Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  "Simon."

  He started.

  "Phil Silvers -"

  "Yes, a riot."

  "You're not paying attention," Sheila chided.

  "I'm sorry. I was thinking about what Mrs. Steele said. I was wondering where Polly's really gone."

  "I told you, Simon, I know where she's gone."

  Her laughter again, as from another room, another world, before she rose and announced that dinner was ready.

  Simon sat at the head of the rectangular table with Mrs. Brevoort on his left and Mr. Brevoort on his right. Sheila lit the candles, then went into the kitchen and brought out the casserole in a large copper chafing dish. She lit the little burner in the wrought-iron frame and set the chafing dish over it. "It won't really cook this way," she explained, "but it looks nice, and it does keep it hot."

  Simon looked out the window again. Dry leaves brushed against the glass. He clenched his hand under the table. He thought Sheila was talking too much. It was deep dark outside. He heard Mrs. Brevoort give a little exclamation of delight as her plate was served. He heard Mr. Brevoort say, "Curry ... Anything curried ... Love it, love it ..." Then his own plate was set before him and he looked down at it, steaming there in the candlelight.

  Mrs. Brevoort had taken a tentative taste. She said, "Mmm," and "Delicious, but what in the world is it?"

  "A secret recipe," Sheila said, "though I have to admit I've never tried it before."

  "A triumph," said Mr. Brevoort.

  "Simon?" Sheila said.

  "Oh, yes ... Yes." He tasted the casserole. It was heavily seasoned, disguising another odd flavor he could not distinguish. "Not bad," he said. He glanced up and noticed that Sheila's plate was empty. "Aren't you having any?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "But you never miss dinner."

  "I know. But tonight I'm just not hungry."

  That laughter again, the red moist lips, the bright gleaming eyes. Outside a slight wind began rustling the trees, and a child shrieked something in the darkness. He felt cold again. He wished Polly were home. He wished tonight were over and the promotion were all set so that he did not have to pretend with Sheila any longer. He could get her committed - for good - and he could sell this house he hated and take Polly with him and go to Ida.

  "You're not eating, Simon."

  "Yes, it's good. Very good." But he was not hungry. He had never liked strange foods, and had only insisted on this exotic dish because of the Brevoorts. He took another tentative mouthful, noticed a long blonde hair on his fork, and drew it off surreptitiously, thinking idly that it was one of Polly's of course, because Sheila's hair was a darkish brown. He was vaguely aware of the trees shaking in the rising wind. Mr. Brevoort said, "Yes, I will have seconds, please," and Mrs. Brevoort said, "You've simply got to give me the recipe. Onions and mushrooms and peppers and curry ... And I presume the meat was sauteed, but what is it?" Sheila laughed secretly and he took another bite, and it was then that he found the fingernail. It was small and sharp and curved. It had caught between his teeth, and when he first examined it under the flickering light of the candle, he was not quite sure what it was. Then, when he did understand, it was only with a strange sense of detachment, until he looked up again and found Sheila smiling at him.

  "Something the matter, dear?"

  "No. Just something I -"

  "Don't worry, dear. I know where Polly is."

  "I know ... I know." He placed the fingernail carefully on the side of his plate. He stared at it vacantly. "You will not get Polly," Sheila had said. "I know where she is ... It's a secret recipe ... And take out the garbage, but don't open the bag or you'll be sick ..." Her eyes were too bright. She laughed too much, and deep down she'd always disliked his affection for Polly, and she'd never refused to eat dinner before. She had brown hair and her fingernails were long and red, and had not been cut for days. The wind sighed through the trees. And it was funny, Mrs. Steele had said. And why didn't Polly come home, and why had he been so terribly cold all evening, and why was he dizzy now, his hand trembling beyond control, his body beginning to shake, too, in a horrible spasm that would not stop?

  "Chicken?" said Mrs. Brevoort.

  "No, not chicken."

  "Veal?" said Mr. Brevoort.

  "No."

  "Lamb?"

  "No."

  "Pork?"

  "No." Sheila was still smiling. "Do you want to guess, Simon? Or did you peek? I bet you peeked when you were taking out the garbage. Simon ... Simon?"

  Simon screamed. He rose and screamed again and then again. He rushed to the door and screamed into the windy night. "Polly! ... Polly!" He ran back through the house and out the kitchen door, down the steps to the garbage can. He raised the lid, put out a hand, then snatched it back again and let the lid drop with a clatter. He was violently ill, leaning shuddering against the porch while the leaves whirled up around him. "Oh, God," he sobbed, "Oh, my God, my God!" He staggered back up the steps and into the living room. The Brevoorts were leaving, hurriedly, talking of getting a taxi. He hardly saw them. He was still screaming. The door closed and Sheila turned to him and said, "Now see what you've done, Simon? They don't think we have a happy home at all."

  He kept on screaming. "You're crazy ... Really crazy ... And this time you're going away for good," and "Oh, my God, oh, my God," as he stumbled to the phone and dialed Doctor Birnam with trembling hands. His words were nearly incoherent. "I never realized ... Something terrible ... Bring the ambulance ... Bring a strait jacket ... Oh, my God!" while he laid his head against the receiver and shuddered and sobbed hysterically and could not stop.

  ***

  "Terrible," Doctor Birnam said, after the white-coated men had taken the protesting figure through the doorway. "Simply terrible."

  "But why?" sobbing uncontrollably. "Why ... Why?"

  The doctor shrugged. "These things are hard to explain. If you'd only seen it coming - but you couldn't possibly have guessed."

  "And tonight, too - of all times - of all times when tonight was so important."

  "I just don't - know." The doctor put out a reassuring hand, then moved slowly toward the door. "Of course, we'll do everything we can. A strait jacket for a while, and then treatment - I just don't know." He opened the front door and said, "Well now, how's my favorite little girl?"

  "I'm fine," Polly said as she stepped inside. The doctor left and Polly said, "Susie's going to get the dickens for going to the movies without telling her mother." She looked around and said, "Where's Daddy?"

  "Gone away."

  "For a long time?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "He said you were going away. But I'm glad it's him instead of you."

  "Are you, darling?" She dried her tears. "Are you?"

  Polly nodded, and said, "I'm famished."

  "So am I."

  They sat at the table and she served them both a large portion of the casserole, still hot over the little burner.

  "It's good," Polly said. "What is it?"

  "Guess."

  "Chicken?"

  "No, not chicken."

  "Veal?"

  "No."

  "Then what?"

  "A secret recipe," she said, and smiled fondly, faintly at her daughter.

  It is generally agreed that it takes all kinds to make a world - an imperfect world, that is. This tale of mounting uncomfortableness contributes a singularly unattractive villain, a Mr. Heavenridge. Anent Mr. Heavenridge, it is my humane feeling that they also serve who smell quite badly.

  * * *

  DADDY-O

  BY DAVID ALEXANDER

  Marcia had run away again. That was the short, sad history of her younger sister's life, Helen thought bitterly. Marcia always ran away. She could never face up to unpleasantness, to any reality. When something like this occurred, Marcia ran. She had many means of escape. The sleeping pill Marcia had just taken was one; alcohol, another. But mostly Marcia escaped through some queer mental process of her own,
into a world of fantasy where everything was exactly as she wanted it to be. She could never accept things as they were.

  Helen had warned her, of course, about Paul Carter. Paul was the latest of many young men in Marcia's life. Helen had warned her sister about most of them, but Marcia would never listen. Never listening was another method that Marcia employed to run away from the realities of existence. Paul was a nice enough young man in his weak-chinned way, Helen supposed. He was pleasant of manner, vacuously good-looking, well-dressed, financially secure. But he was married and he was the father of two children. What was worse, he was married to the daughter of Mr. Enright, who owned the firm where Marcia had been employed as a secretary. As Paul Carter's secretary, in fact. Paul's father-in-law had made him vice-president of the Enright Advertising Agency.

  Helen felt sure that the affair had been none of Paul's doing. Marcia had probably thrown herself at young Carter. When Marcia had quit her job, a well-paying job, because her relations with Paul had become too noticeable, she had been sure that Carter would divorce his wife, sacrifice his career and marry her. Of course, that hadn't worked out any more than Marcia's other fantasies had. Tonight Paul had come to the apartment to tell Marcia he couldn't see her any more, that stories had got back to his wife and his father-in-law. It must have required an unusual amount of courage on his part to do that. Paul, like Marcia, had a way of running away from issues instead of facing them.

  Helen shivered and hugged the dressing robe tight around her slim body as she thought of the horrible scene that had ensued. She had been working on an illustration for a fashion magazine in her bedroom, which also served as her studio. Through the closed door, she had heard Marcia screaming hysterical imprecations at Paul. She had thought of the living room window that opened on an areaway, the possibility of the neighbors hearing what was going on, and had rushed to close it. That was when Marcia had smashed the vase over Paul's head. It was a heavy vase, but the blow was so hard that it had been broken into a dozen pieces. The fragments of pottery still made an unsightly litter on the floor. Paul had slumped from his chair and had lain there on the floor, terribly motionless, his face drained of color, blood seeping slowly and insidiously from the cut on his head. For an awful moment, Helen had thought he was dead. Of course, Marcia had run away, had run to her own bedroom and locked the door. Helen had bathed and dressed Paul's wound and then he left the apartment, still very unsteady on his feet. Helen glanced at the clock. That was more than half an hour ago, she thought. I hope he's all right. I hope he had sense enough to find a doctor. I hope he has some believable explanation for his split scalp when he gets home.

  Helen noticed that the living room window was still open, that the shade had not been lowered. The thing had happened with such sickening suddenness, that she had forgotten her reason for having come into the living room. Oh well, she thought, the apartment across the areaway is dark. The apartment was usually dark. It was occupied by a grossly fat old man who apparently lived alone. Helen had encountered him in the hall a time or two.

  It was a large apartment for an old man to live in alone, Helen thought, trying consciously to keep her mind from the violent incident that had just occurred. The layout, she knew, was the same as that of the flat she and Marcia occupied. The building was a huge old graystone New York apartment house, off upper Broadway, once a good neighborhood that was going into dry rot from neglect. The streets were filled with brown-faced youths who wore leather jackets. Their eyes were hard beyond their years. Helen was frightened by them. She did not like coming home alone, late at night. She was frightened for Marcia, too. Marcia often stayed out very late. But their apartment was large and the rent was reasonable. There were two bedrooms. When Marcia had come to New York she had demanded a bedroom of her own, saying she was nervous and slept poorly at best. Helen's own bedroom had a north light and was therefore also able to serve as a studio. Helen made her living as an illustrator, for fashion magazines, and she worked at home.

  Helen glanced at the clock again. It was after midnight now. I must go to bed, she thought, even if I can't sleep. She began to switch off lamps in the living room. She caught a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. She thought she could see the beginning of little crow's tracks around her eyes and mouth. I'm twenty-eight, she thought. That makes me a spinster, I guess. She had devoted the best of her youth to taking care of her younger sister.

  She was about to turn off the last of the lamps, when there was a sudden, loud knocking at the door to the apartment.

  She stood frozen for a moment, paralyzed with fear. It's the police, she thought. Paul must have collapsed from loss of blood and somehow they've found out what happened here.

  There was a little peephole in the door, covered by a hinged metal lid. Helen raised the little lid. The fat old man who lived in the front apartment was standing at the door, thudding down repeatedly with the small brass knocker.

  Helen said through the small peephole, "Please stop that knocking! My sister's asleep. What is it?"

  It was the first time she had ever heard the old man speak. His voice was deep and unctuous, though he made an attempt to keep it low.

  "Open up, my dear," he said. "It's most important. A matter of life and death, in fact. I can't speak through this little hole."

  Helen hesitated. Finally she opened the door, attempting to block the entrance with her body, but the bulk of the old man pushed her aside and he walked into the room.

  "Really!" Helen exclaimed. "Please tell me what this is all about. It's after midnight!"

  "I apologize for the intrusion, my dear," the old man said calmly. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Heavenridge. George M. Heavenridge. Past seventy, retired, and quite harmless, I assure you, my child. And there you have my history. Now, as to my business." His thick lips smiled at Helen. The room was filled with the odor of his unclean clothes and of stale cigar smoke. He rubbed his gray-stubbed chin, the flabby jowls, with a pudgy hand. The fingers were brown with nicotine and tipped by black half-moons.

  "What business?" Helen asked, realizing her voice was far too shrill.

  The old man seated himself, without an invitation.

  "It's about the room, my dear," he said. "The room you advertised for rent in the evening paper."

  Helen regarded the old man in blank astonishment, for a moment. Then she said, "I advertised no room for rent! There's some mistake. Even if I had, this is an odd time of night to inquire about it."

  The old man waggled a stained and stubby finger at Helen. His thick, moist lips smiled over dentures that were ghastly white.

  "Ah, yes, my dear. You advertised a room for rent. We'll agree on that, I think. And we'll agree at once that I become your boarder. Immediately. Tonight, you understand? I live in the front apartment. I will bring only the things I need tonight. Tomorrow and in the days to come I can move in my other possessions. I have the right to sublease my own flat. There's no hurry. I'll wait to find a proper tenant who will pay a proper price. But your own need is great. Yours and your sister's. You must have my protection immediately. That is vital, my dear. We'll agree on that, too."

  Helen regarded the smiling old man, dumbfounded. She shook her head slowly.

  "This is quite mad!" she said. "Why on earth should my sister and I require your 'protection,' as you call it?"

  The fat old man was still smiling as he said, "Because they found the body, my dear. The police, I mean. They found the body just outside the house a little while ago. Such a young man. So tragic to be struck down in the prime of life."

  Suddenly, Helen was conscious of only one sensation. She was very cold. Then she realized she could not focus her eyes properly. She saw the old man and the familiar furniture of the room, but everything was distorted, as if she were observing objects through the tumbling stream of a waterfall. She clutched the back of a chair and forced herself to speak.

  "I'll ask you to explain yourself as briefly as possible, Mr, Heavenridge. Then you wi
ll please leave this apartment, or I will be forced to call the superintendent."

  Mr. Heavenridge was lighting a foul cigar. He blew smoke, said, "I hope you don't mind cigars. I smoke a great many of them. An old man's only vice, my dear. I prefer very strong tobacco, but I'm sure you'll become used to it."

  He regarded the glowing tip of the cigar, nodded with satisfaction. Then he said, "You and your sister are most careless about your window shades, my child. Perhaps it is because you live in the rear of the building, on the first floor, and fancy you aren't observed. But I have watched you often. I sit in darkness, you see. The dark is kinder to an old man than the light. The darkness is filled with memories. In the darkness my own two daughters come back to me from the grave. I see them plainly in their summery frocks and their broad-brimmed hats, with the sweet flush of youth upon their cheeks. Then one day, soon after you and your sister moved into this apartment across the areaway, I realized that those dim figures of the darkness had become real, alive! You are so like my eldest, Alice. Sweet and calm, always obedient. And your little sister, she is like my younger daughter, Dora. Willful, but lovely. I see now I was not stern enough with her. But it is not too late to rectify my mistake. You and your sister will become my daughters, my dear. And I will become your loving father, always near to protect you, from this night until the dear Lord calls me to his bosom. Oh, we will be so happy, the three of us!"

  The old man expelled cigar smoke. "I killed my daughters, you know," he said. "I killed them more than twenty years ago."

  The waterfall veiled Helen's eyes and thundered in her ears. She could no longer control her voice.

  "You - you killed your daughters?" she fairly shrieked.

  The old man nodded calmly. "It wasn't exactly murder, my dear," he replied. "Not like the terrible thing that happened here tonight. I indulged my daughters too much. Their mother died when they were very young. When they became young ladies, they wanted a car. I bought one, but I was a poor driver and so one day I smashed the car. Now you don't think I did that on purpose, do you? At any rate, Alice and Dora were both killed. I alone was spared to exist in lonely solitude. But that is ended now. You and your sister will become my daughters. I will be firm with you, but always understanding."