Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  "Yes, Mr. Warren?" the clerk asked.

  Mr. Warren stopped at the desk, looking down at the clerk. The clerk stood up, smiling a thin, competent, professional smile.

  "It seems," Mr. Warren said, "it seems there was a rather heated argument in the room adjoining mine."

  "Really?"

  Encouraged, Mr. Warren went on. "Yes. A man and woman were arguing ... about something. It was rather a bitter argument. The man struck her ... I believe. It sounded like a terrible struggle. And then it stopped. On what note I don't know. But I heard nothing further. I felt that I ought to ... report it, just to be safe."

  The clerk was looking at the register.

  "Which room?" his bent head asked.

  "The one to my right."

  "Let's see. You're 10 C. That would be 10 E."

  "Yes," Mr. Warren said, hugely gratified by the clerk's interest. "10 E is the one."

  "Well, there's a Mr. Malcolm registered there. Alone."

  "Alone?"

  The clerk looked up at Mr. Warren with pale, unsympathetic eyes. "Yes," he said.

  "But that's impossible. I mean ... I heard..."

  "Perhaps you heard someone's radio playing," the clerk said.

  "No, it was not a radio," Mr. Warren said with indignation. "I had been dozing and I heard quite distinctly..."

  "Dozing?" the clerk said suggestively.

  "I was not dreaming. I was fully awake when I heard it."

  "I see," the clerk said. He turned over his wrist and glanced at his watch. "Well, it's quite late. I would hate to call anyone now, unless you insisted."

  He had put it squarely up to Mr. Warren, clamped the responsibility upon his shoulders. It was a challenge. He could insist or he could back down and walk back across the lobby with the clerk staring condescendingly at him. He felt his resolution being drained, depleted. It made him angry. He leaned both hands on the desk.

  "Yes," he said, his voice suddenly firm. "I think we ought to check into it."

  Without a further word the clerk lifted the house phone and dialed a number. There was a rather long wait before the ringing - Mr. Warren could hear it - was broken. A man's voice, terse, annoyed, answered.

  "Mr. Malcolm?" the clerk asked. "This is the desk. Sorry to disturb you at this hour. Your neighbor, Mr. Warren, has come downstairs to report a disturbance in your room. Has there been any trouble?"

  Mr. Warren could not distinguish the exact words, but there was an indignant disclaiming in the man's voice. The clerk nodded, eyeing Mr. Warren with cool, superior satisfaction. Mr. Warren flushed.

  "I see. Thank you, Mr. Malcolm. So sorry to have bothered you." The clerk put the phone down and stared at Mr. Warren. "He's been asleep since ten o'clock," the clerk said, a gratuitous innuendo in both his manner and voice.

  "That's impossible," Mr. Warren said. "I..." He was going to describe how intently he had been listening, but felt that such an admission would be embarrassing. "All right," he said quietly. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Sorry to have troubled you. Good night." He turned and walked away, feeling the clerk's eyes on his back as he moved to the self-service elevator.

  He went back to his room and sat down again. Could he have been mistaken. They had been telling him at the office that he was getting old, slowing down. They had wanted to take him off his route and give it to a younger man. Despite a decrease in his volume of sales, he had insisted he was as good a man as he ever was. But he was getting old, tiring easily. He knew that as you got older, your senses began playing tricks on you. Had he been hearing things? The idea made him dizzy, gave him a headache. But then he told himself, sternly, to stop that kind of thinking. It was ridiculous. He was only fifty-seven. Was that so old?

  That whole mode of thinking angered him. He could have been ninety-nine, he told himself, and doddering and senile, but still he had heard those voices and the sound of that scuffle and there was no sense in trying to deny it to himself. Mr. Malcolm had lied. And if he had lied then he had a damn good reason for lying.

  He would call the police. Mr. Warren decided that, closing his fist. The police would not be as easily put off as the clerk. They would not take Mr. Malcolm's word, but would go up to the room and have a look for themselves. Buoyed by this new idea he went to the phone. But then he hesitated. The phone suddenly turned lethal. Yes, if he insisted, the police would come. They would knock on Mr. Malcolm's door and search the room, on the complaint of Mr. Warren. And what if they found nothing? Then it would not pass so easily. Mr. Malcolm could raise a considerable protest if he chose, and probably would. People in hotels, Mr. Warren knew from wide experience, were unusually touchy. Irritation bubbled close to the surface. The hotel could be sued and the police would have to make a report. And in the center of it all would be Fred Warren. A report would surely be sent to the home office and what would they think then? It would serve to further affirm their suspicions. Fred Warren was beginning to hear murders in the middle of the night.

  Wearily, dejectedly, he sat down again, staring at the floor.

  He was sitting like that when he heard a soft tapping at his door. Coming alert, suspicious, he rose and went to the door, pondering it gravely for a moment before he spoke.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  A man's voice whispered, "Mr. Warren?"

  "Yes."

  "May I speak to you? It's quite important."

  The man's tense whispering bespoke of some urgency. Intrigued, Mr. Warren opened the door. Standing before him was a rather tall, youngish man, wearing a light blue bathrobe over pajamas. An urgent note was in his face.

  "May I come in?" he asked.

  "Why?"

  "It's about..." and the man finished the sentence with a surreptitious nod toward the next room.

  Now Mr. Warren welcomed him in and closed the door quietly. The visitor fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands.

  "This is most irregular," he said. "I'm awfully sorry to bother you at this hour. But I was wondering if you had heard what went on next door. I assumed you did, being so close - the way you are."

  "Indeed I did," Mr. Warren said. He offered his hand. "Fred Warren," he said.

  Timidly, the man accepted. "John Burke," he said. "Well, I called the clerk and he told me in effect to go back to sleep, that I had had a nightmare, that there was only a single person in that room and that I couldn't possibly have..."

  "Told me the same thing," Mr. Warren eagerly told his new ally. "I went down there and made him call up. He said," Mr. Warren indicated the next room contemptuously with his thumb, "that I was crazy."

  "Well, we can't both be crazy," Mr. Burke said stoutly.

  "Of course not. How about the others?"

  "Others?"

  "Aren't there other people on the floor who might have heard? Maybe they're too afraid to..."

  "Most of the other rooms are unoccupied. There's an old lady at the other end of the hall and she's near deaf. I met her in the elevator this morning and she can't hear a nickel's worth."

  "I see," Mr. Warren said. "What do you propose we do?"

  "Well, that was what I had come to ask you."

  "I..." Mr. Warren said and stopped. The other was leaving the decision to him. He was the captain - the older, wiser man. He felt suddenly the terrific responsibility and became determined not to shirk it. "Well, we've got to do something," he said firmly, taking the helm. "We can't just stand by and let ... and let whatever went on in there be ignored."

  "I agree," Mr. Burke said.

  "I was going to call the police, but I thought twice on that. There's always the chance, the very, very small chance, that we could have been mistaken. Then it would be very embarrassing."

  "I quite agree," Mr. Burke said.

  "Not that I think we are mistaken, mind you. But I think we might be able to handle it without calling the police."

  "Good."

  "Did you try the keyhole?" Mr. Warren asked. It sounded foolish. But it was a suggestion.

  "N
o."

  "Let's give it a try then."

  Quietly, they stepped out into the hall. There, while Mr. Burke, in bathrobe and pajamas and overlarge bedroom slippers, stood guard, Mr. Warren, with weary cracking bones, got down on one knee and squinted into the keyhole. He got up. He took Mr. Burke's arm and guided him back into the room, closing the door.

  "Well?" Mr. Burke asked anxiously.

  "It's pitch dark," Mr. Warren said.

  "Oh," Mr. Burke said with disappointment.

  Mr. Warren looked at him. "But we can't just ignore it," he said. "We have a certain duty."

  "I agree."

  "Maybe we can insist the clerk open the door for us. Why should we just take that man's word? After all -"

  "It could lead to a libel suit," Mr. Burke said.

  "Yes," Mr. Warren said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. And that would get back to the home office too. Mr. Burke watched him, waiting for some leadership.

  "If only we could have a look into that room," he said.

  "There's no way," Mr. Warren said.

  "There is a way," Mr. Burke said in a small, timorous contradiction.

  "How?"

  "From the ledge."

  "The ledge?"

  "There's a ledge that runs around the building."

  "How wide is it?"

  "It's wide enough. The window cleaners use it."

  "But they have belts," Mr. Warren said.

  "No," Mr. Burke said. "Balance. It's dangerous, of course..."

  "It would give us a peep into that room," Mr. Warren said.

  "At least then we would know how to proceed. We'd know if there were one or two in there."

  Mr. Warren went to the window and opened it. He looked out at the ledge. It seemed wide enough. He looked at the next window. It was about eight feet away. Then he looked down. It was too dark to see the courtyard. The dark was a mighty, bottomless shaft.

  "Maybe you shouldn't," Mr. Burke said nervously. "You've certainly shown a lot of courage already."

  Mr. Warren turned around and looked at him. A young man, but nervous and looking up to him. The home office could learn a lot from him.

  "It's the only way," he said. "That man next door is too cocksure. We've got to see that he gets what he deserves. Why, you didn't hear that poor woman crying like I did."

  Mr. Burke nodded dutifully.

  "You stand by the door," Mr. Warren ordered, "and keep an ear cocked. I'll get out there and have a look."

  "Will you be able to tell, in the dark?"

  "I'll be able to tell," Mr. Warren said. "I've got extremely good night vision."

  "And a lot of courage," Mr. Burke said.

  That was the last word. Now lions couldn't keep Mr. Warren from leaping right out onto the ledge.

  He pushed the window up as high as it would go and then, holding onto the window jamb, put one foot up on the sill, then the other, and in a shaky crouch stepped out onto the ledge. The night immediately surrounded him with a swarm of dark winds that whistled and swept and darted past him. He pressed his back against the cold brick wall and spread his arms for balance and began to edge along, keeping his head against the wall, his jaw jutting up as though trying to stay out of water.

  Each small step was like an eternity. A terrific vanity excited him. He couldn't wait to get back into the room - not because he was afraid, but because he wanted to look back upon his achievement and talk of it to Mr. Burke. The window, a few feet away, loomed like a wondrous prize. Suddenly he didn't even care if there were two people in there or not, whether a dead woman lay there or not. He breathed the wild dark winds and it exhilarated him.

  And a moment later it made no difference who was in that room, because he didn't get to the window. From behind he heard Burke hissing. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head and saw his ally's face poking out the window, turned toward him, one hand up to his throat pinching shut his bathrobe, the other gesturing excitedly to him to return.

  So he started back, moving the same way, except that his head was turned in the other direction now.

  As he neared the little platform of light under his window, Burke looked up at him and said, "I think I've found what you're looking for."

  At his window now, shakily trying to ascertain his footing, Mr. Warren had a quick glimpse in. He saw, lying across his bed, the body of a woman looking quite disheveled and dead. And it was only that quick glimpse that he had of the room's interior, because he immediately saw Burke's hands, palms upturned, rushing up at him from out of Burke's diabolically gleeful face, the hands landing with an astonishing thrust in his mid-section, and then the window and the light were performing a sharp loop, rushing from his vision into a swarm of plunging, depthless blackness...

  ***

  "He said he'd heard noises from Mr. Malcolm's room," the desk clerk told the detective.

  "Actually," Mr. Malcolm said, drawing his light blue bathrobe more tightly around himself, "the noises were coming from his room, but I didn't want to make an issue of it. I believe in minding my own business."

  "I see," the detective said.

  "He must have slipped the girl in without anyone knowing," the desk clerk said. "He probably figured he'd complain about a woman being next door, just to cover himself."

  "I heard them in there all night," Mr. Malcolm said. "Then I dozed off. They started fighting again; then she screamed; then, a few minutes later, I heard him hit the courtyard." He looked toward the window where the curtains were fluttering. He almost laughed, remembering the look on Mr. Warren's face, the utter astonishment.

  The detective looked at the sheet-covered body on the bed.

  "The stories they tell about traveling salesmen," he said. "I guess they're true."

  If you don't mind, I should like to suggest that this not be the last story you read before turning out the lights. Dreams, you know.

  * * *

  MAN WITH A HOBBY

  BY ROBERT BLOCH

  It must have been around ten o'clock when I got out of the hotel. The night was warm and I needed a drink.

  There was no sense trying the hotel cocktail lounge because the place was a madhouse. The Bowling Convention had taken that over, too.

  Walking down Euclid Avenue I got the impression that Cleveland was full of bowlers. And most of them seemed to be looking for a drink. Every tavern I passed was jammed with shirt-sleeved men, wearing their badges. Not that they needed extra identification; many of them carried the standard bowling-bag holding a ball.

  When Washington Irving wrote about Rip Van Winkle and the dwarfs, he understood bowlers all right. Well, there were no dwarfs in this convention - just man-sized drinkers. And any sound of thunder from the distant mountain peaks would have been drowned out by the shouting and the laughter.

  I wanted no part of it. So I turned off Euclid and kept wandering along, looking for a quiet spot. My own bowling-bag was getting heavy. Actually, I'd meant to take it right over to the depot and check it in a locker until train-time, but I needed that drink first.

  Finally I found a place. It was dim, it was dingy, but it was also deserted. The bartender was all alone down at the far end of the bar, listening to the tail-end of a double-header on the radio.

  I sat down close to the door and put the bag on the stool next to me. I signalled him for a beer. "Bring me a bottle," I said. "Then I won't have to interrupt you."

  I was only trying to be polite but I could have spared myself the trouble. Before he had a chance to get back to follow the game, another customer came in.

  "Double Scotch, never mind the wash."

  I looked up.

  The bowlers had taken over the city, all right. This one was a heavily-built man of about forty, with wrinkles extending well up toward the top of his bald head. He wore a coat, but carried the inevitable bowling-bag; black, bulging, and very similar to mine. As I stared at him, he set it down very carefully on the adjoining bar-stool and reached for his drink.

  He threw back
his head and gulped. I could see the pasty white skin ripple along his neck. Then he held out the empty glass. "Do it again," he told the bartender. "And turn down the radio, will you, Mac?" He pulled out a handful of bills.

  For a moment the bartender's expression hovered midway between a scowl and a smile. Then he caught sight of the bills fluttering down on the bar and the smile won out. He shrugged and turned away, fiddling with the volume-control, reducing the announcer's voice to a distant drone. I knew what he was thinking: If it was beer I'd tell him to go take a jump, but this guy's buying Scotch.

  The second Scotch went down almost as fast as the volume of the radio.

  "Fill her up," said the heavy-set man.

  The bartender came back, poured again, took his money, rang it up, then drifted away to the other end of the bar. He crouched over the radio, straining to catch the voice of the announcer.

  I watched the third Scotch disappear. The stranger's neck was red now. Six ounces of Scotch in two minutes will do wonders for the complexion. It will loosen the tongue, too.

  "Ball game," the stranger muttered. "I can't understand how anyone can listen to that stuff." He wiped his forehead and blinked at me. "Sometimes a guy gets the idea there's nothing in the world but baseball fans. Bunch of crazy fools yelling their heads off over nothing, all summer long. Then come fall and it's the football games. Same thing, only worse. And right after that's finished, it's basketball. Honest to God, what do they see in it?"

  "Everybody needs some kind of hobby," I said.

  "Yeah. But what kind of a hobby do you call that? I mean, who can get excited over a gang of apes fighting to grab some kind of a ball?" He scowled. "Don't kid me that they really care who wins or loses. Most guys go to a ball game for a different reason. You ever been out to see a game, Mac?"

  "Once in a while."

  "Then you know what I'm talking about. You've heard 'em out there. Heard 'em yelling. That's what they really go for - to holler their heads off. And what are they yelling most of the time? I'll tell you. Kill the umpire! Yeah, that's what they're screaming: Kill the umpire!"