Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 01/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “Can you eat a midnight supper? Because I’ve got the use of your bed and breakfast’s kitchen, and that’s where I’m calling from.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Make it fifteen; I have to open the wine.”

  Copyright © 2010 Doc Finch

  Previous Article Next Article

  Previous Article Next Article

  Fiction

  ARCHIE’S ESCAPE

  WILLIAM F. SMITH

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Valsivio, I just don’t have the money right now.” Archie Vernon’s pale blue eyes were wide with apprehension as he waited for the man on the other side of the counter to react to his statement.

  In the old days, Rod Valsivio, hearing such a remark, simply would have reached over, dragged Vernon from behind the counter, and beat the hell out of him. But nowadays the organization was different, more polite, more refined. Why I’m almost a damn executive, he thought. I even have to wear a suit and tie! He looked at the fearful grocer, suppressed a desire to curse, and said nothing until he had finished the second of two chocolate-filled cupcakes he had helped himself to from a nearby rack and washed it down with the dregs of the pint of milk he had appropriated from the store’s refrigerated case. He carefully inserted the crumpled wrappings into the waxed carton, which he tossed to the grocer for disposal in the wastebasket behind the counter.

  Despite their superficial similarities—forty-something men of average height and ordinary looks, starting to get a little thick around the middle—the differences between them were obvious from their demeanor. Vernon, in his white grocer’s apron, had a deferential attitude that made him appear meek and obsequious. Valsivio, on the other hand, wearing an expensive handmade suit, a matching hat with the front brim turned down, and a huge diamond on his ring finger, moved and spoke with the domineering authority of a man who gave orders and got what he wanted, but also a man who could execute the commands of his superiors without a qualm.

  “You know company policy, Archie. The premium is due and payable every Tuesday. There’s no grace period. If I have to remove the Big M logo from your window, you won’t have our organization’s protection. You know what that can mean.”

  Vernon shrank back visibly but kept his eyes on Valsivio’s. “I’ll have it today, honest, Mr. Valsivio. I just forgot it was Tuesday, and I don’t have that much money in the register. I’ve had some personal problems, you know, and I’ve got to run the store by myself now. I’ll need a little time to get the cash from the bank. Can’t you come back after you’ve made your other collections? I’ll have it for sure then.”

  Valsivio ran his well-manicured fingernails across his clean-shaven jaw. “Out of the question. I wouldn’t be able to get back here until after six, and I’d have to drive miles out of my way. You know I’m always here at nine. You should have had the money ready.”

  “I know, I know. But my wife’s been sick, and I’m worried frantic about her. I just forgot. Please,” Vernon begged, his eyes beginning to show moisture. “I don’t want my policy to lapse. I can’t afford it. Just this once, Mr. Valsivio, please. I won’t forget again. You know I’ve made payments regularly for nearly nine months. Please, just this one time.” He began to cry.

  Valsivio looked at him with disgust, glad there was no one else in the store. He was aware of Vernon’s problems. Big M made it a point to keep current information about their clients. Vernon’s business had dropped off drastically since his wife had been hospitalized several months ago. And the recent opening of a big chain market a few blocks away had made the little mom-and-pop grocery less appealing to the customers. The supermarket was open twenty-four hours a day, had lower prices and plenty of free parking. Vernon wouldn’t be able to compete. He’d probably be bankrupt before the year was out, but the company would go on collecting until he folded. Valsivio figured Vernon would have to borrow the money to make today’s payment, but he couldn’t care less, as long as he collected and kept his accounts in order.

  “All right, all right,” Valsivio acceded. “But it’ll cost you an extra fifty vigorish. I’ll be back at six fifteen sharp. Have the money ready.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Vernon blubbered, wiping his eyes with a corner of his apron. “I’ll have it for you.”

  Archie Vernon watched Valsivio leave, breathed a huge sigh, then smiled. The biggest hurdle in The Plan had been cleared. The rest should be a piece of cake. He put the CLOSED sign in the window, locked the door, and went into the small storage room where he had been living since selling his house to pay Laura’s astronomical medical expenses.

  He lay down on his cot and closed his eyes. In the darkness of his mind, the problems of the past nine months moved in and out of focus in kaleidoscopic confusion. He tried to put them in their proper sequence. First, the sudden rash of robberies and acts of vandalism. Next, the appearance of Mr. Rod Valsivio and friends, who had “become aware” of his difficulties, which they were certain their company, Big M, could alleviate. For four hundred dollars a week, they would guarantee to cut his losses nearly one hundred percent. Vernon’s business at that time was fairly profitable, and even though four hundred a week was a huge sum to him, it was nowhere near the amount he had been losing to the local thugs. So he had agreed. After the PROTECTED BY BIG M sign had been placed in the store window, the robberies and vandalism came miraculously to a virtual standstill. Valsivio had explained that anyone who saw the sign knew he had better take it seriously. The organization dealt harshly with those who were imprudent enough to disregard the clear message of the logo.

  Laura had not liked the arrangement. She wanted to sell the store and move north. Archie argued that the business could not be sold in the economy of the day and that to get any benefit from it, they would have to continue to run the store themselves. Laura was almost ready to file for divorce when she became so ill she had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery and weeks of intensive care. The costs were beyond belief. Vernon had no medical insurance, and now the funds from the sale of the house were almost exhausted. He was going to have to come up with a great deal more money to pay his wife’s expenses. The doctors informed him Laura would need around-the-clock hospital care for at least six months, then she could be looked after in a convalescent center or at home. But Vernon no longer had a home. His married daughter lived two thousand miles away with a family of her own. The only solution was to acquire enough money somehow, so that Laura’s future care would be assured.

  For a moment he had thought of killing himself, so the life insurance money would be available. But in spite of his problems, Archie Vernon had no desire to die. There seemed to be no way to come up with the kind of money he needed. He couldn’t sell the building which housed his store because he didn’t own it. He was already three months behind in the rent, and many of his other creditors were reminding him of how much he owed them. It was at his moment of greatest despair when The Plan suddenly formed in his mind. It was incredibly simple. He had been paying Big M for nine months; now Big M was going to be the means of his salvation.

  Three weeks ago, after Valsivio’s weekly visit, Vernon had closed the store and followed the collector on his rounds. In addition to protection premiums from nearly a hundred stores, Valsivio also collected his organization’s bookmaking income from bars, newsstands, and barbershops, which Vernon was sure were fronts for off-track betting. He figured that when Valsivio finished his rounds, the satchel he carried probably contained well over a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe even two hundred.

  The fact that he would have to kill Rod Valsivio to carry out his plan didn’t bother Archie Vernon in the least. To him, Valsivio was not a real person, but an inhuman machine. He knew how the mobster had acquired the nickname Rod. It wasn’t because his first name was Rodney, but because he made frequent, efficient use of his gun on many occasions when he deemed it necessary to enforce company policy.

  At six fifteen precisely there was a banging on the front d
oor. “Hey, Archie, open up! It’s me.”

  Valsivio was not in an ideal “executive” mood when Vernon admitted him. “What the hell’s the idea of closing up? I told you I’d be here right after six.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Valsivio. There weren’t any customers and I desperately needed a nap.” He quietly locked the door behind him. Valsivio was so steamed, he didn’t notice.

  “You damn well better have the cash.”

  Vernon now had more self-assurance than he had displayed in the morning. He held out an envelope to Valsivio, who opened it and extracted the money. “There’s eight fifty here,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “I know,” Vernon explained. “I want to pay for next week in advance. My wife’s having another operation and I’ll be closing the store Tuesday. I thought it would save you a trip. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  The cash had an immediate, soothing effect on the collector. “It’s unusual, but the company can accommodate you.” He put the money in the bulging satchel and made a notation in the small notebook he carried. “God, what a day! Never saw worse smog or traffic.”

  This was just the opening the grocer had been hoping for. “Now, how about some cupcakes and milk? Ease your tension.”

  “Good idea, Archie,” Valsivio agreed, accepting the package offered him. “I can’t resist these little devils. Hand me a milk, will you?”

  Couldn’t be better, Vernon thought. If Valsivio had not accepted the refreshments, Vernon would have had to switch to his alternate plan, which required violence and therefore a degree of uncertainty. He was sure the mobster was accustomed to coping with violence, but that he would never suspect the milk contained enough chloral hydrate to fell an ox.

  The drug worked effectively. Valsivio collapsed to the floor before the second cupcake was half eaten. There was no turning back now, so Archie Vernon worked fast. He verified the contents of the bag, using his adding machine to total the sums entered in the little notebook—$198,640. Close enough to two hundred grand to satisfy Vernon.

  He half carried, half dragged Valsivio into the back room and dumped him onto the cot. He removed Valsivio’s watch and ring, replacing them with his own. After exchanging clothing with the mobster, Vernon was pleased to find the dark gray pinstripe a nearly perfect fit. He took a can of lighter fluid from the store and emptied the contents over the body, the bed and the wooden floor. His plan was that Valsivio would be burned beyond recognition and the body would be identified as Archie Vernon, who had been stupid enough to smoke in bed.

  He smiled as he thought of several bonuses his plan would reap. The contents of the store were insured for two hundred thousand, his life insurance was fifty thousand, and Valsivio’s diamond ring should be worth about twenty grand. It worked out just about even. A little over two hundred thousand for Laura’s expenses and about the same for Vernon’s new life. By using the name of a friend who had died years ago, he had already secured a birth certificate, which he would use to obtain a driver’s license and other necessary documents. He was happy Laura would be cared for. In any event, he could do no more for her. When things were going smoothly in a year or so, he might return to see her, but he really had no hope she would be able to recognize him again.

  Placing an unlit, half-smoked cigarette in Valsivio’s right hand, Vernon dropped a crumpled pack on the floor. The fire investigators would probably find no traces of them, but it paid to take everything into account.

  The expensive clothes he was wearing gave Vernon a new confidence. He put on the hat, which must have cost more than his own best suit, pulled down the brim the way Valsivio wore it, and glanced in the small mirror affixed to the storeroom door. Very good. Clothes do make the man, he thought. When I leave here, no one will recognize me. He lit a cigarette and inserted the unlit end into a book of matches. In about eight or ten minutes, he figured, the cigarette would burn down sufficiently to ignite the matches, which would set fire to the lighter fluid–soaked cot, turning the storeroom into an inferno, cremating Valsivio. He picked up the empty can, grabbed the bag of money, and left the store, locking the door behind him.

  Vernon moved directly to Valsivio’s dark blue Cadillac Escalade, parked so that it took up three of the lot’s five parking spaces, unlocked the door, and slid behind the wheel. He took a minute or two to acquaint himself with the unfamiliar instrument panel before starting the car and driving off. Eight blocks from the store he stopped, got out, and put the lighter fluid can into a city trash container. He drove to Century Boulevard, heading to Los Angeles International Airport by way of Inglewood.

  While still a few blocks from the airport, Vernon glanced up into the darkening sky where he could see the lights of the big jets which were landing every couple of minutes. He patted the satchel beside him and smiled. Complete success. He thought of the small northern California town where he would begin his new life.

  A traffic light turned red at an intersection near Hollywood Park Racetrack. Driving cautiously, Vernon came to a smooth stop. An Escalade identical to the one he was driving pulled up on his left. The right front window was rolled most of the way down, and a young man seated next to the driver was glaring at him.

  “Good-bye, Valsivio,” he shouted above the traffic noises. “No one skips with company funds.”

  Archie Vernon’s eyes widened with sudden understanding as a gun barrel appeared over the edge of the glass and he saw a whitish-orange burst of flame before everything became black and silent.

  Copyright © 2010 William F. Smith

  Previous Article Next Article

  Previous Article

  Fiction

  THE LITTLE ONES HAVE MORE FLAVOR

  DAN CRAWFORD

  “Apples, apples!”

  “Come away. I think she’s selling apples.”

  “Apples!” Polijn sang each iteration of the word with a slightly different tone, in hopes that they might ask for a song later on. If she was interesting enough, the cries could also conceal the fact that the old tree just beyond the square was loaded with apples just like these ... since that was where she’d picked them.

  “Apples?” The rather fierce and buxom blonde who carried a tray of big, red apples and was overly curious about who had given Polijn permission to sell apples here was pushing past a knot of men discussing the dry spell. Polijn put the apple in her hip pouch, put one hand over that and another over the shoulder strap, and moved along through the crowd herself.

  Two tumblers were balancing near and almost toppling onto the kegs on the beer wagon, to mild screeches from the barmaid presiding over the stand. The lack of real outrage in those shrieks suggested the tumblers had been asked to endanger the wares so more people would notice them. A few feet away a bearded man sat on a stump and offered to paint dragon wings on face, arms, or whatever you offered to his brushes.

  Guards stood near the door of the old Dragon Slayers Hall, but so did a cider wagon. The hall was a bright but grim old building, in spite of or because of its recent renovation. The heavy doorway was original, but the brassbound wooden door was new. Crude bronze dragons snarled to the left and right of the entrance. These were old, but the toothy gilded dragon head above the door was new. The silver-pink gazebo four yards from the doorway was completely the inspiration of Lord Thoringhold, whose money had paid for the restoration and the grand opening festival as well. A frothy shell, it was high and delicate and expensive, and was said to have been inspired by Lady Thoringhold’s hairdo. A small band sat waiting for its cue to play dramatic music when Lord Thoringhold officially opened the Dragon Hall door for the first time.

  “Nothing like an apple with that sausage sandwich.” Carasta was right there, of course. The one-eyed minstrel Polijn had taken up with when banished from her homeland was busy drumming up business. That kind of drumming was more his trade than singing, and to be precise, he had insisted she join him, seeing a chance to enhance his own performances and profits. A jolly, cheerful chatterbox, he pushed thro
ugh the crowd, dapper in the bright green cape he’d bought from apple sales in three previous towns.

  Polijn would as soon have drawn their attention with a song; the apples were his idea. “Then if they don’t want to hear a tune, we’ll still make a few pennies.” The “we” was a little fantasy of his own as well. He believed in perfect division of labor: Polijn risked life and limb in rickety old apple trees, Polijn sold the apples, and Carasta dealt with collections and expenditures.

  No one rushed to her to buy an apple, and Polijn eased farther from the minstrel, into the crowds of children who surrounded vendors selling dragon puppets, and dragon hats, and little jackets for dressing ducks up as dragons. The children laughed and applauded the puppets, and dared each other to approach “the dragon.”

  “Keep clear, miss! Keep clear.” Polijn nodded, and willingly moved on.

  A small dragonlike creature not a tenth the size of the real thing crouched on a stone step in the terraced green. It was the closest thing to a dragon seen in these parts since the glory days of the Dragon Hall, a firesprite. Rare enough in itself, it was the size of a pony, and was suffered to survive because, in spite of its name, it was a flameless vegetarian. If it couldn’t breathe fire, Polijn wonder why it should be called a firesprite. Still, after all, Carasta called himself a singer.

  People studied it from a distance, obviously admiring the bravery of the two men who guarded the ropes that held it down. It was not taking much interest in them. Yellow translucent wings drooped behind it, and faceted yellow eyes blinked without much expression. It seemed so obviously resigned to sitting there that Polijn felt a certain sympathy. Reaching into her pouch, she waved a small pink apple for a moment until the eyes turned toward it, then she tossed it into the air. The crowd applauded as the firesprite, stretching its neck just a bit, caught it in the air. Gratified by the fruit or by the applause, its eyes glittered red for a moment.