Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 04/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  The dining area was actually several connected rooms, laid out so that tables and banquettes offered a high degree of privacy. There was, of course, no bar. Sam chose a booth close to a window that looked out on the rear parking lot. Between a couple of cars, he could see the maroon coupe was still there. He sat for a moment, considering the hostile response by the parking lot attendant, and asking himself whether there was any other way to find out who owned the breezer. He considered simply taking down the license number and trying to trace the owner through state license records. But he didn’t know how to do that and figured it could easily take days, time he didn’t have. Or if it could be done that way at all by a citizen. While he was contemplating this, an elderly waiter approached to take his order.

  That taken care of, the waiter hesitated.

  “Will there be anything else you’d like, sir?”

  It took a moment for Sam to understand the waiter might be asking for his drink order.

  “It’s a little early for me,” he said, remembering a line from a movie he’d seen. “But I’ve been admiring the car of one of your patrons. I think he’s a regular here. If I knew who owned it, I’d make him a nice offer.”

  “Which car is that, sir?”

  “The maroon convertible coupe in the rear parking lot.”

  “I don’t see such a car,” the waiter said without looking out the window. He turned and headed to the kitchen.

  Sam glanced toward the window. The maroon coupe was still there.

  A few minutes later, longer than it should have taken, Sam thought, a different waiter, this one about Sam’s own age, dropped his order on the table and departed without a word. Sam glanced at the plate. He’d ordered a deluxe burger that was a specialty of the place. What had been placed before him consisted only of an overtoasted bun and a curled, greasy, overcooked patty. Nothing else. Oh, there was a piece of lettuce about as big as a silver dollar, but it looked like it was left over from the day before yesterday. Definitely, he thought, not fulfilling the reputation of the Roadhouse. Or of the price he remembered from the menu. Sam watched the waiter walk back to the kitchen. Just before he went through the door he paused for a quick glance back at Sam. Although their eyes met for just a second, it was a neutral look, and Sam couldn’t read anything into it.

  Sam dropped enough money on the table to cover the price he remembered from the menu, but not enough to cover a tip. He was wasting his time thinking he could discover anything about the owner of the maroon breezer.

  When Sam approached his car he briefly noticed someone was sitting in the passenger seat of the car parked next to his, but his mind was on the afternoon fast melting away and his own lack of ideas about what more he could do. The smart thing was going to be to talk to the cops.

  He had his own car door half open when the passenger door of the next car opened behind him. Almost at the same time, a hand clutched his shoulder and spun him around.

  “Your name Sam Kane?”

  “Ye—”

  Before he could finish the word, a fist slammed into his stomach and he was struggling to breathe. It felt like he’d been hit with a cannonball from Millbank’s cannon.

  “My car ain’t for sale. An’ you ask too many questions for your own good.”

  Sam fell to the ground.

  “You hear me?” It was the waiter who had delivered the burger, and he nudged Sam’s ribs with his foot. Well, more than nudged.

  Sam winced and nodded. He was still not breathing well enough to speak.

  “And you stay way away from Joyce Flinders. She told me about you badgering her. You keep away from her and you keep your nose outta things ain’t nunna your business.”

  He nudged with his foot again. Harder.

  “You hear?”

  Sam managed a nod. At the same time, he saw a glint of metal being slipped into the waiter’s pocket. He knew what it was. Brass knuckles. He’d seen them used as props in one of his father’s pictures. But those were made of rubber. This one was really fat. And not made of rubber.

  With a huff of contempt, the waiter walked away leaving Sam lying on the ground. As he tried to rise, a big car entered the lot and pulled to a stop next to the waiter.

  “Hiya, Bert! Your pop in?” the driver called out.

  Sam raised his head enough to see he was talking to the waiter.

  “In his office, where else?” the waiter said, and continued walking back to the building. The car continued to the rear parking area.

  A moment or two later, Sam managed to stand and painfully climb into his car. When he glanced at the attendant in the little gatehouse, he saw the man had his face studiously buried in what looked like the Police Gazette.

  He sat, tried to get his breath back, and asked himself what insanity had made him think he could go traipsing around like one of those detectives in a gangster picture. On the other hand, he’d found out the name of the owner of the maroon breezer. His name was Bert. And after overhearing what little he had, it didn’t take much effort of imagination to conclude he might be the son of the guy who runs this place.

  Sam put his car in gear and slowly drove away, asking himself why the detectives who did all that fancy fighting in the movies didn’t seem to feel some of what he was feeling just then. Well, he knew why. Stunt fellows pulled their punches. But they ought to at least act hurt, he thought. And, he decided, he could give lessons.

  He had barely turned onto the main road when a line of four big, black, Lincoln sedans approached and screeched into the driveway of the roadhouse.

  He stopped at the side of the road and watched as the lead car slowed to let off two men in business suits and fedoras who quickly invaded the little gatehouse. It and one other car continued on to stop in a shower of gravel in front of the main entrance. The other two cars continued to the rear of the roadhouse. Men in business suits and fedoras swarmed out of the cars and ran inside. Agents from the Bureau of Prohibition, Sam thought. They were in all the papers lately. These were as heavily armed as the cops in the movies.

  Sam put his car in gear again and pulled away. He smiled, wondering what the relationship might have been between Duckworth and the Roadhouse.

  Philo V. Millbank, sitting across from Albert V. Millbank in the latter’s office, was looking at some notes he had made.

  “I’ve just gotten off the telephone with our counsel. Their written report will follow by mail, but I have the essentials on properties Kane’s company owns in the East. There are only three. The company owns the ground on only two of his theaters, both in Queens, and a quite large industrial property in New Jersey.”

  “Did he have any opinion on which of these he might have been considering giving to the college?”

  “The theater properties have screens that are doing well. He thinks the New Jersey property is the most likely one. They’ve used it little since the company moved its operations to California a dozen years ago. The last time was about two years ago, when they made some sort of historical picture in the East.”

  “Does he have any estimate about the value?”

  “He does.” Philo V. Millbank passed his notes over to his father.

  Albert V. Millbank looked it over and smiled. “We need that property by the next meeting of the board of regents,” he said. “Do you think Dean Reynolds can call the boy in, have one more try to get the boy to, shall we say, nudge his father a little?”

  “Reynolds wasn’t happy about doing it the last time. He says the boy caught on right away that the whole graduation review was highly unusual and pointed out that his grades and credits were not only solid, but pretty much straight A’s since his freshman year. And he had a copy of our documents accepting his transfer credits. He told him if he wanted to talk to his father, he should call his father.”

  “Sounds a little impertinent to me. His father is very difficult to reach.”

  “I don’t think Reynolds will do it. He may even be one of those talking to—”

  “
Call the boy in. I want to see him. If cajolery won’t work, I’ll come up with some excuse to disqualify his graduation unless he cooperates.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Reynolds will regret this too.”

  Sam pulled up in front of a small apartment house and tapped the horn seven short ones. Shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits.

  Jerry walked quickly out of the front door, climbed into the car, and paused for a second to stare.

  “Jeez, Sam, you okay? For a guy who wasn’t one of Duckworth’s customers, you look like you’re about half-seas-over.”

  “The breezer,” Sam said after a deep, still painful breath, “belongs to a fellow named Bert. He’s a hot-headed punk . . . and I think he’s the son of the fellow who runs the Roadhouse.”

  “Ah. Things fall into place.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sam recounted his adventure, including the invasion of the Roadhouse by what he presumed to be a flock of federal agents.

  “Is it too much of a stretch,” Sam said, “to think there might have been some bad blood between Duckworth and the friendly folks over at the Roadhouse?”

  “The old fella couldn’t have been moving that much, compared to the Roadhouse.”

  “What if he was moving better stuff than the Roadhouse could reliably get?”

  “Could be. I sure never heard anyone complain about Duckworth’s merchandise. I talked to a couple of his neighbors. About a week ago or so, one of them saw Duckworth on his front porch, waving his arms at a young fella. Couldn’t hear clearly, but the neighbor was sure what he saw was a big argument.”

  “That could have been Bert.”

  “Yeah, and he also remembers a maroon convertible coupe parked at the curb.”

  “Let’s say the Roadhouse, in the person of Bert, was putting pressure on the old guy . . . Get your stuff from us, share your source, be a wholly-owned subsidiary, whatever, take your pick. So, being only one guy, and having no son like Bert, how does the old fellow push back? All it would have taken is one anonymous phone call from Duckworth. I think I saw the result of that sort of thing this afternoon.”

  “But Duckworth was killed yesterday. How would the people at the Roadhouse know he’d dropped the nickle?”

  “I got the sense that Bert is just dumb. I don’t think he’s smart enough for anyone to send him out to—as they say in the movies—rub anyone out. It may have been just a spur of the moment thing. Maybe he just wanted to impress Poppa, or his poppa’s friends, or even his girlfriend. We know he picked her up a couple of hours before. Joyce seems like someone who is after a thrill a minute. Whatever, maybe she just went along with it, like it was some kind of lark.”

  “I could believe that,” Jerry said, “so where does that leave us?”

  “Not much closer to getting Luke out of jail.”

  Jerry sat thinking for a moment.

  “Okay, you were right all along, Sam. We’ve got to get Luke out of there, and quick. So, right now, we go over, talk to the cops. Tell ’em where Luke was, an’ what we think.”

  “No.”

  “No? This is getting too big. We’re over our heads here.”

  “I’ve known that all day.”

  “And Luke’s still in the middle of it.”

  “Look, on the way back from the Roadhouse, I was thinking this over. There were a lot of federal agents piling out of those Lincolns. Probably as many as in the whole police force in this little college town. It made me think of something that’s never occurred to me before. When you think how much booze the Roadhouse must move around here, and within the city limits . . . you’ve got to think the cops must be looking the other way a lot.”

  “You’re right. I’m surprised the citizens of this town don’t rise up in protest.”

  “Come on, I’m serious, Jerry. I’m wondering how happy the cops are going to be if we show up over there with tales of how Luke was helping us move the cannon and by the way it was really someone—maybe one of your friends—from the Roadhouse. How diligent are they going to be about following up anything we’ve come up with? Coming from us, it’s just blue sky. And maybe it’s something they don’t want to hear.”

  “So what do we do, organize a jailbreak? I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

  “Driving back, I had an idea. There’s a way, maybe we can break Joyce’s story. She’s the reason Luke’s over there.”

  “Is it as complicated as moving the cannon up on the roof?”

  “Probably. You want to sit still while I tell you?”

  “Okay, I’m sitting still. Tell.”

  Jerry sat still for a moment while Sam laid out the highlights. When he was finished, he smiled.

  “So, do you think it’ll play in Peoria?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jerry said.

  “The thing is,” Sam said, “we’ve got to have some help on this.”

  “Uh . . . how much help?”

  “One person. It has to be a girl who sets it up. I think I can get Connie to do it.”

  “That’s makin’ it more complicated.”

  “Well . . . unless you want to dress up in drag—”

  “Whoa . . . not me, pal.”

  “We need Connie, then. You couldn’t be in two places at once, anyway.”

  “She’ll want to know what’s going on.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she already suspects.”

  “Luke’s going to be disappointed.”

  “Luke’ll have to understand there might be a greater good here. The gag will be safe with her.”

  Jerry finally nodded.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’ll go find Connie.”

  Long shadows stretched across the lawn on one side of the Drucilla S. Millbank Women’s Residence Hall, reminding Sam that the day was almost over and time was getting short. Very short.

  “Do you actually think you can make this insane idea work?” Connie said.

  “We made the cannon float up onto the roof,” Sam said. “This can’t be any harder than that.”

  “I suppose you’ve thought how easy it would be to simply march in and explain what the three of you were up to last night?”

  “Yeah . . . that would be easy, if I thought that’s all it would take. But it may not be as simple as that.” He told her about his encounter with Bert, the Roadhouse raid, and his suspicions about how it had been able to keep operating. “It would also likely put the kibosh on any expectations any of us have of graduating a couple of weeks from now. If this doesn’t work, though, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll try to leave Jerry out of it if I can.”

  “That’s noble.”

  She was silent then, looking anywhere but at Sam. At last, she turned to him.

  “If I’m in, I’m all the way in. How did you do the cannon?”

  A pause.

  “You have to know that, too, huh?”

  She studied him for a moment. The effects of his beating hadn’t worn off, but she thought he looked more than beaten.

  Defeated, she decided.

  “Sam, what are you doing here in college, anyway?”

  It took Sam a long time to answer.

  “I guess I’m putting off as long as I can, going into the picture business.”

  “And, you’re graduating in a couple of weeks.”

  “I was thinking of going on for some kind of masters degree someplace, and—”

  “So, you’re fiddling around with college, pulling off these insane stunts. What you are, Sam, is you’re bored. And you must have been bored for a long time. You told me what happened with the fire hose that got you kicked out of—”

  “I’ve mostly kept my nose clean all year until—”

  “Is going to work at your father’s studio such a terrible thing?”

  The question was unexpected.

  “Not terrible, no, but . . .”

  After a pause, “But what?”

  “Well . . . since I was little, it was always assumed I’d go into the picture b
usiness. I’ve followed my father around stages and locations all my life. It’s how I grew up. I’ve had private teachers. I’ve watched pictures being made. It was fun to watch a lot of different things happening, a lot of people getting everything ready. They even let me help—sometimes—but mostly I just watched, and then I’d see their work all come together in front of the camera . . . when it does, they make magic happen. One thing I learned is, there isn’t anyone on any crew on the lot that doesn’t have talent coming out his ears, and there isn’t one that isn’t a lot smarter than me. My father would probably put me to work doing something where I’m totally incompetent. I’d just make a silly fool of myself.”

  “I take it back.” She gave him a softer look. Thoughtful. “About being bored, I mean . . . I think you’re also a teeny bit scared.”

  He looked at her. A moment later, he shrugged, accepting.

  “Come on, Sam, maybe the feeling is just butterflies.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “There were no butterflies when you were putting the cannon up there?”

  A shallow nod said there were.

  “Maybe there’s supposed to be butterflies.”

  He tried to smile.

  “But now, you’ve got yourself in a real mess.”

  “Yeah, and there’s no one to blame but me. On the other hand, if we hadn’t done it, Luke probably wouldn’t have an alibi.”

  Connie considered that.

  “Okay, let’s say I can see how using it would be a problem. I propose a trade.”

  “I’m at your mercy,” he said.

  “How sweet. Would I have to take that silly oath thing?”

  A pause.

  “I trust you. Only, give us a chance to put it back. Then I’ll tell you how we did it.”

  “I’ve got to wait?”

  “We’re running out of time . . . but think of the anticipation. After it’s all put back, maybe it’ll be more satisfying.”

  “You’re a philosopher too. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, but she raised her hand to stop him.