Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  I thought I could supply the rest. "And so you hopped into your time machine, set the dials back to July the twenty-seventh and to Blenheim Street and were there at ten-thirty for a ringside seat, waiting for me to re-commit the crime?"

  "Precisely."

  I would have to discuss this particular form of insanity with Dr. Powers. He is a quite mature and - since I disposed of his wife - wealthy psychiatrist.

  Henry smiled thinly. "You shot James Brady at exactly ten-fifty-one. As you stooped over him to make certain that he was dead, you dropped your car keys. You said, 'Oh, damn!' and picked them up. At the door of the warehouse, you looked back and lifted your hand in a mock salute to the corpse. Then you departed."

  Unquestionably he had been there. Not in that fabulous time machine, but probably hiding among the thousands of boxes and bales inside the warehouse - an accidental witness to the murder. It was one of those unfortunate coincidences that occur occasionally to mar an otherwise perfect killing. But why did he bother to resort to this fantastic story?

  Henry put down his glass. "I think that five thousand dollars would be sufficient for me to forget what I saw."

  For how long, I wondered. A month? Two? I took a puff of my cigar. "If you went to the police, it would be your word against mine."

  "Could you bear an investigation?"

  I really didn't know. I am a very careful practitioner of my craft, but it was still possible that here and there I might have made some slight revealing error. I certainly would not welcome the interest of the authorities. Of that much I was positive.

  I replenished my glass. "You seem to have fallen into an interesting and profitable business. Have you approached many other murderers?" I looked at his suit. It had undoubtedly been sold with two pairs of trousers.

  Perhaps he read my mind. "I have just started, Mr. Reeves. You are the first murderer I have approached."

  He smiled primly. "I have done considerable other research on you, Mr. Reeves. On June the 10th, at eleven-twelve in the evening, an automobile which you had stolen for the purpose ran down a Mrs. Irvin Perry."

  He could have read about Mrs. Perry's death in the newspapers. But how did he know that I had been the driver? A wild guess?

  "You parked approximately one hundred yards from the intersection. You kept your motor running while you waited for Mrs. Perry to make her appearance. Ten minutes before she arrived, a collie ran across the street. Seven minutes before she arrived, a fire engine sped past. Three minutes before she arrived, a model A Ford filled with teenagers raced by. The automobile's muffler was faulty. It was quite noisy."

  I frowned. How could he possibly have known those things?

  Henry was enjoying himself. "On September 28th, last April at two-fifteen of a chilly afternoon, a Gerald Mitchell 'fell' off an escarpment near his home while he was taking a stroll. You had a bit of trouble with him. Though he was a small man, he showed remarkable strength. He managed to tear the left pocket of your coat before you could throw him into space."

  I caught myself staring at him and quickly took a sip of brandy.

  "Five thousand dollars," Henry said. "Small bills, of course. Nothing larger than a five hundred. Naturally I didn't expect you to have that much cash lying about. I shall return tomorrow evening at eight."

  I pulled myself together. For a moment I had almost entertained the thought that Henry actually might have a time machine. But there was some other explanation and I would have to think it out.

  At the door to the hallway, I smiled. "Henry, would you hop into your time machine and find out who Jack the Ripper really was? I'm frightfully curious."

  Henry nodded. "I'll do that tonight."

  I closed the door and went into my living room.

  My wife Diana put aside her fashion magazine. "Who was that strange creature?"

  "He claims to be an inventor."

  "Really? He certainly looks mad enough for the part. I imagine he wanted to sell you an invention?"

  "Not exactly."

  Diana is green-eyed and cool and she is perhaps no more predatory or unfaithful than any other woman who marries a man with money who is thirty years her senior. I am fully aware of the nature of our relationship, but I realize that one must pay by various means for the enjoyment of a work of art. And Diana is a work of art - a triumph of physical nature. I value her quite as highly as I do my Modiglianis and my Van Goghs.

  "What is he supposed to have invented?"

  "A time machine."

  She smiled. "I am partial to perpetual motion machines."

  I was faintly irritated. "Perhaps it works."

  She studied me. "I hope you have no intention of letting that queer man talk you out of money."

  "No, my dear. I still retain my mental faculties."

  Her solicitude for my money would have been touching, except that I realized that she preferred to spend it on herself. Henry's chances of acquiring any of it were nil as far as she was concerned.

  She picked up the magazine. "Has he asked you to see it?"

  "No. And even if he does, I have no intention of doing so."

  And yet I wondered how Henry could possibly have managed to know the details of those three murders. His presence at one of them could be an acceptable coincidence. But three?

  There was no such a thing as a time machine. There had to be some other explanation - something that an intelligent man could believe.

  I glanced at my watch and turned my mind to another matter. "I have something to attend to, Diana. I'll be back in an hour or two."

  I drove to the main post office downtown and opened my box with a key. The letter I had been expecting was inside.

  I conduct most of my business by mail and box number. My clients do not know my name, even on those occasions when personal contact is necessary.

  The letter was from Jason Spender. We had exchanged some correspondence and Spender had been negotiating for the elimination of a Charles Atwood. Spender did not give his reasons for that desire and for my purposes they were not necessary. In this case, however, I could hazard a guess. Spender and Atwood were partners in a building concern and evidently sharing the profits no longer appealed to Spender.

  The letter accepted my terms - fifteen thousand dollars - and provided the information that Atwood had a dinner engagement tomorrow evening and would return to his home at approximately eleven. Spender would have an alibi for that particular time in the event that the police might make embarrassing inquiries.

  I drove on to the Shippler Detective Agency and went directly to Andrew Shippler.

  I cannot, of course, employ his agency continuously to follow my wife. But several times a year I made a precautionary use of his services for a week or two. It is usually sufficient.

  In 1958, for instance, Shippler discovered a Terence Reilly. He was extremely personable - fair, athletic, and the type to which Diana seems to be drawn - and I cannot blame Diana too much.

  However Terence Reilly soon departed this world. I was not paid for the demise. It was a labor of love.

  Shippler was a plump man in his fifties with the air of an accountant. He took a typewritten page from a folder and adjusted his rimless glasses. "Your wife left your apartment twice yesterday. In the morning at ten-thirty she went to a small hat shop for an hour. She finally purchased a blue and white hat with..."

  "Never mind the details."

  He was slightly aggrieved. "But details can be important, Mr. Reeves. We try to be absolutely thorough." He glanced at the page again. "Then she had a strawberry soda at a drugstore and went on to..."

  I interrupted again. "Did she see anyone? Talk to anyone?"

  "Well, the owner of the hat shop and the clerk at the drugstore counter."

  "Besides that," I snapped.

  He shook his head. "No. But she left the apartment again at two-thirty in the afternoon. She went to a small cocktail bar on Farwell. There she met two women her age, apparently by prearrangement. It appears tha
t they had been college classmates and hadn't seen each other for years. My man overheard most of their conversation. They discussed their former classmates and what they were doing now." Shippler cleared his throat. "It seems that they were most impressed that your wife had ... ah ... caught such a man of means."

  "What did Diana say?"

  "She was extremely noncommittal." Shippler folded his hands. "Your wife consumed one Pink Lady and one Manhattan during the course of two hours."

  "I am not interested in my wife's liquor preferences. Did she see anyone else? A man?"

  Shippler shook his head. "No. At four-ten she left the two women and returned to your apartment."

  The human mind is a peculiar thing. I was relieved, of course - and yet, a trifle disappointed.

  "Shall we keep watching her?" Shippler asked hopefully.

  This time I had had Diana under a surveillance for about a week. I mulled over Shippler's question. Shippler charged one hundred dollars a day and that was rather expensive. I smiled slightly. Now if I had Henry's time machine. I could save a great deal of money. "Watch her a few days more," I said. "And I have something else for you."

  "Yes?"

  "At eight tomorrow evening, I am expecting a caller. He will be with me ten to twenty minutes. When he leaves, I want him followed. I want to know who he is and where he lives." I gave Shippler a description of Henry. "Phone me as soon as you find out."

  I went to the bank and withdrew five thousand dollars.

  At seven the next evening Diana left to see a motion picture. Or at least so she informed me. I would find out about that later.

  Henry arrived punctually at eight o'clock and I took him into my study.

  He took a chair. "He was a clerk with an importing concern."

  "Who was?" I asked.

  "Jack the Ripper. A timid-looking man - in his early forties, I'd estimate. He was apparently a bachelor and he lived with his mother."

  I smiled. "How interesting. What was his name?"

  "I haven't gotten that yet. You see people don't go about with signs hanging from their necks and it can be difficult to find out who they actually are."

  He could easily have invented some name for this Jack the Ripper, but this was really more clever - and logical.

  Henry said, "Do you have the five thousand dollars?"

  "Yes." I got the package and handed it to him.

  He rose. "Tonight I think I'll go back to Custer's massacre. I find history fascinating."

  I had only one consolation. When the time came to kill him, I would enjoy every moment of it.

  When he was gone, I sat beside the phone and waited impatiently. At nine-thirty it rang and I quickly lifted the receiver.

  "This is Shippler."

  "Well, where does he live?"

  Shippler's voice was apologetic. "I'm afraid my man lost him."

  "What?"

  "He transferred from bus to bus and finally disappeared. I think he suspected he was being followed."

  "You blundering idiot!" I roared.

  "Really, Mr. Reeves," Shippler said stiffly. "It is my man who is the blundering idiot."

  I hung up and poured myself some bourbon. This time Henry had eluded me, but there would be other times. He would be back. Blackmailers are never satisfied.

  I became aware of the time and realized that I still had work to do that night. I got into my coat and hat and went downstairs to the apartment garage.

  Charles Atwood's home was a large one embedded in several acres of wooded property. It was a situation I fancied, since it offered the maximum of concealment.

  The dwelling was dark, except for lights on the third floor where I imagined the servants were quartered.

  Atwood's three car garage was detached from the house. I took a stand behind a clump of trees near it and waited.

  At eleven-fifteen a car swung into the driveway and made its way to the garage. It stopped momentarily while the automatic doors rose, and then it disappeared into the garage.

  Thirty seconds later, a side door opened and a tall man stepped into the moonlight. He began walking toward the house.

  I had my revolver and silencer ready and I waited until he came within fifteen feet of me before I left my concealment.

  Atwood stopped with an exclamation of startled surprise as he saw me.

  I pulled the trigger and Atwood dropped to the ground without a sound. I made certain that he was dead - I do not like to leave things half done - and then made my way back through the woods and to the street where I had parked my car.

  The assignment had been entirely successful and, for the first time in thirty-six hours, I felt a certain peace with the world.

  I returned to my apartment a little before midnight and I was relaxing when the phone shrilled.

  It was Henry. "I see that you killed someone else tonight," he announced pleasantly.

  My hands were moist.

  "When I arrived home," Henry said, "I got into my time machine and turned it back to the time when I left your apartment. I wanted to see if you had attempted to follow me. I have to be cautious, you know. After all, I am dealing with a murderer."

  I said nothing.

  "You didn't follow me, but you did leave your apartment and I followed in my machine as a matter of curiosity."

  That infernal time machine! Was it possible?

  "I'm just wondering," Henry said. "Was that the man you were supposed to kill - the one you killed?"

  What was he getting at?

  "Because there were two men in the car," Henry said.

  I spoke involuntarily. "Two?"

  "Yes. You shot the first man as he came out of the garage. The second man left it about forty-five seconds later."

  I closed my eyes. "Did he see me?"

  "No. You were gone by that time. He just bent over the man you'd shot and called, 'Fred! Fred!'"

  I was definitely perspiring. "Henry, I'd like to see you."

  "Why?"

  "I can't discuss it over the phone. But I've got to see you."

  His voice was dubious. "I don't know."

  "It means money. A lot of money."

  He thought it over. "All right," he said finally. "Tomorrow? Around eight?"

  I couldn't wait that long. "No. Right now. As soon as you can get here."

  Henry required more seconds to think. "No tricks now, Mr. Reeves," he said. "I'll be prepared for anything."

  "No tricks, Henry. I swear it. Get here as soon as you can."

  He arrived forty-five minutes later. "What is it, Mr. Reeves?"

  I had been drinking - not to excess, but I simply found that accepting such an idea - and I was on the verge of accepting it - was painful to my intelligence. "Henry, I'd like to buy your machine. If it really works."

  "It works." He shook his head. "But I won't sell it."

  "One hundred thousand dollars, Henry."

  "Out of the question."

  "A hundred and fifty thousand."

  "It's my invention," Henry said peevishly. "I wouldn't dream of parting with it."

  "You could make another, couldn't you?"

  "Well ... yes." He eyed me suspiciously.

  "Henry, do you expect me to mass produce time machines once I get yours? To sell them to others?"

  His face indicated that evidently he did.

  "Henry," I said patiently. "Having anyone else in the world get hold of that machine is the last thing I want. After all, I am a murderer. I wouldn't welcome other people delving into the past, especially my past - now would I?"

  "No," he admitted. "Somebody else might want to turn you over to the police. There are people like that."

  "Two hundred thousand dollars, Henry," I said. "My last offer." Actually money was no object to me now. With Henry's machine - if it worked - I could make millions.

  A crafty light crept into his eyes. "Two hundred and fifty thousand. Take it or leave it."

  "Henry, you drive a hard bargain. But I'll meet your price. How
ever I've got to be satisfied that the machine works. When can I see it?"

  "I'll get in touch with you," he said cagily. "Tomorrow, the next day, maybe in a week."

  "Why not right now?"

  He shook his head. "No. You're very clever, Mr. Reeves. Perhaps you've devised a trap for this moment. I prefer to set the time and terms myself."

  I was unable to shake him out of his determination and he left five minutes later.

  I rose at seven in the morning and went downstairs to purchase a newspaper. I had indeed killed the wrong man. A Fred Turley. I had never even heard of him before.

  Atwood and Turley had returned from the dinner and an evening of cards together and driven into the garage. Turley had gone out of the side door, but Atwood remained behind to lock his car. Then he had seen his briefcase still on the rear seat. After he had recovered it, re-locked the car, and left the garage, he had found Turley dead on the path leading to the house. At first he had thought Turley had suffered a stroke of some kind. When he finally discovered the truth, he had raised an alarm. The police had no clues either to the identity of the murderer or the motive for the killing.

  I found myself fretting about the apartment all morning waiting for Henry to phone me. I skimmed through the paper a half a dozen times before an item in the local section caught my eye.

  It seemed that once again some fool had bought a "money machine."

  This form of swindle was probably as old as currency itself. The victim was approached by a stranger claiming to have a money machine. One simply inserted a dollar, turned the handle, and a twenty dollar bill emerged from the opposite end. In this case, the victim had purchased the machine for five hundred dollars - the stranger claiming that he was forced to sell because he needed cash.

  People are incredible idiots!

  Couldn't the victim have the basic intelligence and imagination to realize that if the machine were actually genuine, all that the stranger had to do to get five hundred dollars himself was to turn the handle twenty-five times and transform twenty-five dollars into five hundred?

  Yes, people are monumental...

  I found myself reading the article again. Then I went to the liquor cabinet.