Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  The young man stared, then when Duquay paused for a moment, he blinked his eyes several times and licked his lips. But he didn't say anything.

  "So much for Step Two," Duquay continued, now with even greater precision of speech. "We might call the completion of Step Two the end of the preparation for battle. Step Three would be the beginning of the battle itself. Now how would we stand there, Masden?"

  Again there were the blinking and the licking of the lips, but again also, no comment.

  "Let's consider the weapons, Masden. What kind of knife is yours?"

  "A sharpened kitchen knife," Masden answered almost unwillingly. "A guy slipped it to me in the jail."

  "If you don't mind my saying so," Duquay said with a slight smile, "I think I'd have a slight advantage over you in the matter of weapons. At least I certainly wouldn't trade my Turkish dagger for your kitchen knife."

  "Look, Mister..."

  But Duquay pressed on. "More important than the weapons, however, are the men involved in this battle. How do you think we compare, Masden? How old are you, by the way?"

  "Nineteen."

  "I'm thirty-one. Perhaps you have a slight edge there. How much do you weigh?"

  "A hundred and twenty."

  "I'm sixty pounds heavier, Masden. Score that for me then. Now how well can we handle ourselves? I'll offer my qualifications first. All-Conference quarterback at State ten years ago. Almost as good as a basketball forward. Far above average at tennis, swimming, et cetera. Furthermore, I keep in shape with at least one hour's exercise every day. Haven't gained an ounce since I left college. That ought to prove something, don't you think? Now, how athletic are you, Masden?"

  The young man across the table had grown paler and tenser. He licked his lips again. It seemed as if he wanted to answer, but no words came.

  "Let me analyze you then as I see you, Masden. You're a case of chronic malnutrition, I would guess. Not because you ever actually starved, but rather because you grew up unsupervised, and so you never ate the right things. You're abnormally thin, you know. Now add to that a few bad habits. You probably started smoking when you were about nine or ten. I've noted the excessively heavy nicotine stains on your fingers. Lord only knows what you smoke now, maybe something stronger than tobacco. And you also drink, I see. I'd bet anything that you drink more than I do. Look at me, Masden, and look at yourself. Tell me who you think is the better physical specimen."

  The young man was frowning now. His rather thick eyebrows were drawn almost together, and his eyes stared very hard at his host.

  "But we haven't discussed the most important factor of all," Duquay said. "I'm speaking of courage, the willingness to do battle, to take the necessary risks. You were very brave, of course, when you first came into this room. You were brave because you had a knife, and you presumed I was unarmed. But how brave are you now? Not quite as brave as a few minutes ago, I would guess. You could swagger in here and make those threats about cutting me up, but now that there seems to be a good chance of your own flesh being cut up a little, it doesn't sound quite as inviting, does it?"

  "You're bluffing!" Rick Masden had finally found his tongue, and the two words came out in a small explosion.

  Duquay smiled a bit wider. "You think so?" he asked. "All you have to do to find out is to make one move to leave your chair, Masden."

  There was another silence, heavier this time, fuller of hostility and hatred. Masden didn't move.

  "One last matter, of course," Duquay continued after a moment, "that I shouldn't overlook. It's the matter of motivation. Though you may not be the bravest man in the world, you do have a good reason to put up a fight. If you kill me, no harm's done, and you get my money, my car, and whatever else you decide to take. On the other hand, if you get killed, you're no worse off than you were before you escaped."

  Something resembling hope now lighted in the thin young man's pale eyes. "What have you got to win by fighting me, mister?" he wanted to know. His voice sounded cunning.

  "That's a good question," Duquay admitted. "I suppose I could just let you have whatever you wanted, and make the job for the police just a little harder, put off your capture for another day or two, or week or two. And I could hope that having gotten what you wanted you'd leave here peacefully, doing nothing worse than tying me up perhaps. But as it happens, I don't trust you to that extent. You're a vicious punk, and you enjoy doing violence, causing pain, hurting people. You might be satisfied to kick me around a little, but on the other hand - with murder already on your record, I don't imagine you'd hesitate to kill me."

  The young man's brows had lowered. His frown darkened. Pure malice was reflected in his eyes.

  "And besides, Masden, I just happen to dislike you very much. You're scum, nothing but scum. I wouldn't mind taking the risk of getting hurt, or even of getting killed, for the privilege of being able to take a crack at you."

  Rick Masden, although he really didn't make a movement, nevertheless squirmed in his chair, and his right hand seemed to twitch. "So you and I are going to have a knife fight, huh, mister?" he asked.

  "We certainly are if you get up from that chair."

  Masden took a long drink from his glass, draining it finally, and grimacing at the burn of the liquor. He scowled at Duquay, then blustered:

  "Okay, you start it, dad. Go ahead, start something."

  "I didn't say I was going to start anything," Duquay answered. "I've only been telling you what I intended to do if you started anything."

  Now the silence was deep and lengthy. The two men faced each other, each with both hands visible on the table. In Masden's right hand was the kitchen knife. Both of Duquay's hands were empty. But Masden's gaze flicked over to the desk, saw the dagger there, came quickly back again. Seconds and minutes ticked away.

  Then Masden said, "Why don't you give me what I want? A few bucks, a suit of clothes, and your car keys. You got insurance. Then neither one of us gets hurt. Why don't you?"

  "Certainly not."

  Masden chewed his lips now, thoughtfully. "Then what happens, dad? We just sit here? You said if I make a move you're going to upset the table and grab that knife. Then the fight starts. We either fight or sit here, huh? I gotta get moving..."

  Quite suddenly then a new light flashed in the fugitive's gray eyes. He started to stand up, then changed his mind, but his body quivered now under the restraint of the other's threat.

  "I get it, I get it now," Masden said between clenched teeth. "You're expecting some guys here to play cards, and you're trying to keep me here till they come."

  Duquay remained calm. "I'm doing a pretty good job of it, don't you think, Masden?" he asked. "Yes, I'm expecting them in a few minutes."

  "But you're not going to get away with it."

  "You can still make a choice. You leave your chair, I upset the table and go for my dagger. You can still try your luck that way."

  "I'd be nuts to just wait here..." The thin body trembled irresolutely.

  "There's one more alternative, of course, Masden."

  "What do you mean?" Hope was in the fugitive's voice now.

  "Well, if we fight, I'll be taking a risk too. I'm not anxious to take that risk just for its own sake. So I might be willing to make a trade. My safety for your escape. Your empty-handed escape, I might add."

  Rick Masden wasn't as confident or as truculent as he had been previously. "I'm listening to you, dad," he said.

  "Well, it's like this. I feel in danger as long as you're holding that knife. You jump up suddenly, how do I know whether you intend to attack me or run away. So whatever you intend, if you do jump up, I have to defend myself. Then the battle's joined, whether we intended it that way or not. See what I mean?"

  Masden nodded. "I think so."

  "The key to the whole situation then is in your knife. You want to escape from here. I don't want to have to fight you if I don't have to help you and co-operate with you. But as long as you have that knife in your hand, you c
an't move in any direction without starting a fight. So the only way out I can see is for you to toss your knife to the center of the table."

  "What!"

  "That's right. Then neither of us will be armed."

  "Then what happens to me? You're a football player. I suppose you..."

  "The table is between us. You have that much of a head start. You ought to be able to get out of here before I can catch you."

  "But you'll telephone the cops."

  Duquay smiled. "You're a smart boy, Masden. I hadn't thought about it, but as a public-spirited citizen, I probably would have. All right, I'll make a deal with you. My phone for your knife."

  "How do you mean?"

  "My phone's right here within arm's reach on my desk. If you'll allow me, I'll reach around and rip it out of its connection. I'll go first, of course. I'll rip out the phone first, and then you throw your knife to the center of the table and start running. What dp you say?"

  The young man's brows contracted. He was thinking furiously. Now and then he looked at Duquay, measuring his man, his width of shoulder, his tenacity of purpose.

  "Okay," he said after a moment. "You jerk out the phone. But first. I'll keep my knife while you do. And if you go for that dagger of yours instead of the phone..."

  "You just keep an eye on me, Masden."

  Slowly, not making any sudden movements, and managing to keep his eyes on his adversary all the while, Duquay half turned in his chair, extended his left arm to the side and behind him, reached the phone, got a good grip on it. Then he pulled firmly and steadily. Finally there was a snapping sound, and the cord dangled loose.

  "Satisfied that it's out?" Duquay asked. He dropped the phone and it landed on the thick rug with a soft thud. "Now your knife, please. In the center of the table where neither of us can reach it too easily."

  They eyed each other again, neither still quite believing in the other's word, still not trusting each other. There was a long pause while neither moved.

  "Come on, Masden. As long as you're holding the knife, you can't leave that chair."

  Silently, with obvious reluctance and regret, the young man conceded the point. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the shiny object spinning toward the center of the table. It pirouetted through two revolutions, then lay still.

  "Now keep your seat, dad," Masden said, "because I'm taking off."

  "I'm sorry I can't wish you good luck, Masden," Duquay replied.

  They said their farewells silently. And then both the farewells and the silence were interrupted by a small noise. Both men at the table heard it.

  Masden didn't hesitate in reacting to it. His chair flew back behind him as he left the table on the run. Duquay didn't move, but instead gripped both arms of his chair and shouted at the top of his voice, "Sam, stop that man, he's a criminal!"

  There was yelling and scuffling and cursing out in the other room. Byron Duquay didn't go to join it or watch it. He sat where he was, content with listening. The scuffling sounds reached a crescendo, till finally one tremendous single sound ended it all - the solid crash of fist on bone.

  Duquay sat back and relaxed. The bright light over the card table revealed sweat on his upturned face...

  ***

  ...Captain Sam Williams put in his second appearance at Byron Duquay's poker game about two hours later. It had taken about that long to dispose of Rick Masden, to put him back behind bars, and to fill out a complete report giving all details of the capture.

  "Byron," he said, shaking his grizzled head, "I don't know whether I dare sit down at a poker table with you any more. Man, I never realized you had such a capacity for bluffing."

  "You flatter me, Sam," Duquay said. "I was lucky, that's all. Before Virginia left this evening, I insisted she help me out of the wheelchair and put me here. Sometimes I prefer receiving you gentlemen in a regular chair, you see. Makes me feel less like an invalid. If I'd been in my wheelchair, I could never have bluffed Masden, not for one single moment."

  Sam nodded in agreement. His gaze wandered through the open bedroom door, to where a pair of silvery wheels gleamed in the semi-darkness. Rick Masden had missed seeing those. Or if he had seen them, he just hadn't connected them with the man at the table.

  In addition to what they're selling, salesmen, as you know, must sell themselves. Their smile must be turned on wide. And the shine on their shoes must be impressively blinding. Such perfect individuals, naturally, make perfect victims.

  * * *

  DEATH OF ANOTHER SALESMAN

  BY DONALD HONIG

  There was no view from his tenth-floor hotel window, only the blank wall of the building next door. He didn't mind though. He had decided not to check into the best hotel, as the other salesmen always did (and as he had always done before, before he had begun to lose his accounts and feel the insecurity of lukewarm handshakes), nor did he ask for the best room in this one. He knew he was going to have to improve his work and create a better impression on the home office and he felt that cutting expenses would be one way.

  He had been sitting reading all evening. Then he had dozed off, he didn't know for how long. It was quite late when his sleep was broken by sounds coming from an adjoining room. At first he thought it was a fragment from a vanishing dream, but then realized he was awake. He sat up with the stunned, puzzled fascination of one abruptly awakened, his eyes squinting, trying to become accustomed both to wakefulness and to the alien noises.

  He heard voices, a man's and a woman's. They were conducting a harsh, bitter argument behind the thin wall. They brought him fully and alertly awake. He came forward in his chair, then pushed to his feet. He stole to the wall and tilted his head, his eyes wide-staring.

  "You can't pull this on me," the man's voice said.

  The woman's voice retorted, her words indistinguishable, but their quality was unmistakably coarse.

  Then the man's again: "You will, will you? Well, maybe you won't!"

  The woman's shrill and its words clear this time: "You can't stop me. All I have to do is walk out that door. Then try and explain it."

  "And I'm telling you right now that you'd better not try!" the man's voice snarled.

  "Well, let's see you try and -" The woman's voice, her threat, was broken off abruptly. There was a sharp cry of surprise and something fell to the floor. A sound of scuffling followed. It sounded as though the woman were trying to scream, but each effort was stifled.

  With cold fascination, and with fear too now, the salesman listened, his ear flat against the muffling wall, entranced by the struggle. It sounded now like people were crawling on the floor, a soft prowling punctuated by abortive cries and frequent thuds. And then the sounds stopped. It became utterly silent. He remained at the wall, hungering for another sound, but none came. An eerie, unanswering stillness filled the other room. It came through the wall and gripped him.

  He waited for a long while. Then, quietly, he drew away from the wall, feeling the uneasy guilt now of an interloper along with his fear. Backing away, he stared at the wall as though trying to see through it, expecting the scene on the other side to materialize for his benefit. The stark blank wall offered him nothing more than a melancholy emptiness.

  He sat down, on the edge of the chair this time, his fingers pinching his underlip, great nervous concern in his face. There was an almost overwhelming desire to mind his own business, the natural human impulse to turn from and ignore trouble. But underlying it was a persistent concern for the woman, a quiet, unappeasable nagging. Had the man merely silenced her with a blow or had he actually murdered her - as it had sounded (and as his aroused imagination kept insisting)?

  After five minutes of intense pondering indecision, he got up and went to the wall again and leaned his head hopefully to it - hoping to hear the soft laughter of lovers reunited. But the silence remained. It almost made him angry. Why didn't they start talking to each other again? They were probably sitting there in silent brooding, glaring at each other, with n
o consideration whatever for his predicament.

  The silence was unsatisfactory. He decided he could not ignore what had happened. How would it be for him to wake up in the morning and hear that the woman had been murdered and the murderer had escaped into the night? Already he felt guilt massing. Perhaps something could still be done, if not to save the woman's life at least to apprehend her murderer while the crime was still warm on his hands.

  Quietly he sat down and put on his shoes. Stealthily, as though he himself were committing something reprehensible, he opened his door and stepped out into the hall. It was empty. He realized the lateness of the hour. Everyone else was probably asleep, hence he had been the only one to hear the disturbance. He stood and wrung his hands for a moment, gripped by a maddening indecision. Then resolution became assertive and he strode to the self-service elevator and pressed the button. As he waited, he stared at the door of the room in which the conflict had taken place. Even the door itself seemed to suggest something desperate, some silent, uncanny, urgent message.

  The elevator arrived with a grunt, the door sliding aside. The little box-like room awaited his entrance. Quickly he stepped inside, pressed the first-floor button and watched the door slide across. He stood nervous and perspiring as - with a slow, funereal sinking, like a coffin being lowered - the elevator descended, the passing floors clicking off in solemn cadence.

  The door slid open upon a drowsy, empty lobby, the lobby typical of a second-class hotel, hopelessly dreary in the long night hours. The clerk was behind the desk reading a newspaper. As the salesman walked toward the desk he was wondering what he ought to say, and how, whether or not to be serious about it or to perhaps treat it light-heartedly. He did not want to be an alarmist. Perhaps a disturbance from that room was not an unusual thing and the clerk would laugh and acknowledge it. Perhaps that was why no one else had come down to report it. He began to feel foolish. He would have kept going and have contrived a purchase at the cigarette machine had the clerk not looked up and put down his paper.