Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  "Any ideas, Fuller?" Marcus said.

  "Not yet," Fuller said. "I've been trying to figure it."

  "So have I, but I haven't had any luck, and I doubt if I ever do. As I see it, a guy who got himself shot on a golf course must have been crazy, and crazy people make the worst kind of murder victims from a cop's point of view because it's almost impossible to figure logically why they did what they did that got them killed."

  Sure, Fuller thought. Read me a lecture about it, you topnotch snob. The Psychology of Nuts by Dr. Joseph Marcus.

  He was saved from making a reply by the return of the other uniform and a small man in Bermuda shorts and heavy ribbed stockings that reached almost to his knees. Marcus approved of the shorts, for he was always one for keeping comfortable, but he was damned if he could understand why anyone would deliberately qualify the effect of the shorts by wearing the stockings. Which was, however, he conceded, none of his business.

  "You the manager of this club?" Marcus said.

  "Yes," the small man said. "Paul Iverson."

  "I'm Lieutenant Joseph Marcus, Mr. Iverson. We've got a body here."

  "Yes, yes. I know. The officer told me."

  "He was shot."

  "It's incredible. I can hardly believe it."

  "It looks like someone took advantage of the privacy of your golf course to commit a murder."

  Iverson's expression, although indicating shock and a shade of nausea, was primarily one of resentment. Among the activities of the club, he palpably felt, one expected and accepted certain indiscretions and transgressions of the peccadillo type, but murder was neither expected nor acceptable and ought to cause someone to lose his membership.

  "Are you certain that it's murder?" he said. "Perhaps he killed himself."

  "With his finger, maybe?"

  "Oh, I see. There's no gun."

  "Right. No gun. Besides, there's no powder marks on his shirt. He was shot from a distance."

  "Do you think it could have been an accident of some sort?"

  "It could have been, but I don't think so."

  "Well, it's a terrible thing. Simply terrible. I can't understand it at all."

  "You're luckier than me. You don't have to understand it. All you have to do is see if you recognize the body."

  Iverson hesitated, then walked over to the body and looked intently for a moment into blind blue eyes. When he straightened and turned back to Marcus, the shade of nausea in his face had deepened, but there was also a new element of relief, as if the worst, which had been anticipated, had not developed.

  "I don't know him," he said. "I can assure you that he was not a member of this club."

  "Well, that's all right," Marcus said with an unworthy feeling of spite. "Maybe the murderer is."

  "I believe you'll find that he is not. I find it inconceivable that a member of this club should be involved in anything like this. It will create a dreadful fuss, I'm afraid, as it is. We may have some withdrawals."

  "Are you positive this man was not a member? His name was Alexander Gray."

  "I'm quite positive. Our membership is limited, rather exclusive, and I'm acquainted with all members. That's why I'm convinced that none of them could be involved."

  "Even exclusive people can commit murder, Mr. Iverson. Possibly even exclusive people you happen to be acquainted with. Never mind, though. Thanks for coming down."

  Marcus turned away abruptly, and there was in his movement an implication of disdain that made Iverson flush and Sergeant Fuller curse softly under his breath. Aware that he had been dismissed, the manager went back across the course toward the Club House, only the roof of which was visible beyond the rise. Marcus went over and picked up the brown worsted jacket from the grass where he had dropped it after exploring the pockets.

  "I wonder where the coroner is," he said.

  "He'll be along," Fuller said.

  "Well, I won't wait for him. You stay here and find out what he's got to say. Nothing much, I suspect. Because he never does."

  Sergeant Fuller was curious about Marcus's plans, but he was damned if he would give him the satisfaction of knowing it. He watched Marcus go off toward the Club House, where they'd left their car in the parking lot, and he cursed again under his breath, Marcus for what he was, and the coroner for not coming.

  In the car, unaware that he had been cursed, or even that he had given cause for cursing, Marcus checked Alexander Gray's driver's license for an address. The street and number rang a faint bell, and he sat quietly for a minute, concentrating, trying to fit the location properly into a kind of mental map of the city. If his mental cartography was correct, which it was, Gray had lived not more than a mile from the entrance to this club. Probably somewhat less. Marcus looked at his watch and saw that it was two minutes after nine o'clock. Starting the car, he drove down a macadam drive and slipped into the traffic of a busy suburban street. He swung off after a while and was soon parked at the curb in front of a buff brick apartment building which displayed in large chrome numbers above the double front doors the address on the license.

  Inside on the ground floor, he found the apartment of the building superintendent, who turned out to be, when he had opened his door in response to Marcus's ring, a wispy little man with wispy gray hair and pince-nez clipped to the bridge of a surprisingly bold nose. Marcus introduced himself and received an introduction. The superintendent's name was Mr. Everett Price.

  "Is there an Alexander Gray living in the building?" Marcus asked.

  "Yes." Mr. Price removed the pince-nez, which were, of course attached to a black ribbon, and held them by the spring clip in his right hand. "He's in three-o-six. He shares the apartment with Mr. Rufus Fleming."

  "Oh? Have Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming shared the apartment long?"

  "About two years, I think. Yes, two years this summer. Perfect gentlemen, both of them. Quiet and good-mannered. There is, in fact, something old-fashioned in their manners. Rather courtly, you know. It isn't often, nowadays, that you find that quality in younger men."

  "I agree. It's rare. Do you know if Mr. Fleming is in at the moment?"

  "No, I don't. It's possible, however, this being Saturday. Mr. Fleming doesn't work on Saturday."

  "I wish I didn't. I believe I'll just go up and speak with Mr. Fleming, if you don't mind."

  Mr. Price looked confused. He scrubbed the lenses of the pince-nez with a clean white handkerchief and clipped them to his big nose again, peering at Marcus as if he had decided that some revision of his first judgment of him had become necessary.

  "Excuse me," he said. "I thought you wanted to see Mr. Gray."

  "I didn't say that," Marcus said. "I only asked if Mr. Gray lived here."

  "Yes. So you did. I made an assumption, I suppose. In any event, it's quite likely that both gentlemen are in this morning."

  "I wonder if you would come up with me. Just in case neither of them is."

  Now Mr. Price looked startled. Possibly he had suddenly gathered from Marcus's tone that Marcus was certainly going up in spite of anything, although willing to make a nice pretense of asking permission, and that the superintendent was damn well coming up with him, whether he was agreeable or not.

  "What on earth for?" Mr. Price said.

  "So that you can let me into the apartment, if that is necessary."

  "Oh, I couldn't do that without authorization from the tenants. It's unthinkable."

  "Is it? I don't believe so. You can try thinking about it on the way up. You may change your mind."

  "I'm reasonably certain that either Mr. Fleming or Mr. Gray will be in on a Saturday morning."

  "Mr. Fleming, maybe. Not Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray will never be in again. He's dead. He has, it seems, been murdered."

  The pince-nez popped off Mr. Price's nose and jerked and swung at the end of their ribbon. Marcus had a bleak vision of a trap sprung, a body hanging.

  "What did you say?"

  Marcus didn't bother to repeat himself. He merely
waited for the information to soak in and become tenable.

  "This is dreadful," Mr. Price said.

  "So it is."

  "Why would anyone murder Mr. Gray? He was such a pleasant man."

  "Pleasant people are sometimes murdered. Usually by unpleasant people."

  "When did it happen? Where?"

  "Never mind that now. You'll know soon enough. Everyone will. Now I would like to go upstairs and see Mr. Fleming if he's in, or look through the apartment if he's not."

  "Yes," said Mr. Price. "Yes, of course."

  They went up three floors and rang the bell of three-o-six. Mr. Fleming was either not in or not answering. The former was true, as Marcus learned immediately after Mr. Price had opened the door for him. The apartment consisted of a living room, a large bedroom with two beds, a bath and a small kitchen. No one was there. The beds were made and the kitchen was clean and the living room was orderly. Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming had been tidy housekeepers. Mr. Fleming, so far as Marcus knew, still was.

  "Did Fleming spend the night here?" he asked.

  "I don't know. He was here early, as Mr. Gray was, but he may have gone out again and not returned."

  "All right. Thanks. I won't need you any longer. And don't worry about the apartment. I'll leave it in good order."

  Mr. Price didn't look convinced, but he left. Marcus went into the bedroom and began to prowl. He opened drawers and looked into closets, but all he achieved was confirmation of the judgment he had already made - that Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming were clean and orderly enough to please the most fastidious woman. In the living room, after poking into places and scanning the titles of books that struck him as being intolerably dull on the whole, he stopped before the mantel of a dummy fireplace to look at a picture. A photograph of a young woman. Inscribed. He took it down and read the inscription: For Rufe and Alex with all my love, Sandy. The double inscription implied a Platonic meaning at variance, it seemed to Marcus, with the totality of love. He scratched his head and examined Sandy's face.

  It was a lovely face. A wistful face. Shaped like a small, lean heart. Big eyes with sadness in them. Tenderness in them. Passion in them? Passion, at least, in the soft lips set in the merest of smiles. In spite of the suggested passion, however, there was - Marcus groped for the word - a kind of mysticism. He was falling, in an instant, half in love.

  Putting the photograph back on the mantel, he turned away. Then he turned back. On the mantel, placed squarely below a reproduction of Daumier's Don Quixote and Sancho Panza that hung on the wall above, was a sizable leather case. He removed the case and opened it. Inside, nested in plush, was a matched pair of .22 caliber target pistols. Both clean. Both lately oiled. Beautifully cared for. The purloined letter still makes its point, he thought. In his attention to drawers and closets, he had nearly overlooked the case in plain sight. Not, so far as he could see at the moment, that it would have made any particular difference if he had. Nevertheless, he appropriated the case and took it with him when he left. That was after he had returned once more to the bathroom and stood for a few minutes with an abstracted air before the open medicine cabinet above the lavatory.

  Downstairs, he rang the superintendent's bell again. Mr. Price, clearly relieved to see him on his way out, made a polite effort not to show it.

  "Are you finished, Lieutenant?" he said.

  "Yes. For the present, at least. I'm taking this with me. It's a pair of matched target pistols. Was either Mr. Gray or Mr. Fleming an enthusiast for target shooting, do you know?"

  "Both were, as a matter of fact. Sunday mornings, fair days, they have gone off regularly for matches. I believe they made small wagers. I do hope you will take good care of the pistols."

  "The best. I'll give you a receipt for them if you want me to."

  "I'm sure that won't be necessary."

  "Thanks. By the way, there's a photograph on the mantel upstairs. A young lady. Blonde hair cut quite short. Very pretty face. It's signed Sandy. Do you know her by any chance?"

  "I've met her. Miss Sandra Shore. She was introduced to me in the hall one evening when I happened to encounter her with Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming. Afterward, on several occasions, I exchanged a few words with her when she came to call."

  "Has she come here often?"

  "Frequently. Many times, I suppose, when I didn't see her. I'm sure that it was all quite proper. She was equally the friend of both gentlemen. They had been friends, she told me once, since childhood. It was quite a charming relationship."

  "I'm sure it was. Tell me, do you know Miss Shore's address?"

  "No, but it's probably in the directory."

  "Would you mind checking it for me?"

  "Not at all."

  Marcus was invited in, but he preferred to wait in the hall. After a few minutes Mr. Price returned with the address written down on a sheet from a memo pad. Engaging again in mental cartography, Marcus located the address in relation to where he was.

  "One more question, if you don't mind," he said, "and I'll run along. I assume both Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming own automobiles?"

  "Only one between them, which they both used. One might think that such an arrangement would lead to difficulties, but they apparently worked it out very well."

  "Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming seem to have been extremely compatible. Share apartment. Share car. Share girl. Most commendable. Where is the car kept?"

  "There's a garage at the rear, just off the alley. Stall number five. The automobile, if you wish to know, is a Ford. I'm not sure of the model. Recent, however."

  "Thanks again. You've been most helpful."

  Marcus turned with his sometimes offensive abruptness and went out of the building and around to the garage. Stall number five was occupied by a 1960 Ford. Mr. Fleming, wherever he was, was obviously moving either by shank's mare or in some other vehicle than his own. Marcus, in the one furnished by the department, drove to the address on the memo sheet, and this time it was unnecessary to disturb the superintendent, for there was a directory of tenants in the entrance hall that told him where to go, and he went.

  The photographer who had taken Sandra Shore's picture, he learned, was an artist. He had caught on paper precisely the elfin and haunting quality of her face. The sadness and tenderness and passion assembled in the lean heart. Now, in person, there was more, of course. A small and slender body exquisitely formed, suggesting its delights in a boyish white blouse and a narrow skirt. Marcus, in the hall, held his hat and offered up a short and silent paean.

  "Yes?" Sandra Shore said.

  "My name is Marcus," Marcus said. "Lieutenant Joseph Marcus. Of the police. I wonder if I may speak with you for a few minutes?"

  She surveyed him gravely, her head cocked a little to one side.

  "Whatever for?"

  "It will take only a few minutes. I'd appreciate it very much."

  "Well, if you are actually a policeman, you will certainly speak with me whether I am willing or not, so there isn't really much use in asking my permission, is there?"

  "It distresses me, but I must admit that you're right. Thank you for clarifying the situation so nicely. May I come in?"

  She nodded and closed the door after him, when he was across the threshold. Following her into the living room to a chair in which he sat, he admired her neat ankles and lovely legs. When she was in another chair across from him, the narrow skirt tucked primly beneath her knees, which showed, he continued to admire the legs for a moment, discreetly, but soon went back to her face, which was the best of her, after all, in spite of distractions.

  "You don't look like a policeman," she said.

  "Don't I? I wouldn't know. What is a policeman supposed to look like?"

  "I'm not sure. Not like you, however. What do you wish to speak with me about?"

  "Not what, really. Who. A young man named Alexander Gray."

  "Alex?" She managed to appear slightly incredulous without, somehow, disturbing the serenity of her expression. "What possible
interest could the police have in Alex?"

  "He's dead. Murdered, apparently. Someone shot him sometime early this morning on the course of the Greenbrier Golf Club."

  She sat quite still, her only movement the folding of her hands in her lap. In her great, grave eyes there was a slight darkening, as if a light had been turned down.

  "That's ridiculous."

  "The truth is often ridiculous. Things don't seem to make sense."

  "Alex isn't even a member of the Greenbrier Golf Club."

  "Apparently you don't have to be a member to be killed on the course."

  "I simply refuse to believe you. It's cruel of you to come here and tell me such a lie."

  "It would be cruel if I did. And pointless."

  "I see what you mean. You would have no reason. Unless there's a reason that I can't understand. Is there?"

  "No. None whatever. Surely you realize that."

  "I suppose I do. I suppose I must believe you after all." She stood up suddenly and walked over to a window and stood there for a minute looking out, slim and erect against the glass, her pale hair catching afire from the slanting light. Then she returned, sitting again, tucking the skirt and folding her hands. "Poor Alex," she said. "Poor little Alex."

  He hadn't been so little. Average height, at least, but Marcus skipped it. Miss Sandra Shore was striking him as a remarkable young woman. There was genuine grief in her voice, in her darkened eyes, but her face was in repose, fixed as serenely in shock and grief as it had been in the photograph.

  "You are very composed under the circumstances," he said. "I'm relieved and thankful."

  "Perhaps I can't quite accept it yet, in spite of knowing that it must be true."

  "Sometimes it takes a while for things to hit us hard. Do you feel like talking with me now?"

  "What do you want to know?"

  "You were a good friend of Alexander Gray's. Is that true?"

  "Yes, it's true, but I can't imagine how you know. Unless you've talked with Rufe. Have you?"

  "Rufus Fleming? No. I'd like to talk with him, however. I don't know where he is."