Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 04/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  “After I find out the how. That’s the deal.”

  A sigh.

  “Okay, deal.”

  Connie looked at the watch on her wrist.

  “Okay, let’s get busy.” she said.

  * * *

  It was magic hour. After sunset, but not dark enough for the streetlights to make a difference. Soft light and no harsh shadows. Tall trees lining both sides of the street in front of the Drucilla S. Millbank Women’s Residence Hall made a canopy that left pools of more intimate darkness along the street.

  Sam, waiting at one end of the street, soaked in the atmosphere and thought it was the perfect setting to pull it off. He remembered a cameraman who had loved this time of day. Of course, you couldn’t shoot whole movies with this kind of light because it lasted only about ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.

  The butterflies in his stomach started the little dance they always did at times like this. Connie had called the feeling just a teeny bit scared. She was right, it was the same dance of the butterflies he felt when he thought of going to work for his father.

  A movement down the street interrupted his thoughts and reminded him what he was there for. He watched Connie walk confidently through the shadows and up to the entrance of the women’s residence hall. Doesn’t look a bit scared, he thought.

  After a brief pause at the door, and a glance around the street, she entered. Two girls, lost in giggles, were huddled around a telephone on a small table in the foyer. Connie picked up a magazine on another table and glanced through it until the two were finished with their call and headed for the front door. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she took a note out of her purse and used a handy thumbtack to attach it to a message board hanging on the wall by the telephone table. A moment later, she spotted another girl coming up the walk and arranged to run into her as she came in the entrance.

  “Do you know Joyce Flinders?” Connie said.

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “There’s a message from her boyfriend on the board over there. I’m in a really big hurry right now or I’d take it up. If you’re going up, would you mind taking it to her?”

  “I’m not going up, and why should I do her any favors?”

  “Please, it sounded urgent.”

  A second’s hesitation.

  “Okay, sure,” the girl said with a smile that turned down at the corners.

  Connie left, but hesitated outside the door just long enough to see the girl rip the message from the board and head for the stairs. A moment later, she was standing under a tree a short distance away. About five minutes later, Joyce hurried out the front door, still adjusting a small, stylish hat on her head. Connie timed her movements so she could join Joyce when she reached the sidewalk. Both nodded and walked close to each other for a few steps.

  Two gunshots and their smoky plumes erupted in their direction from some bushes on the corner of the building. Both stopped in their tracks.

  “What was tha-a-a-t?” Joyce squeaked.

  Another shot rang out as another smoky blast flared in their direction.

  “Quick, get down!” Connie said as she tried to pull Joyce aside and onto the lawn.

  Joyce shrieked. Her hat went flying as they went down.

  Two more shots came from the bushes.

  A few seconds later, there was the slam of a car door and the sound of a car starting. A few seconds after that, a car blasted out of a side street, motor screaming and tires screeching.

  “Wh-wh-what w-w-was—” Joyce cried.

  “Gunshots, is what it was.”

  “G-g-g-gun sh-sh-shots?”

  Joyce shuddered and started to sit up as running footsteps approached from the direction of the corner.

  “Stay down!” Connie said.

  The running came closer

  “Hey!” said the runner. “You two okay?”

  “I think so,” said Connie.

  “I saw it all,” the runner said. “Someone emptied a revolver at you two and then jumped in his car and drove off.”

  “Are you okay?” Connie said to Joyce.

  Joyce was shaking, beyond intelligible conversation, trying to sit up.

  “Let me help you up,” said the runner. “It’s okay, he’s gone.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Connie said.

  “It was too dark. But I got a good look at his car. Maroon Buick coupe. A breezer.”

  At the mention of the color, Joyce shrank back to the lawn.

  “I didn’t get his license. Too dark.”

  “M-m-maroon?” Joyce said.

  “Maroon breezer. It’s safe now. Let me help you up.”

  The runner helped both girls to their feet and Connie helped Joyce brush off grass and leaves. The runner picked up a hat from the grass.

  “This belong to either of you?”

  “It’s hers,” Connie said.

  Joyce looked at the hat, eyes wide. The hat was made of some kind of finely woven straw, and the runner was holding it with his finger stuck through a hole in the brim.

  “Looks like a bullet hole,” the runner said. He showed the hat to Joyce.

  “A b-b-b-bullet?” Joyce said.

  Connie put her arm around Joyce’s shoulders to help calm her shuddering.

  “Looks to me like somebody tried to shoot you right here,” the runner said. “You have any idea who might’ve wanted to kill you?”

  Joyce looked at the hat for a long moment before she tried to speak.

  “Y-y-y-yes! I-I-I n-n-need t-t’ g-get t-t’ th-the p-p-p-p’lice!”

  Sam and Jerry were sitting in Sam’s car across the street from the police station. In front of the entrance, in addition to a couple of city police vehicles, were a couple of Lincoln sedans that could have been among those Sam had seen that afternoon. Two dark-suited men with snap-brim fedoras paced up and down the sidewalk nearby.

  “I wonder what the Bureau of Prohibition fellows are doing here?” said Jerry.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if they were asking how a place almost openly selling booze, like the Roadhouse was, could get along without coming to the attention of the local authorities.”

  Luke emerged from the front door by himself and started walking in the direction of the campus. Sam started the engine and drove alongside.

  “Need a lift?”

  “Hey, fellas!”

  Luke smiled and hopped into the back seat.

  “They didn’t offer you a ride home?” Jerry said.

  “After they gave me a little sack with all my things in it, everyone pretended I wasn’t there.”

  “You don’t look much worse for the wear.”

  “Wasn’t in there even a whole day.”

  Sam stopped the car and pulled to the curb. He leaned over the seat back and looked at Luke.

  “Luke, I want you to know I wouldn’t have held it against you if you had gotten a lawyer and told them where you were and what you were doing.”

  “Hey, after swearing that oath? Certainly not. I have confidence in the wheels of justice.”

  “Well, the wheels of justice didn’t spring you out of that jail,” said Jerry. “Another of Sam’s brainstorms did.”

  “Well, spill the beans. I’ve been sort of curious, wondering what happened. All I know is what I overheard. Someone said Joyce Flinders showed up at the police station, all shook up and babbling about how her boyfriend was trying to kill her.”

  “We figured out it was her boyfriend who shot Duckworth,” Jerry said. “He’d been seen with her that night, so Sam made up a little drama. Connie arranged to send her a phony message, like her boyfriend had phoned and left it with whoever answers the phones in the dorm lobby. Connie gets another girl to take it up to Joyce so she doesn’t make the connection. The note tells her to meet her boyfriend on the corner at eight thirty. She comes down a few minutes early, it’s just getting dark, she heads for the corner. By plan, Connie just happens to be walking along at the same time. Right away, firecrackers go of
f behind some bushes, smoke looks like a gun going off, Connie is there, pushes Joyce to the ground, saving her life, making her believe there’s real bullets flying around. Sam drives off in his car, making it look like a getaway.”

  “And,” Sam said, “just then, Jerry, who’s been setting off firecrackers in an old megaphone, runs up asking if she’s all right, saying he just saw the shooter run to a car and take off. He describes her boyfriend’s car, and she blows her wig. It wasn’t in the plan, but Jerry, thinking on his feet, saw a hat on the ground, guessed it was Joyce’s. He poked a hole in the brim as he gave it back to her, told her it was made by one of the bullets and right away she sees the light. Her boyfriend wants a witness dead. She goes to the cops, and here you are.”

  “A-plus to both of you,” said Luke. “And to Connie.”

  “Uh, Luke,” Sam said, “there’s something we have to tell you . . . Connie’s in on the cannon gag.”

  “She’s in?”

  “It was part of the deal to get her help in the shooting gag and getting you sprung.”

  “There’s no one else?”

  “No, just Connie.”

  “It’s okay, Sam. Connie’s not the sort to tell.”

  When Sam saw Jerry nod his agreement, he started his car and put it into gear.

  “You fellows have anything on for tonight?” said Sam.

  Albert V. Millbank was standing by his favorite window, looking at the cannon, now restored to its pad three stories below. Five minutes before, he had been standing on the pad itself, caressing the cold steel of the cannon, making sure it was not a mirage. A large number of students, also making sure it was not a mirage, were clustered around the cannon. Most should have been in class ten minutes before.

  Philo V. Millbank entered the room. He had just come from checking out the cannon himself, making sure it was not a mirage.

  “Do we know how it got back down there?” Albert V. Millbank said, turning to greet him.

  “No, sir.” He moved to his father’s side before he spoke again.

  “The head custodian has finished his plumbing repairs, and has finally made his examination of the roof. There is no damage. He did say that dust and other debris had been disturbed in the bell tower, which provides access to the roof. But there is nothing to indicate how that cannon could have been moved onto or off the roof. He said it’s mysterious.”

  “Yes. Mysterious. They not only do it once, they do it twice.”

  “It’s like sticking a thumb in your eye. Twice.”

  Albert V. Millbank raised his eyebrows and glared at his son.

  “Such a common way of putting it. I’m dismayed.”

  Philo V. Millbank shrugged and cleared his throat. He held up a folded newspaper.

  “I’ve just read the morning papers. The incident in front of the women’s residence hall night before last . . . the Flinders girl, who is one of our students, came forward and implicated the real suspect in the Duckworth shooting. The same article reports that the Bureau of Prohibition received, quote, an anonymous tip about the Roadhouse, a major source of illegal liquor for local residents, including many students at the college, end quote. It also mentions Duckworth’s, well, extracurricular activities on the campus.”

  “This will not sit well with the board of regents.”

  “The reports mention the Flinders girl had been seeing a lot of the son of the fellow who runs the Roadhouse. She says he was returning her to the dorm when he spotted Duckworth walking home after his nightly rounds. In front of the girl, he emptied a revolver into him, then together they cooked up the story that implicated the other boy. The Roadhouse boy, he’s a pretty wild one. They think he was just showing off.”

  “More likely he was eliminating the competition.”

  “Another report says the Prohibition agents found the fingerprints of the manager’s son on the bullet casings still in the revolver that was planted in the car of the other boy. The local police somehow overlooked that. They think it was the gun used to shoot Duckworth. The agents also matched two of the fingerprints on the gun to the girl. Speculation is that she was the one who hid the gun in the other boy’s car. She may be charged as an accessory.”

  Albert V. Millbank made a sound that could have been a snort.

  “I expect her father’s attorneys and a few well-placed telephone calls will take care of that. By the way, we’ve received a letter this morning from the Kane boy’s father. The property he’s donating is about a fourth of an acre, and has an address in Hoboken, New Jersey. Transfer of title to take place the day after graduation ceremonies.”

  “How did our attorneys miss that possibility?”

  “It is held in his wife’s name. Her maiden name. It seems it was originally owned by her family and was never owned by his company. Evidently they operated a nickelodeon out of it in the early days. It’s where the company got its start. The building has been vacant for years. Our attorneys think that it is a white elephant and that they’re tired of paying taxes on it.”

  “It’s probably worth something.”

  “It’s a slap in the face.”

  “He never did specify what property it was.”

  “If that son of his is responsible for the cannon affair, I’ll withhold his diploma regardless.”

  “Father, I’ve come to think we are never going to know who did it.”

  Albert V. Millbank turned abruptly to stare at his son.

  “That would be most disappointing.”

  Philo V. Millbank waited to see if there was going to be more. When there wasn’t, he changed the subject.

  “I suppose we should start advertising for a replacement for Duckworth. With as many out of work as there are these days, I expect we’ll have several hundred applications.”

  Albert V. Millbank managed a slight smile.

  “Do you think Duckworth had any relatives with the same Canadian connections?”

  * * *

  The cannon, surrounded by a crowd of students, sat serenely in its accustomed place on the concrete pad in front of the Augustus V. Millbank Administration Building. If it could be made to fire, its shot would pass between the heads of Sam and Connie who were seated on a bench on the far side of the Botany Pond. Sam was momentarily uncomfortable because he was looking almost directly into the barrel of the weapon. He quickly looked away to watch Jerry and Luke filtering through the crowd, soaking up the speculations flying about. After a moment, he turned to look at Connie.

  “You did good with Joyce last night. Thank you.”

  “I think I know what you mean about the butterflies.”

  “You do?”

  “I was terrified the whole time that I couldn’t make it work.”

  “You didn’t look it. How did you feel when it was over?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “The anticipation is over too.”

  “Anticipation?”

  “Okay, Sam. A deal’s a deal. How did the cannon get up there?”

  Sam heaved a mighty sigh.

  “The cannon was never on the roof. It was a magician’s trick.”

  “What?”

  “A couple of years ago my father, well, his company . . . produced a period picture. It was summer vacation, I was following my father around, watching what’s going on. But it was shot in the East and when it wrapped, all the props and costumes were stored in the old studio lot the company still has down in New Jersey, close by where Edison used to make his pictures. The picture was a flop, but I remembered—”

  “Hey! You’re telling me your life story again. What’s that got to do with the cannon on the roof?”

  “It was a Civil War picture and the cannon was one of the props. I remembered there were about a dozen of them stored down there. All made of balsa wood.”

  Connie laughed. Sam shrugged.

  “The fake cannon came apart easily. It was no problem hauling the pieces up by rope from the bell tower. Luke was out
on the roof and put the pieces together. Neither Jerry or I had the guts for that. Last night, we took the pieces down the same way. If we hadn’t gotten Luke out of jail, I don’t know what we’d have done.”

  “That’s all there was to it? You just borrowed it?”

  “We had to paint it to match Millbank’s cannon. It wasn’t an exact match for his cannon, but with the real one gone, I guess everyone wanted to believe it.”

  Connie started chuckling, but managed to calm down enough to ask one more question.

  “What did you do with the real cannon, tie it onto a balloon?”

  “We moved it about twenty feet. Right over there. See that third lily pad from the left?”

  Connie looked at the pond and back to Sam as if he had lost a marble or two. Or three.

  “Last fall, Jerry was on one side of a tug-of-war over the pond. He discovered that, in front of the cannon, it was a lot deeper than it was on the ends.”

  “You pushed the cannon into the pond.”

  “You’re pretty smart for a girl.”

  That got him an elbow in the ribs.

  “Nobody looked for it in the pond,” she said.

  “Why should they? They could see where it was.”

  Connie looked at the cannon again, shook her head, and smiled.

  “We left a short cable attached to the back end of it, whatever they call it, left it underwater at the edge, so we just had to fish it out, hook on a longer cable, pass it around the flagpole, and pull it out with my car. It took less than a minute. We disconnected, I drove off and left Jerry and Luke to throw a few lily pads back in the water and clean it up.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Yeah, but we checked on schedules, everything; after Duckworth locks up, there’s nobody on this part of campus all night. We rehearsed the whole thing last week.”

  Connie was silently chuckling. Sam enjoyed a good yawn.

  “I’ve got to go down to New Jersey next weekend, take the cannon and the cable back. I promised the watchman I’d take good care of the company’s property.”

  “Do you have a lot of things down there you could use to pull off another prank like this?”

  Sam propped his arm on the back of the bench, rested his head on the palm of his hand, and closed his eyes.