Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  "I don't like it any better than you do. But Terry knew what he was doing when he asked me to take this one on. He must have figured I knew him better than anybody else, and so I was the man to look for him. He would figure like that."

  George put a section of orange in his mouth. His wife watched him. "How can you sit there and eat, and talk about it?" she said. "You're so calm. It's like nothing at all to you."

  "Don't say that," George told her, swallowing the section of orange. "We were close. We were very close at one time, like brothers. I can feel that. But what else can I do?"

  "You can do what I told you," his wife said. "Put on a good act of looking. Didn't you ever not find somebody before?"

  George nodded. He put another section of orange in his mouth, chewed and swallowed it. "Just once," he said. "It turned out later the man was dead, died of natural causes."

  "No matter how it turned out," his wife said. "Did Terry want to get rid of you then?"

  "Well, he wasn't happy about it," George said.

  "You're still here," his wife said. She placed the sock and the darning egg on the table. "You're still around."

  "Yeah," George said. "Sure. I'd better get going. I got a long drive."

  "You think about what I said," his wife said. "You think about it, I mean really."

  "Sure," George said.

  He got up, swallowing the last of the orange. He put on his shoulder holster and shrugged a jacket over it. "Maybe I better take a raincoat," he said. "It might rain out there. You never can tell."

  His wife sat without answering him. George went to the hall closet, picked out his raincoat and folded it neatly over his arm. "I'll see you when I see you," he said.

  "George, please -"

  "Let's not fight about it," George said. "I'm leaving. I got to leave."

  "I don't like it," his wife said.

  "I'll think about what you said," George told her. "I honestly will."

  "Can't you do what I want?" his wife said. "It's what you want too, or what you tell me you want."

  "We've been over this," George said. He went to the front door. "Now I'm leaving," he said.

  "Please, George," his wife said.

  George shrugged. "I'll give you a call when I'm ready to come back," he said.

  ***

  George drove carefully, and not too quickly, out of town and onto the turnpike. There was very little traffic; George allowed himself the luxury of a cigarette as he drove and thought about his next move.

  Fred was his cousin, he thought, and maybe his wife was right; you had to pay some attention to that. It wasn't like going out after a stranger. And he and Fred had been closer than most cousins; they'd almost been like brothers for many years. George could remember secrets they had shared, expeditions they had gone on together; when Fred had finished with high school, George, a year older, was already a runner for the organization, and he had managed to get Fred his first job.

  Now Fred had walked out. Fred had announced he was going straight, and he didn't want to have anything more to do with the organization. Of course, Terry had been right, too; you couldn't let a man get away with that; a man in a responsible position had to have his mouth shut for him if he ever decided to walk out. You could never trust a man once he was away from the organization. And if the man knew too many secrets, you had to get rid of him. Even aside from Terry's talk about teaching the rest of the crowd a lesson, there was that business of knowing too much, and George could see that Terry was right.

  Fred hadn't been a small-time runner or even a single-owner when he left, not like some little man who runs a book or a numbers drop and knows very little about the higher-ups and the organization work, Fred had been part of the inner group, a rough-house boy who'd made good. Fred had never been a gun, of course; he just didn't have what it took to do that job and George, who knew he was one of the best guns in the organization, knew that, too, about his cousin. But Fred had been valuable in his own way, valuable and trusted. If a man in a responsible position gets away from the organization, George told himself, you have to shut his mouth for him; you can't trust him. George knew that was perfectly right, even if you'd put the man in the responsible position yourself, even if the man were close to you, as close as if you'd been brothers.

  George had to do the job, then, and he knew that. But as he drove down the turnpike, getting closer and closer to New York, where Fred had gone and where he would be hiding, he began to feel strange.

  She should have known better than to argue with me, George told himself. He felt nervous, without knowing why; he thought perhaps he felt conscience or compassion, but he didn't know quite what they would be or what they might feel like; he put it down to nervousness alone. She should have kept quiet, George thought; she knows me and she knows I'll do the best thing. Now she has to start me thinking.

  George was afraid it would affect his search, or the moment after the search was over. He was afraid he would do something wrong, and then where would he be? In spite of the brave talk, in spite of his wife's confidence, he had no idea what would happen if he reported failure to Terry. It was altogether possible Terry would decide George's usefulness was over, and then George would be the hunted man. George would have to run for his life ... and finally face another gun, with the orders of the organization behind him.

  Fred should have known better, he told himself. It's not my fault, what he did. He knows what's coming to him.

  George kept telling that to himself, over and over. The drive through the dark, lamp-lit night was long and lonely. Fred had known what he was doing, George told himself. I can't afford to get myself in bad, or get myself killed, just because of Fred. If he wants to play it foolish, that doesn't mean I can't go on playing it smart.

  And the way I feel ... This is my job. This is what I do, and what I'm supposed to do. I can't just fool around with my work, as if it didn't mean anything.

  George reached the outskirts of the city, the first turnoff into Queens, and slowed down. The drive was almost over; the search was about to start. Stop this foolish thinking, he told himself desperately. Stop it.

  It was going to be simple finding Fred. George knew he would be with a girl, and he knew the girl...

  Fred hadn't taken the trouble to hide anything, he told himself. For some reason that irritated him, and he had no idea why; he tried not to think about it. There were so many things about this job that made him feel strange; it was almost like a different kind of thing altogether, not a job like all the jobs he had grown used to doing.

  At any rate, George knew the girl lived on Fifty-third Street, East, and he knew Fred would be there sooner or later. He drove his car through the massed New York traffic, taking great care not to be involved in an accident of any kind, and pulled to the curb three doors away from the apartment house in which Fred's girl lived.

  No sooner had he parked, than a cab drew up before the apartment house and a girl got out. George wondered if he should wait for Fred, and decided that since the girl had come home, he would be better off waiting upstairs with her, and not giving Fred any chance to get away. There was the possibility, too, that Fred might already be inside. He was thinking mechanically now, not letting himself feel even the pleasure he remembered from other jobs well done, neatly planned and carefully executed; there could be no pleasure in this job. With any feeling at all, George knew, there was the danger that those strange sensations might come, the conscience or compassion or whatever they were; he could hardly afford that, at this final stage of things.

  He followed the girl through the apartment house door and to the elevator. He looked at the mirror-walls of the lobby, at the front door behind him; he and the girl were strangers and neither talked nor gave any indication that they were aware of each other. After a few seconds, the elevator came. The girl stepped in and George was behind her.

  She pressed the fourth-floor button. George stood waiting. When the elevator stopped, the girl opened the door and stepped
out and George followed her. She went to her door without pausing, probably thinking, if she were thinking about him at all, that George was visiting some other apartment on the floor. But he kept close behind her until she had reached her own door. He took out his gun carefully, keeping it almost totally concealed under his jacket.

  "Just open the door and go in ahead of me," he said suddenly, in a quiet voice, "and then there won't be any trouble."

  The girl turned and faced him.

  "No..." she said, finally.

  "Just open the door," George said. "I don't want to hurt you."

  "You're looking for ... he's not here," the girl said. "I don't know what you want."

  "You know just what I want," George said. "Let's not stand here talking. Come on. Let's go inside."

  "You can't -"

  George motioned with the gun.

  "- they're waiting for you inside. They'll kill you."

  George shook his head. "Now I'm tired of wasting time," he said. And he made an angry, jabbing gesture with the gun.

  The girl turned without a word, opened the door and stepped inside. At the last second, she tried to close the door in George's face, but he threw himself forward and came through into the apartment.

  He closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it for a minute. There was a long hallway in front of him, carpeted in dull red, the walls painted pearl-gray. At the end of the hall was a large room. Doorways opened off the hall to his left.

  George took the gun from under his jacket. The girl's eyes widened.

  "Don't try making any noise," he said. "Maybe somebody would get here, but they'd be too late as far as you go. And it wouldn't help your Fred, anyhow."

  "Fred?" the girl said. "I don't know any Fred. Who're you talking about?"

  "Don't kid around with me."

  "Really..." the girl said. "Please. Please believe me, I don't know any Fred."

  George moved away from the door, keeping himself between it and the girl. He backed the girl down the hallway into the large living room, and sat down on a red-upholstered couch. "Just sit down and listen," he said to her. "Could be we've got a long wait."

  "I don't know any Fred," the girl said. "You must have the wrong place. Really ... I - I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Sure," George said. "Sure."

  "You can go downstairs and ask," the girl said. "They'll tell you I live alone. So whoever you're looking for -"

  "Sit down," George said. He pointed with the gun. The girl dropped dazedly into a straight-backed chair. "You live alone," he said. "Sure you do. And Fred takes care of the rent. Now you can't kid me and there isn't any use trying to."

  The girl was silent for a long moment. George figured she was trying to decide whether or not to go on with her bluff.

  "You can't kill him," she said, gently, softly. "Fred doesn't want to do anybody any harm. All he wants is to be let alone."

  "I got a job to do," George said.

  "But Fred hasn't done anything. He won't do anything."

  "That's a chance we can't take," George said.

  He studied the girl, and admired Fred's taste. She was slim and about medium-height, with light-brown hair and a heart-shaped face. And her prettiness and pleasantness were somehow one thing.

  Suddenly, George didn't know if he could go through with the job. He was frightened and tried to push away his feelings.

  "Please," the girl said. "Please, I'll do anything." She was pleading now.

  "That's no good," George said irritably, "and you know it." If he left now, Terry would only send someone else, and maybe find a third gun to send after him. It was crazy to even think about leaving the job undone...

  "What are you doing to me?" he said. "Now I want you to just sit right where you are and not say anything. One word out of you and this gun goes off. It's silenced, so I'll still be able to wait here for Fred."

  "Please..."

  The girl was silent.

  They sat without moving. The apartment was soundless; they were enclosed in a great blanket of cotton, George felt, and there was no way out, no way to escape, to go back to a simpler period in his life.

  He held the gun in his hand like a weight, and sat still, waiting.

  The doorbell rang, and George and the girl walked slowly out of the living room and into the hall. George walked behind her, and now the gun and his hand were in his jacket pocket. "Open it," he told the girl.

  The doorbell rang again as she put her hand to the knob.

  A voice outside said, "Cleaners."

  She opened the door.

  The boy standing outside had a dress on a hanger, poised on one hand. "Dollar-fifty," he said.

  To George the boy looked a little like Fred. He had the same eyes, the same shape of jaw, thin, nervous; but George knew the boy had nothing to do with Fred. George felt the gun in his pocket and tried to move his hand away from it but his hand remained, touching the cold metal.

  George thought the boy looked at him strangely, after he was paid and as the door closed.

  Some day I might be after him, George thought. And then: Why would I think anything like that? What's wrong with me, anyhow?

  "Maybe Fred won't be here today," the girl was saying. "Maybe -"

  "If he doesn't show up today," George said, "I'll wait until he does. Just go on and sit down."

  The girl sat on the straight-backed chair. George walked around the room nervously, stopped abruptly when the knob of the door rattled and they heard a key fitted into the outside lock.

  The girl stood up, and George moved quickly to her side. "No sound," he whispered, and put the gun in her back.

  Like her body, the girl's silence seemed tensed. The door swung slowly open.

  Fred saw them both at once, but he stepped inside and shoved the door shut behind him, He grinned, let his face go slack, stood pressed against the door, without saying anything.

  "I've been waiting for you," George said.

  ***

  Fred's face was thin; he was going bald. George also noticed that Fred was wearing a brown, plain suit, like one he had hanging in the closet at home. He thought of putting a bullet through the suit and felt strange, a blend of fright and distaste.

  Fred said, "No..."

  George stepped away from the girl, holding the gun in front of him and moving to a position from which he could watch both of them. Fred made a half-turn toward the door, and George pointed the gun directly at him.

  "You wouldn't make it," he said. "Before you were half out the door you'd have had it."

  Fred moved back into the room very slowly. "You wouldn't kill me," he said carefully. "Not you, George. You couldn't do it."

  "I came here to do it," George said.

  "I'm Fred," Fred said.

  George coughed, cleared his throat. He asked himself: Why don't I shoot? Why don't I finish the job and get out...

  The silence was long.

  "Listen," Fred said. "What I want to say ... she's all right. You can leave her alone."

  "All right," George said.

  "Listen, I wouldn't do anything either, George. I wouldn't go to the police. What do you think I am? You know me."

  "Yeah," George said. "Yeah. You ran out."

  The girl said, "Oh, God, please ... listen, he's right. He wouldn't do anything. You can leave us alone..."

  George stood silent, waiting, and he didn't know for what.

  "A man has a chance to go straight, George," Fred said.

  George nodded.

  "I just felt I didn't have to stay with the organization ... forever," Fred said.

  "You don't have to do anything," George said, agreeing too readily. "That's right."

  "Look, George, why're you acting like this? We were friends, we were better than friends..."

  George stood holding the gun. "I can't listen to you," he said. "I can't do it." He heard the voice of his wife, Fred's voice, the girl's voice, his own voice, all moving and speaking, in h
is mind, stirring there in noisy fragments.

  "You've got to listen to me," Fred said. "You've got to, George."

  The girl, standing near him, suddenly moved and George turned, but not soon enough. The girl was upon him, trying to swing him around, but George swung with his free hand effortlessly, hitting the girl and knocking her away.

  Fred rushed forward, but stopped abruptly. George had backed away, the gun was up again and leveled.

  "It's no good," George said.

  Fred said, "God..." and George felt his fingers tighten on the trigger. There was the noise of the gun, and, with surprise, George saw Fred fall, in a world of silence, a pantomimed world of horror and conscience, the strange feeling he knew, now, and recognized, and would never be without.

  The girl was kneeling at Fred's side. George watched the girl who was like a figure made of stone, like an idol towering over sacrifice.

  "Why did you have to...?" the girl said, staring down at Fred, her eyes brimming over with tears and pain.

  George looked at the gun in his hand. There was nothing to do now, no decision to make. You had to live with the world the way it was, he thought; you had to be dependable, and take care of your responsibilities. You had a job to do and you had to do it, whether you liked it or not, whether you thought about it or not, no matter how you felt...

  The girl was no danger, he knew.

  The apartment, the apartment house was silent.

  George told himself he had to leave quickly. He had a long drive back; the police would arrive soon; Terry would want to know what had happened. He stood in the room, holding the gun in his hand, and then he turned and walked to the door, very slowly in the silence, very carefully.

  He felt as if he would never reach the door, or the empty, free corridor beyond it.

  In days gone by, a man could make a public speech without really risking life or limb. The audience, as a matter of fact, usually stood to suffer more than did the orator. Now that we live in an age in which everything has been improved upon, a no-good ruler, making a no-good speech had better have a very good bodyguard.

  * * *

  ASSASSINATION