Adrian visibly started at this, giving me another venomous glance.
“So you see, I'm afraid we have you.”
He did stand then. He stared down at little Miss Enola and shook his head. “You have absolutely nothing, Miss Enola. No concrete evidence whatsoever tying me to anything. So I know Holloway, and maybe you have him, but that's not nearly enough. I can say that I met him in the pursuit of my investigation. Take this paper-thin story to the cops, and you'll be laughed out of the station.”
Miss Enola then laughed herself. She had such a little voice that you'd think her laugh would be a twitter, but it was full and rich. “Cops? How quaint. I have no intention of taking this to the police, young man. No, the person I informed is the man who so desperately wanted to know about it: Colin Pippinger. He believed every word of it.”
She looked at him with something akin to pity. “Frankly, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. I think he may react unpleasantly. Even violently.”
Adrian rapidly reached behind his back a pulled out a SIG Sauer P229 chambered in .40 caliber S&W. (I might not know a lot about cars, but I got guns covered.) He pointed it at her and then swiveled it toward Nicki and me. “Nobody move and nobody will get hurt. I'm leaving. Now.”
He slowly backed away, then turned and ran to the elevator. The car was already at the top, so all he had to do was open the doors and push the down button. As soon as we heard the doors close, Nicki and I rushed into the vestibule, followed closely by Miss Enola, whose wheels were not as fast as our feet.
Fredericks was already there, standing by the doors. She opened the panel above the call button and flipped a switch inside. The descending elevator's noise abruptly ceased.
“He should be stuck about a third of the way down, Miss Enola,” she said. “As soon as the authorities get here, I'll turn the power back on and they can meet him at the bottom.”
“I presume you got everything said and done in the dining room on video,” Miss Enola said.
“In living high definition. He looked right into the hidden camera without even realizing it.”
“What a fool he is,” Miss Enola said, shaking her head, “believing I would have dealings with a man the likes of Pippinger. Men are such children.”
“Wait a minute. Hidden camera?” I asked. “In the dining room? Where else have you got hidden cameras?”
“Everywhere, dear,” said Miss Enola, “including the garage. How did you think I knew you had ridden the bus to our first meeting?”
“When were you going to tell me?” By now I was turning red. “Everywhere? Even in my bedroom?”
“Only when you aren't using it.” She turned to Nicki. “I should have anticipated the pistol, though heaven knows why he thought he'd need it. Veronica, I trust that you will see to it that the proceeds from the reward will go to Melita Zielinski, less our expenses and fees.”
Finally, she turned back to me.
“Your conduct of the investigation could have been much better, Erica, but as the results are more or less satisfactory, no more need be said.”
More or less satisfactory? I bit my tongue.
She sighed. “Now I think I'll go lie down.”
Let the old biddy go to bed. That way I wouldn't have to look at her.
* * * *
That night, I heard the sobbing again. I pulled my pillow over my ears and tried to go back to sleep, and eventually I dropped off again.
The next morning, when I showed up for breakfast, Fredericks was already at the table with a big pot of black coffee. Without a word, I poured myself a cup and sat down. Fredericks looked like she hadn't had a very good night. Tough.
Her face tensed up as she struggled with a decision. Then she started to talk.
“Let me tell you a story, Erica. Once upon a time, there was a notorious private security firm that was contracted by the federal government to perform their particular services in a foreign nation invaded and occupied by U.S. forces. Most of the employees were big tough men, essentially mercenaries, former Special Forces warriors reeking of testosterone, gunpowder, and sweat, who thought more of themselves than of the military that had trained them. I make no excuses for them, but given how stretched national resources were at the time, their employment was appropriate in the face of what was a fanatical and violent insurgency. One of the company's employees, however, was a woman.”
“Let me guess.”
"Her duties were more specialized. Her job was to collect and analyze data in order to predict and counter terrorist activity; in other words, she was an intelligence analyst.”
“What a great job.”
“Her résumé was most impressive, but her previous employer and she had parted on somewhat acrimonious terms. Nevertheless, she felt it her duty to serve, even if in a purely civilian capacity, and so accepted a position with the firm.
“One day, she deduced from a variety of disparate sources that a moderately large attack was imminent on an American diplomatic convoy. When she provided her superiors with her conclusions, her warning was haughtily dismissed as unsubstantiated and improbable, given the extensive security measures already in place. To aggravate matters, she was ordered to provide a canned intelligence summary on behalf of the security company to a senior diplomatic official during the convoy's transit. When she refused on the grounds that such an order would directly place her in harm's way and was therefore contrary to her contractually noncombatant status, she was ordered, I might mention at her own insistence in writing, to present the briefing, or else be summarily dismissed for insubordination.”
“I can't imagine.”
“Then try. To get to the point, it was quite typical of her extraordinary foresight: Her prediction turned out to be entirely accurate. The vehicle she was in was bombed. Sixteen civilian bystanders and four Americans died, including the senior diplomat. In the ensuing melee, eight insurgents and twenty-three more civilians, including three children, were killed by the return fire of the private security forces. The consequences were disastrous on every level. She survived, but not without sustaining a debilitating spinal injury. She considered herself fortunate to be alive, and was very angry at all the death and damage.”
Suddenly I didn't feel like I'd been treated so badly.
“Notwithstanding her extreme disillusion, her resolve remained undaunted, her inner fire unquenched. She sued her employer and received a substantial, some might say exorbitant, settlement, enough to set herself up in luxury for life. But she vowed that she would never again be the victim of an arrogant and incompetent authority, nor would she suffer others to be such victims, if it was in her power to counter it. She accordingly set herself up as an independent intelligence analyst, and chose to dedicate her singular gifts to those in need, to protect them against the violent, the callous, and the officious. Because such a service is not valueless, she modeled it after a commercial detective agency, charging her clients according to their ability to pay.”
“And that's how the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team began?”
“It's just a story, Erica. I have mentioned no names. You won't find it recorded anywhere, at least not as I have told it.”
She waited a beat and then continued. “She was once young and impetuous too. She's wiser now.”
I slowly took a sip of coffee. “Where is she now?”
“In the hothouse, attending to the antheriums. She is not to be disturbed when she's gardening, except by her express orders.”
“Okay. I guess I can wait.”
I gazed out the window at the bright summer sky behind the gleaming skyscrapers. I had a job, I had a great place to stay, maybe I even had a future. All in all, things could be worse.
It looked like it was going to be a good day.
Copyright © 2012 Jolie McLarren Swann
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* * *
Department: THE STORY THAT WON
The January/February Mysterious Photograph contest was won b
y Sheri Graziano of Wheatfield, New York. Honorable mentions go to Wayne Savicki of Wyandotte, Michigan; Pamela Klacar of Exmouth, West Australia, Australia; Michael Haynes of Canal Winchester, Ohio; Nikki S. May of Lyons, Michigan; C. Rochelle Weidner of Kaneohe, Hawaii; Ronnie Stahlman of Payson, Arizona; J. F. Peirce of Georgetown, Texas; Benjamin H. Foreman of Port Orange, Florida; Gil Stern of Las Vegas, Nevada; Patrick Harrington of Needham, Massachusetts.
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Copyright (C) 2012 Ke Wang/Shutterstock.com
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LAST CALL
Sheri Graziano
It was a cold night. Vagrant Vince was amazed at his find, a fully enclosed phone booth, with an ocean view no less!
Kole would be so jealous . . .
Vince removed his top layer of clothing and began setting up house for the evening.
His two quarters jingled in his pocket. He fingered them thoughtfully as the temptation teased his mind.
Back in the old neighborhood there was a pay phone attached to the outside entrance wall of the drug store. With protection from the elements, the entrance way was a nice sleeping option he and Kole ewere constantly coming to fists over.
Kole would be there now, thinking he had beat Vince for the coveted spot. Ha ha. He would have the last laugh on Kole tonight. He giggled as he dialed.
When morning came, the paper boy stopped for a rest by the phone booth. He glanced over the cliff and noticed a pile of rags at the bottom.
He mentioned it to his mother when he got home. Disgusted, she called the police and reported the disgrace.
When the police responded they were shocked to find Vagrant Vince's body beneath the pile of clothing. From the footprints at the top of the cliff they deduced there had been a scuffle before the deadly fall.
They had no suspect until the next night when Kole showed up with his shopping cart full of personal effects, all set to decorate his new place.
Copyright © 2012 CoolR/ Shutterstock
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* * *
Department: COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2012
BIG WATTS by Doc Finch
BEEHIVE ROUND by Martin Limon
BRUTAL by Robert Lopresti
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
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Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 57, Nos. 7 and 8, July/August 2012. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call ‘-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2012 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. GST #R123054108.
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