Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 04/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “Not our concern. The police will sort that one out, bad as it is. But we’ve got to put a stop to this kind of campus shenanigans. Graduation is just two weeks away, and it’s already disrupting everything.”

  Both glanced at the students milling around on the lawn below the window. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the subject of their conversation. The photographer was setting up his camera and tripod in the spot the cannon had stood. He was aiming his lens at the roof.

  “This prank is striking at the heart of everything this college stands for. Find who is responsible. An example must be made.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the younger man.

  “There’s history in that cannon. My grandfather, your great-grandfather, was one of the army advisors to Robert Parker Parrott, who invented that cannon at the West Point Foundry in 1861. Did I tell you the company he commanded used them in the War Between the States?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember.”

  “And this . . . couldn’t have come at a worse time. Some members of the board of regents have been talking about the need for new leadership here. Insane idea. My father and his father . . . our family, our heritage . . . are the foundation of this institution.”

  “So you’ve said, sir.”

  “I’ve expected someday you should step into my shoes. We could name a building after you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got to find some way to get it down from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And quickly. Without doing it any damage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Albert V. Millbank turned back to face the window and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Awesome cannon, for its time,” he said.

  “Wake up, Sam!” an out-of-breath Jerry said. “We got big trouble.”

  “Mmmf . . . what . . . the cannon fell off the roof?”

  “Ol’ Duckworth, the fella who was shot last night—”

  “We already heard . . .” Sam turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

  Jerry grabbed Sam’s shoulder and shook it vigorously.

  “It’s Luke! He’s been arrested for shooting ol’ Duckworth last night.”

  “Impossible,” Sam said. Awake now, he arose and sat on the edge of the bed. “Luke was hiding in the attic of the administration building since six o’clock last night.”

  “Well, the cops got him.”

  “He couldn’t have done anything like that. He let us in right after Duckworth locked up and started walking home. He was with us until this morning when we watched everyone sunburning the roofs of their mouths.”

  “When I came back to our apartment, one of the fellows told me what happened. He said a couple of the cops were sort of loose with the lips, saying how they’ve got a witness who saw Duckworth shot down last night. Says he was shot from a passing car, about a block from the women’s dorm. And their witness says it was Luke’s Speedster and Luke was driving it and doing the shooting.”

  “Couldn’t have. He has an alibi.”

  “Yeah, and we’re it.”

  “It’s a frame-up.”

  “While I was there, a couple of cops were still there searching his room and his car. They found a gun under the driver’s seat of his car.”

  “I can’t believe Luke owned a gun. Somebody put it there.”

  “Obviously.”

  “How long ago did they arrest him?”

  “Must have been an hour, hour and a half ago.”

  “They arrested him that long ago, and no one’s looked us up? You know what that means?”

  “Yeah, I’d guess Luke’s just clammed up, not saying where he was last night. If he told the cops where he was, they’d already be looking for us to back him up.”

  “And Millbank would already be knocking on our door expelling us.”

  “Luke’s a pretty straight-up fella. He’s the kind of guy takes a pact like ours very seriously. He probably sees an oath as an oath.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I dunno. I’m just telling. You’ll figure it out.”

  Sam was silent for a moment, then fell back heavily on the bed.

  “Two weeks before graduation,” he said, “and it’s blown up in our faces. Jerry, I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

  Albert V. Millbank still stood looking down at the empty concrete pad. Only a few students lingered to continue their speculations. The reporter and photographer who had arrived earlier were gone, along with another pair who arrived only a few moments after.

  “I don’t like to think how we are going to get the cannon back down. A heavy crane is going to be needed and it’s going to cost hundreds of dollars. And where we’ll find one that big this side of New York City, I don’t know.”

  His son, Philo V. Millbank, joined him at the window.

  “Something as big as this, sooner or later the pranksters will brag about it. We’ll hear.”

  “I don’t want to wait for that. I want them now. Pranks indeed. I’ll see them expelled! I’ll see they’ll never get in another college!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tomfoolery like this . . . and at a time like this. I suspect two of the new members of the board of regents have been talking to some of our staff.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Some of the board are still loyal alumni. There will be a meeting. As early as several weeks from now. It would help if we had some movement in donor pledges. Like that one from the moving picture fellow . . .”

  “Andrew Kane.”

  “Yes, that one. He mentioned some property he might donate to the college. He was very vague, and he’s postponed it several times. I’ve taken the trouble numerous times to mention it to that son of his—his name is Samuel—but it’s not done any good.”

  The two were silent for a moment.

  “I’ve just spoken to the head custodian,” Philo V. Millbank said. “He claims there’s no way that cannon could have been moved to the roof overnight. He thought I was joking. Probably still thinks so.”

  “Hasn’t he seen it?”

  “When I found him, he was busy with one of his men repairing a broken water line in one of the dorms. He’d been there most of the night. With Duckworth dead, he says he’s short of help.”

  “Get him over here. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And see if he thinks the old roof beams are going to be damaged by all that weight. This building is seventy years old and that cannon must weigh at least two thousand pounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The younger man left the room. He was gone for no more than a minute when he came through the door again, without knocking.

  “There’s been a development, sir.”

  Albert V. Millbank turned to face the door.

  “About the cannon?”

  “No, sir. About the murder of the custodian, Mr. Duckworth. The police have made an arrest.”

  “Good, now perhaps we can concentrate on finding who put our cannon up on the roof.”

  Sam was trying to retreat deeper into his pillow.

  “I let Millbank get to me, Jerry. All year, he’s been finding occasions to mention some property my father said he might donate to the school. Then he sends my dean after me, and he said they might have to look into my transfer credits, but hinted they wouldn’t if I could help hurry the donation along . . . the whole thing was bogus. They already looked at my records when I came last fall. There’s nothing wrong with any of them.”

  “I thought that was a little underhanded, myself. You tell your dad about that?”

  “I did. My dad told me he pretty much had Millbank figured out from the start. I guess the donation was to sort of grease the skids to get me enrolled here in the first place. I know he intends to do it, but what’s the hurry? I don’t know, maybe there’s complications in the title to the property, and straightening it out takes time.”

  “So, what are we gonna do?”


  Sam sat up again.

  “Jerry, we may be carrying that solemn pact business too far. This is serious. There was nothing in the pact that said one of us had to go to jail rather than—”

  “Are you saying we go and give ourselves up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder what Luke would say.”

  “He’s probably saying ‘get me out of here!’”

  “Cops’ll find out who really did it, and they’ll hav’ta let Luke go.”

  “What makes you think they’re going to do any more looking? You said they’ve got a witness, and they’ve got Luke. They’ve got all they need. What are the chances they’ll keep looking unless we tell them where he was?”

  “C’mon, Sam, the prank of the century, and you want to give it up already?”

  “Maybe Luke’ll come to his senses and spill the beans . . . that’ll settle it. This morning, you were the one who thought we might have been too hasty with that oath.”

  “I was half awake and that was sleepy talkin’.”

  “Jerry, look, having a little fun with Millbank and his heritage is one thing, getting even for trying to pressure my father through me—well, that’s another thing, but this is serious. Somehow the pact doesn’t seem so important anymore. We can’t just let Luke hang out there like last week’s washing.”

  “We do that, we’ll be out of here so fast we won’t even see the doorframe when it goes by.”

  “I could leave you out of it. I’ll tell them it was just me and Luke. If I can’t get into another college, I’ll just have to go to work in the family business. All I’m going to college for, when it comes down to it, is to postpone that as long as possible.”

  “Lissen, Sam. We can’t waste this. There’s gotta be another way. We can fix it.”

  “I wish we could, but I sure don’t see it.”

  “You’re the genius. You figured out how to get that cannon onto the roof.”

  Sam and Jerry engaged in a little eye-contact jousting for a few seconds. Sam lost when he looked away.

  “Okay, if we were going to try something,” Sam said, “we’d have to start with the witness. Who is it, says Luke shot the old fellow?”

  “The cops who took Luke away didn’t mention a name. I checked the morning paper on the way over here. There’s a story about Duckworth, and it mentions a witness but gives no name. They go to press too early to have any mention of Luke’s arrest.”

  “The cops obviously know. But if we ask them, they’ll want to know why we want to know, and we open the whole thing up.” Sam paused, considering. “You know what the big problem is going to be—if we find this mystery witness—what do we do, say ‘please change your story, get our pal out of jail’?”

  “Like I said—”

  “I know . . . I’m the genius who—”

  “So, we do a little lookin’ around, find out who this witness is, and maybe we’ll find out why he’s accusin’ Luke of being where we know he wasn’t.”

  Both were silent for a long moment.

  “I think I know someone,” Sam said. “He might know who this witness is, and if he doesn’t know, he probably could find out.”

  “Now we’re cookin’, Sam. It’d be nice if we could get Luke sprung before the paper comes out tomorrow. Maybe even keep his name out of the papers.”

  “That might be asking a lot.”

  “Be nice if Luke was able to help us put the cannon back tonight too. Don’t forget, he’s the only one of us who dared to actually go out on the roof.”

  “Okay, look, I’ll admit, the idea of looking around does sort of appeal . . . but if we strike out, I think Luke is more important than any oath we made.”

  Jerry didn’t respond.

  “I’ll get at it right away,” Sam said.

  President Albert V. Millbank was seated at his enormous desk. He was looking at the ceiling, as if afraid the cannon would crash through it at any moment. Philo V. Millbank was seated across from him.

  “I have just remembered a rumor about that Kane boy,” Albert V. Millbank said, turning his attention to his son, “the one whose father pledged some property to the college. I seem to remember there was some rumor of an incident with a fire hose on the campus of—”

  “Nothing in the rumor mill about him or anyone.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to upset things, at least before we can finalize the donation. His father was not specific about what the property is. A few weeks ago I had our attorneys look into properties his company owns. They promised to have their report finished by now.”

  “I could call them and see if they have anything yet.”

  “Do that. Hopefully we can get that business concluded soon. It would be good to have it finished before the next meeting of the board of regents. You know, go in with a large donation in hand.”

  “But if the Kane boy is responsible?”

  “If that young man is responsible, he’s out, property or no property. And anyone who helped him. Whomever it is, we could even look into having the perpetrators arrested for theft.”

  “Father, they—if there were more than one—didn’t steal it, they just moved it.”

  “I think the county prosecutor would see it my way. I won’t have my family’s heritage besmirched in this way.”

  “Actually, Father, I’ve been thinking . . . I don’t see how any number of students could have moved that cannon to the roof over one night. It has to be someone . . . something else.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to it than we know. One of our physics professors thinks it’s perhaps some sort of marvelous new invention. Somewhere on the edges of science. Of course, you have to take whatever he says with a bit of caution. He also thinks there’s something to this fanciful notion going around that we can split the atom.”

  “Father, when it’s known, I think it’ll be something as simple as one of those new lighter-than-air machines. We should be checking to see if one of those has been stolen.”

  “How could anyone steal something that big? Where would you hide it? Do you suppose the cannon prank could have had anything to do with the shooting of Duckworth?”

  “The police don’t think so.” Philo V. Millbank rose to leave. “I’ll make that call to the attorneys.” At the door, he turned. “Duckworth’s been here since your father was president. Perhaps we should have retired him years ago.”

  “Nonsense. He was handy to have around. Best delivery system in the world. Put in your order, a week later you would find it in the drawer of your office desk.”

  “I think he was popular with the students for the same reason.”

  “Best source of real scotch on the East Coast. Must have had some sort of pipeline up to Canada. With him gone, where’ll we get good liquor?”

  “There’s always the Roadhouse on the other side of town.”

  “The Roadhouse,” Albert V. Millbank said, and after a moment, added, “such an unsavory place.”

  In answer to a summons, a detective rapped on the doorframe of the chief’s office and entered when invited. The chief spoke first.

  “What’s happening with the kid we arrested for the Duckworth shooting?”

  “He ain’t talkin’.”

  “Still?”

  “Except for ‘I didn’t do it,’ not ’nother word. An’ I mean not ’nother word.”

  “We need a confession when I meet with the prosecutor in the morning.”

  “We’ll keep tryin’, but the kid won’t open his mouth, even t’ admit who he is. Just says ‘didn’t do it’ an’ then starts fallin’ asleep.”

  “Are we sure we’ve got the right kid, the one the girl named?”

  “Oh, yeah, a roommate pointed him out when we picked him up.”

  “What about the revolver you found in his car?”

  “Wiped clean except for two prints on the barrel. Not the boy’s. But it’s the same caliber as the ones the doc took out of Duckworth.”

  “That does it, then. What does the k
id say about it?”

  “Says, ‘didn’t do it,’ and falls asleep.”

  “I’ve already got pressure to sew it up some way so we don’t need the girl’s testimony. Or the gun, either, maybe. Put the screws to him, if you need to.”

  “Chief, this ain’t Chicago, where they hang ’em by their heels over a balcony.”

  “You’re not listening. I’ve got pressure. I’ve already had a preliminary meeting with the prosecutor. He’s getting pressure. Now, you’re getting pressure. Get him to agree to plead and we won’t need a trial. I want a confession on my desk by the end of the day.”

  The detective looked toward the ceiling.

  “You know what I want. Do it!”

  The detective nodded his head, but it was neither a yes or a no movement.

  The telephone rang as the detective left the room.

  “Yes?” The chief listened for a few seconds. “Put him through.” He listened for a moment. “No, sir. Nothing that would tie the boy to the Roadhouse.” He listened again. “I’m sure we can keep that kind of speculation in the background . . .” A brief listen. “. . . yes, or out of it.” Another brief listen. “Not a problem.” He hung up the telephone and glared at the door the detective had just gone through.

  The staff of the school newspaper operated out of a single cramped room in the basement of a building designated officially as the Gregory V. Millbank Building, and unofficially as the Old Classroom Building.

  When Sam got there, the office was locked. Through a glass panel in the upper half of the door, Sam could see the lights were off and the room was vacant. He was about to turn away when he noticed several cards taped to the glass. There were four cards, one for each of the student staffers. The cards included telephone numbers and class schedules of each. Sam examined the one labeled TED CASWELL. It indicated he might be found in a class that, according to Sam’s wristwatch, had just started on the second floor of the same building.

  A few seconds later, Sam spotted Ted through the glass in the door. He considered waving or somehow trying to attract his attention and motioning him to come out. But that might attract the attention of the professor, instead. He checked his watch again. There was almost a whole hour to wait. After a few seconds’ thought, he boldly opened the door and stuck his head through the opening.