little dead-end street and blab the whole sordid—

  Sure she would. She loved him, wanted him, would do anything—

  Realizing his preening had allowed a drop in the miles per hour, Craig shook himself and tramped on the accelerator again. The car clock blinked another minute older.

  It said eight fifty-six when he turned through the stone arches of Country View Estates (Your Little Piece of the World). He noticed that Lionel Eads’s house loomed black as he passed it, and a minute later he was on Strawberry Lane. In no hurry now that he could see his and Maudie’s houses, he rolled quietly along, craning to see which lights were on at either place, searching for female shapes inside or out.

  Maudie’s ranch style was completely dark. Oh-oh. His own split-level beckoned with one gleaming kitchen window. As his headlights swept the barricade at the end of the street, oak trees in the cow pasture beyond waved colorless leaves at a late summer breeze.

  “Karen?” he asked an obviously empty house from the garage/kitchen door.

  Hearing a clink of sound, he nipped on the outside floodlight and squinted into the backyard. Karen was by the far fence, wrestling a long-handled shovel that had the weight advantage.

  Craig strolled out to face her with a casualness he couldn’t have faked without a stomach full of beer. “Digging for gold?”

  She wiped her cheek with a limp wrist.

  “I saw Lionel Eads today,” Craig said with the same false cheerfulness he’d disliked from Lionel. “Says he’ll be by tomorrow to cover this up.”

  Karen grunted.

  “So what are you doing?” Craig said.

  “Just trying to level it off. Spread some dirt on it. Make it smaller.”

  He eyed her handiwork critically. The fist-sized sinkhole was now more than a foot across. Considering what else he needed to tell her, he didn’t think he’d mention she was doing a lousy job.

  Jamming hands in trousers, he twisted to look around the board-fenced yard. “Where is everybody?”

  “Everybody?”

  “Rick. Where’s Rick?”

  “Slumber party at Mitchy Best’s.”

  “Uh, I noticed Maude Lamar’s house is all dark. Thought she might be over here.”

  “Nope.” She threw a half shovel’s worth of dirt on the hole, and it slithered out of sight like flour down a funnel. “She was here awhile ago, though.”

  “Oh?” Craig cleared his throat and lowered his voice to normal range. “What did our little widow want?”

  Karen whacked the hole with the flat of the shovel. “She picked up Rick to take him and her Jimmy to Mitchy
Best’s slumber party.”

  “Oh. I guess she was in a hurry and didn’t have much to say?”

  “Actually, she did say—” She leaned on the shovel and stared at the house.

  Craig poised in a tennis player stance, awaiting a tricky serve.

  “—her aunt in Cleveland died. Hope you don’t mind if we keep Jimmy till Maude gets back from the funeral.”

  A weak breeze licked his damp forehead. “No problem! What’s for supper?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about steak?” She jabbed the shovel at a line of loose gravel and scraped it in a sibilant rivulet down the hole.

  “You know that’s hopeless,” Craig said, buoyed by the reprieve Maudie’s aunt had given him. “How many rocks and sticks and junk have we thrown down that hole the last couple of years?”

  “And toys,” Karen said. “The boys have been dropping in Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys and other stuff they think they’ve outgrown. Rick lost his birthday dump truck down here today.” She straight-armed the shovel handle at Craig and bent to get the sweater she’d shed on a nearby bush.

  “It’s probably part of a limestone cave network,” he said, jiggling the shovel up and down and from hand to hand. He narrowed beer-bemused eyes at the white stripe of neck between her black hair and T-shirt. “Bottomless.”

  Eureka, his mind exalted as the inspiration zapped him, as his arms elevated on their own accord, as the shovel descended with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile, as the blow reverberated up his wrists, elbows, shoulders.

  Karen collapsed without a sound, imploding from a woman to a bundle of clothes. Squeamish about touching her, Craig toed her over to the sinkhole. Her head dropped in. Her shoulders were too wide.

  Yanking her up and away, he grabbed up the shovel and made panicky jabs at the opening’s edges, twisting off chunks of dirt that disappeared silently inside. Whimpering, Craig tried Karen for size again, dragged her out of the way again, stabbed at the hole’s perimeters again.

  Now he was expecting her to groan and sit up. He imagined her lying there playing dead till he should have the hole big enough and then—wham—she’d shove him between the shoulder blades and he’d fall into the gaping black, his screams echoing off the clammy walls as he fell, eyes bulging in a vain effort to see as he fell, the air whistling past his ears as he fell and fell and fell.