Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  "No need," she said. "They were eyesores that were removed when the house was re-modeled because they made it fire-proof."

  But the lock on the door was utterly deficient. Simple and ancient, it did not require an expert to solve it, and the door itself carried no secondary protection: no bolt.

  "This'll never do," I mumbled.

  "Beg pardon?" she said.

  "Look, I don't know who's been visiting you, ghost or no ghost, but anyone can get in here with any old key, and a picklock can make this doorlock do somersaults. This has got to go."

  "Go?" she inquired. "Go?"

  "Where's your Classified Directory?"

  She brought it to me and I checked a few locksmiths and called a few locksmiths and found one who was free and told him what I wanted. He promised to come within the next half hour and Miss Troy made coffee and sandwiches, and we munched and chatted but avoided any mention of ghosts, and she grew more animated and smiled more frequently, and I discovered that I was having a very pleasant afternoon.

  "Why don't you come see me at the club this evening?" she said. "I told you where it is when you were making all those notes in your office. Cafe Bella on West Third in the Village."

  "What time do you go on?"

  "The show starts at nine, and it's sort of continuous. There are six acts - nobody's real great and they don't pay us much - but we don't work too hard and everybody has his own dressing room which is something. The show runs from nine to two, sometimes later, depending upon business. In between, I just sit around in my dressing room. I don't like to mix with the customers and the owners don't demand that we do. I do wish you'd drop in and catch my act."

  "I might," I said.

  The locksmith came and he did as I requested. He installed a strong modern lock and he installed a sturdy steel slide-bolt. I paid him out of my pocket-money and I refused reimbursement from Miss Troy.

  "Part of the fee," I said, "and it may do the trick. You may never be bothered again."

  "I hope so, I hope so," she said. "God bless you. I'm beginning to feel better already. It's like when you go to a good doctor, you know, and he reassures you. Just your presence and your attitude - all these crazy things seem to be like a dream, a nightmare, and all of a sudden it's morning and it was all dreadful but silly, you know?"

  "Yes, I do, and I'm glad. Just keep right on thinking like that. Good-by now, and thank you for the lovely lunch."

  "Oh, don't mention it. Will you come see me tonight?"

  "I'll try," I said.

  ***

  Simon Troy worked in a drug store at 74th Street and Columbus Avenue. It was small, cluttered, and old-fashioned, and it did not have a soda fountain. It smelled of herbs and pharmaceuticals and germicidals and there was dust on the shelves and the dust in the air made you want to sneeze. Simon Troy, working alone, was a blond wispy little man with puppy-sad brown eyes, a beige-leather complexion, and small yellow teeth. His smile, as he greeted me, was perfunctory: a drug clerk greeting a customer. I told him who I was and why I was there and an expression of anxiety wizened his face as his smile receded.

  "If you please," he said, "let us go in the back where we can talk."

  The rear, partitioned by thick plate-glass from the front, was a narrow area dominated by a drawer-pocked wooden counter for the making of prescriptions. There were a couple of wire-backed, rickety, armless chairs, and he motioned me to one of them. Before I sat, I said, "You are Simon Troy?"

  Impatiently he said, "Yes, yes, of course."

  I produced cigarettes, offered one to him, and he grabbed at it with thin, bony, tobacco-stained fingers. He lit my cigarette, lit his, and puffed at it rapidly, shallowly, and noisily. I talked and he listened. I told him everything that Sylvia Troy had told me and I told him of the fee that she had paid me. When I was finished, he was finished with the cigarette, and he lit one of his own from the stub of the one I had donated. "Mr. Chambers," he said, "I assume you must realize how terribly worried I am about my sister."

  I nodded, I said nothing.

  "She's sick, Mr. Chambers. I'm certain it was apparent to you."

  I nodded again. I said, "Would you tell me what happened up at Mt. Killington?"

  "You mean about Adam?"

  "If you please."

  He told me. "We weren't even near him. He had gone over for a peek at that precipitous edge. We were quite far away, many yards from him, the three of us together. He must have had a seizure, a dizzy spell. We heard the scream as he slipped, toppled - and then he was gone. The Vermont police examined the site after we reported it. It had begun to snow and they could not make out any footprints on the edge. But from the points of the jagged crags below, which they could reach, they recovered bits of bone, bits of flesh, and bits of the ski suit he had been wearing. The body, of course, was never recovered." He put the tip of his right index finger between his teeth and bit upon the fingernail, audibly.

  "Mr. Troy," I said. "Do you have any idea as to why your sister has come up with this-wild story of hers?"

  "I'm afraid there's only one explanation. I believe her to be in the throes of a severe nervous breakdown."

  "But is there any basis for it? Any past history? Any reason?"

  "She mentioned our reciprocal wills to you, didn't she?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Well, Adam's estate, after taxes, was divided into approximately fifty thousand dollars for each of us. My brother Joseph, a childless widower, was a rather conservative man, as am I. We put that money away and continued in the even tenor of our ways - but not so Sylvia. She quit her nightclub work, went off to Europe, and within a year, she had squandered her inheritance in toto. I think this did something to her, disturbed her, that within a year she was back to where she had started. She was compelled to return to work for a living, and right then, right from the beginning, she began to act peculiarly. Then she began to prattle about a plot, our plot, to murder Adam. And now this terrible business about Adam's ghost."

  "And what about Joseph?" I said. "His suicide. Would you tell me?"

  "Precious little to tell. Joseph was a sweet, simple, meticulous man. He was quite a hypochondriac although he had a dread of doctors. About six months ago he developed stomach pains, nausea, vomiting. He refused to go to a doctor, but I finally dragged him. X-rays disclosed a mass in his stomach. The doctors believed it to be benign, but Joseph believed otherwise. We had arranged for an operation but, before the time for it arrived, he killed himself."

  "Yes, I know, he slashed his wrists," I said. "But what about this business of no weapon?"

  He smiled, yellow-fanged, sadly. "The police are satisfied with the explanation. Joseph committed suicide in his bathroom. He cut open his wrists and bled to death. Knowing Joseph, I know exactly what he did, once he made up his mind to do it. There was an open razor found nearby, without a blade. He took the blade from the razor, cut his wrists, dropped the blade into the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, and bled to death. There was a good deal of blood, all over that bathroom, but no actual weapon. Joseph was meticulous, a creature of habit. He flushed the weapon away into the toilet bowl. The police agreed completely with my thinking in the matter. After all, I was his brother; I knew him."

  I stood up, saying, "Thank you."

  "Mr. Chambers, please." He fidgeted, hesitant, obviously embarrassed.

  "Yes?" I said.

  "Mr. Chambers," he blurted. "I believe you should return that fee to my sister."

  "Why?"

  "She doesn't need a private detective. She needs a doctor."

  "I'm inclined to agree."

  He smiled, seeming relieved that I understood and acquiesced. "I've already made inquiries," he said, "and I've selected a physician, nerve-specialist, psychiatrist, whatever the devil they call them these days. By some pretext or other, I'm going to get her to him."

  "Good enough," I said. "As for the fee, I agree. It belongs with a doctor, rather than with me."

  "You're extre
mely considerate. I thank you."

  "I don't believe I should give it to her, though," I said. "No sense disturbing her any further. I'll bring it to you. I don't have it with me, but I'll deliver it later on to your apartment."

  "Please keep fifty dollars of it, Mr. Chambers. You've certainly earned that."

  "Thank you. Then I'll see you later."

  "You know where?"

  "Miss Troy gave me your address on Fourth Street."

  "It's apartment 3 A. And, oh!"

  "Yes?"

  "Actually, I'm a night man here. I work from two in the afternoon and I close at ten. Then I go home, eat, shower, relax. So I'm not home until quite late."

  "I'm somewhat of a night man, myself," I said. "Suppose I come around midnight. Is that all right?"

  "Fine, fine. You've been very kind, Mr. Chambers."

  He shook hands with me and I left.

  ***

  At ten o'clock that evening, with two hundred and fifty dollars of her fee in my pocket, I sat at a back table of Cafe Bella and watched her act. Cafe Bella was dim and unpretentious, the service was poor, the liquor was bad, and so was Sylvia Troy's act. She came out in black trousers and a black blouse and she did imitations of celebrities, male and female. Her range of voice was marvelous - from deep male baritone to male tenor to male alto to female contralto to mezzo-soprano to the high squiggly soprano of elderly women - but her imitations were rank, her material wretched, her timing deplorable, and her woeful little jokes were delivered without a spark of talent. I left in the middle of her performance.

  I had a late supper, I wandered in and out of some of the Village clubs, I had a few drinks, I watched a few dancing girls, and then at midnight I went to 149 West 4th Street which was Simon Troy's address. A self-service elevator took me up to the third floor and there I pushed the button of 3 A. There was no answer. I pushed again. No answer. I tried the knob. The door was open and I entered.

  Simon Troy was seated, staring straight ahead, his elbows resting on the edge of a table for two. On the table in front of him was a large cocktail glass empty except for a cherry at its base. He was staring at a vacant chair opposite. On that side of the table, in front of the vacant chair, stood a similar cocktail glass brimming-full and untouched. I went quickly to Simon Troy, examined him, and then went to the telephone and called the police to report his death.

  ***

  The man in charge was my friend Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker of Homicide. His experts quickly ascertained the cause of death as cyanide poisoning. The cherry in the drained cocktail glass was thoroughly imbued with it. Simon Troy's fingerprints were on the stem of the glass. The other glass was free of poison. There were no fingerprints on its stem. Inspection revealed no vial or other container for poison in the apartment. After the body and the evidence were removed and Lieutenant Parker and I were alone, he said, "Well, what goes? What's the story on this? What are you doing here?"

  "Do you believe in ghosts, Lieutenant?"

  Cryptically he said, "Sometimes. Why? Are you going to tell me a ghost story?"

  "I might at that," I said. I told him the entire story and I told him what I was doing in Simon Troy's apartment.

  "Wow," he said. "Let's go talk to the little lady."

  ***

  She was in her dressing room. She maintained that she had been in her dressing room, or out on the floor performing, all night. Her dressing room opened upon a corridor which led to a back exit directly on the street. Parker questioned all the employees in the place. None could disprove what Sylvia Troy had said. Then Parker took her to the station house and I accompanied them. There he questioned and cross-questioned her for hours, but she stoutly maintained that she had not left her dressing room except to go out on the floor and do her act. Policemen came and went and the questioning was frequently interrupted by whispered conferences. At length Parker threw his hands up. "Get out," he said to her. "Go home. And you better stay there so we know where we can reach you."

  "Yes, sir," she said meekly and departed.

  We were silent. Parker lit a cigar and I lit a cigarette. Finally I said, "Well, what do you think?"

  "I think that little chick is pulling the con-game to end all con-games and we don't have a thing on which to hold her."

  "How so, my friend?" I said.

  "You know about those reciprocal wills, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "The first one - Joseph's - is still in Probate. Now the second one goes into Probate. With these two brothers dead, that little dame stands to come into upwards of a hundred thousand dollars."

  "So?"

  "So we've got Joseph listed as suicide, but since no weapon was found, it could have been murder. Now this Simon could be suicide too, can't he? - except no vial, no container." He waved a hand. "Spirited away."

  "The ghost?" I said mildly.

  "The dame," he said. "She killed the two of them and concocted this ghost story as the craziest smoke-screen ever. And we don't have one iota of proof against her. But we're going to keep at it, baby; that I can assure you." Then he smiled, wearily. "Go home, boy. You look tired."

  "How about you?" I said.

  "Not me. I stay right here and work."

  ***

  I got home at four o'clock, and as I opened my door, my phone was ringing. I ran to it and lifted the receiver. It was Sylvia Troy.

  "Mr. Chambers!" she said. "Please! Mr. Chambers!" The terror in her voice put needles on my skin.

  "What is it?" I said. "What's the matter?"

  "He called me."

  "Who?"

  "Adam!"

  "When?"

  "Just now, just now. He said he was coming ... for me." The voice drifted off.

  "Miss Troy!" I called. "Miss Troy!"

  "Yes?" The voice was feeble.

  "Can you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to close all your windows and bolt them."

  "I've already done that," she said in that peculiar childlike sing-song.

  "And lock your door and bolt it."

  "I've done that too."

  "Now don't open your door to anyone except me. I'll ring and talk to you through the closed door so you'll know who it is. You'll recognize my voice?"

  "Yes, Mr. Chambers. Yes, I will."

  "Good. Now just stay put. I'll be there right away."

  I hung up and I called Parker and I told him. "This is it," I said, "whatever it is. Bring plenty of men and plenty of artillery. We figure to shake loose a murderer. I'll meet you downstairs. You know the address?"

  "Of course."

  I hung up and ran.

  ***

  Aside from Parker, there were three detectives and three uniformed policemen - one of whom was carrying a carbine. As we entered the hallway, the detectives and the two remaining policemen took their pistols from their holsters. At the door to 4 C, Parker motioned to me and I rang the bell.

  A deep booming masculine voice responded.

  "Yes? Who is it?"

  "Peter Chambers. I want to talk with Miss Troy."

  "She's not here," boomed the voice.

  "That's a lie. I know she's in there."

  "She doesn't want to talk to you."

  "Who are you?"

  "None of your business," boomed the voice. "Go away."

  "Sorry. I'm not going, mister."

  The deep voice took on a rasp of irritation. "Look, I've got a gun in my hand. If you don't get away, I'm going to shoot right through the door."

  Parker pulled me aside and called through the door: "Open up! Police!"

  "I don't care who you say you are," boomed the voice. "I'm warning you for the last time. Either you people get away or I shoot."

  "And I'm warning you," called Parker. "Either you open the door or we shoot. I'm going to count to three. Unless you open up, we're going to shoot our way in. One!"

  No answer.

  "Two!"

  Deep booming derisive laughter.

/>   "Three!"

  No sound.

  Parker motioned to the policemen carrying the carbine and he ranged up. Parker raised his right hand, index finger pointed upward.

  "Open up! Last call!"

  No sound.

  Parker pointed the finger at the policeman and nodded. A stream of bullets ripped through the door. There was a piercing scream, a thud, and silence. Parker made a sign to two of the detectives, burly men. They knew what to do. They hurled themselves at the door, shoulder to shoulder, in unison, time and again. The door creaked, creaked, gave, and then burst from its fastenings.

  Sylvia Troy lay on the floor dead of the bullets from the carbine. There was no one else in the apartment. The door had been locked and bolted. The windows were closed and bolted from the inside. Inspection was quick, expert, and unequivocal, but, aside from the corpse of Sylvia Troy - and now, ourselves - there was no one else in the apartment.

  Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker came to me, his eyes belligerent but bewildered, his face angrily glistening beneath a veil of perspiration. His men, tall, thick-armed, strong-muscled, powerful, gathered like silent children, in a group about him. "What the hell?" said the Detective-Lieutenant, the words issuing in a curious hoarse whisper. "What do you think, Pete?"

  I had to swallow before I could speak, but I clung to my premise. "I do not believe in ghosts," I said.

  Perhaps I do not believe in ghosts because I refuse to believe in ghosts and my mind rejects the possibility and seeks other explanation. In the Troy affair such explanation, for me, involved death-wish, hallucination, guilt complex, retribution, self-punishment, and dual personality.

  There are those who disagree with my conclusions.

  You may be one of them.

  Phobia has become an accepted term in this day of parlor-psychiatry. Yet, defined as an irrational fear, is it acceptable as a cause of death? On a death certificate, for example, would "Apiphobia" be acceptable to the coroner?

  * * *

  WHERE IS THY STING?

  BY JAMES HOLDING

  To say I was flabbergasted when I found out about Doris and that bachelor writer across the hall is putting it mildly.