Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

by Various

  Fran.

  He swung around in his chair and stared at his reflection in the glass door of the bookcase. He saw a big, graying man, heavy in the face, with a short, broad nose and a neat mustache. There was no link between this individual - Hugh Bannerman, head of the claims department - and a bank teller wanted for embezzlement and murder. After twenty-five years, how could there be? And yet -

  To see her again, to take the gamble and face her. Did he dare? His spine tingled, and his blood hummed through his veins with excitement.

  She'd been a slender flame of a girl, young and lovely, with a dowry that made her even more desirable. But you need money to get money, and so he wooed her on bank funds. In their secret, lovers' world, he was Blinky and she was Winky, and she was as good as hooked. He figured that after they were married, after he confessed what he'd done for love of her, she'd replace every cent.

  The scheme was fool-proof, for banks don't prosecute when you make restitution, and he had a whole year before the auditors could catch up with him. And his plans would have worked, too, if her brother, Mike, hadn't stuck his nose in. Mike was assistant cashier, and Mike had always had it in for him.

  Bannerman scowled, remembering the evening Mike had accused him. Pretending a forthright honesty, when he was really out for blood.

  "Twenty thousand dollars," Mike said. "I thought I'd better tell you here, in front of Fran, before I report it to the bank. In case you have an explanation."

  Bannerman felt the gun in his pocket. He carried it in those days, just in case, and it gave him the courage to brazen this out.

  "What's twenty thousand to you and Fran? You have it. You can get me out of this. For friendship, for love -"

  Fran let out a little cry. "How can you!" she exclaimed. And Mike said contemptuously, "Why, you cheap fraud!"

  That was when he took out the gun and leveled it at Mike. "Say that again," he remarked quietly. "If you have the nerve."

  Fran screamed, "No - don't!" She tried to grab the gun, and that gave him an added excuse to fire. What right did Mike have to go on living, when he'd pulled a trick like that?

  The bank teller disappeared immediately after the shooting, and he left no trace. With a little luck and a little police bungling, a smart man doesn't get caught. Plastic surgery, a careful change of voice and gesture, and the personality of Hugh Bannerman had emerged.

  Smiling, he divided the stack of papers in front of him into two piles, one on each side of the desk. He was still uncertain as he left the Seeley file in the center. Then he rang for his secretary.

  "You can give these to Perkins," he said, pointing. "The rest are for Davis."

  "And that one?"

  He stared at the Seeley claim, and his words seemed to come from other lips. "A hundred thousand is a lot of money," he said. "I think I'll handle that one myself."

  He nodded casually, reached for the phone and called her. Just one more claim to close out, just one more routine appointment, in which to persuade a beneficiary to leave her money with the company, at interest.

  He heard the buzz of the phone, and her answering voice. He recognized it at once, the queer little lilt of excitement in it, as if she expected something wonderful to happen at any moment. No, her voice hadn't changed. But his had with much practice, of course.

  He made the appointment for the next morning, ten o'clock at her house.

  He had no fears. In the past five years, since he had had this job, he'd occasionally run into former friends. They hadn't recognized him; they suspected nothing when he brought the conversation around to Fran. They told him her married name, and they discussed the long-ago story of the bank teller who had shot and killed her brother, and was probably dead.

  Bannerman's work brought him in contact with the police, too. He'd been in and out of precinct houses and had even sat down with a police inspector. So he knew his identity was safe.

  He thought about her on and off, all day. When he saw her, he'd say, "We have friends in common. They've told me a lot about you. I feel as if I knew you."

  He'd be polite. He'd say, "You're a brave woman, Mrs. Seeley, to have built up a new life after that early tragedy." Then he'd smile and add thoughtfully, "Because you must always wonder whether, if you hadn't been foolish enough to grab the gun, your brother would have been shot."

  That would be a nice touch, to plant the doubt in her conscience again, to make her feel guilty. And it would be added protection for himself, too. He began looking forward to the appointment. It was destiny; it was adventure. He was only forty-seven, with good years ahead of him. Anything could happen.

  He slept well that night. He didn't dream, and he awoke sound and fit. He had his usual drugstore breakfast, drove to the office and parked in the company lot. He went over his mail, sorted it and dictated a few routine letters. Then he went downstairs and drove to the suburbs for his first appointment. With Mrs. Marvin Seeley.

  He judged the house to be worth about fifty thousand dollars. It was in good taste, as Fran's was bound to be. The doors of the three-car garage were open, and he could see a convertible in it. Wealthy, he told himself, but not flaunting it. Probably one servant, and maybe a part-time maid. Fran might open the door herself. But he was prepared for that, too.

  He'd see a plump, middle-aged widow, and she'd see a Stranger, Hugh Bannerman, from the insurance company.

  He rang the bell, and waited eagerly. He heard a quick, light step, and the door swung open. As if in a dream, he saw that she was young and lovely and unchanged. Her blue eyes still sparkled with the marvel of the world, her blonde hair still shone and she had the same young, slim litheness. For a fleeting moment he was stunned, unable to believe in the miracle of her youth.

  "Winky!" he exclaimed.

  She looked at him in astonishment. Then, mocking him, enjoying the joke, she glanced behind her and said in that familiar voice, "Mother, there's somebody here who wants Winky. Who would that be?"

  With a gasp, he lurched back. His foot missed the step and his ankle twisted and folded up underneath him. He felt a stab of pain as he went sprawling headlong.

  He was unconscious for only a few seconds, but he kept his eyes closed, thinking hard, telling himself the blunder wasn't fatal, he'd get out of it somehow.

  He heard footsteps come from the house, and someone stooped down beside him, but he didn't look at Fran Seeley yet. In an inspired flash, he decided to claim the girl had misunderstood him. Then he'd leave, and let Perkins come tomorrow and settle the insurance.

  Winky - Seeley - the sounds were close enough. And he could certainly handle a couple of women who were upset and flustered over an accident. He'd done it often enough, in the course of his work.

  Confidently, proud of his quick wits and supremely sure of himself, he opened his eyes.

  Fran was older. She was a bit heavier and her face, soft and still beautiful in maturity, was compassionate, as if she had suffered deeply. Her eyes glowed with the tenderness of her sympathy, and she was evidently concerned with nothing but his pain. Which, as far as he was concerned, was all to the good. The mishap was working out in his favor.

  "I'm afraid I gave my ankle a bad wrench," he said shakily.

  "I'm terribly sorry. Do you think you could stand up? If you lean on us, Ethel and I can help you inside."

  "I'll try," he said.

  He raised himself awkwardly and rested his weight on the shoulders of the two women. Panting with the effort, he hobbled into the house and sank heavily into the deep cushions of a couch near the fireplace, where the light was subdued. His ankle gave him another twinge, and the warm, sumptuous room seemed to waver in front of his eyes.

  "I hate to bother you," he said. "But if you'll call a doctor, he'll strap up my ankle and I'll be able to take care of myself."

  "What you need right now," Fran said energetically, "is a drink of whisky. You're white as a sheet." She turned, showing her clear, molded profile. "Would you get the decanter, Ethel? And a glass
from the kitchen?"

  "Of course, Mother."

  The girl left, and Fran leaned forward. She appeared to be undergoing a struggle, and she studied him in rapt concentration.

  He jerked away, sharply aware that this was the first time anyone had had a reason to study him so closely. Never before had his disguise been put to the test.

  "I hope," he said lightly, pretending amusement, "that your daughter doesn't get mixed up on the drinks the way she did on the name."

  Fran didn't answer. If only he could get up, run, push her out of the way, escape. Anything except sit here and wait, exposed to her intense scrutiny.

  He put his hand to his face, to screen it. He massaged his cheek briskly, and dropped his hand flat. He shouldn't have done it that way. Not with his old gesture, so familiar to her.

  "That drink," he said, with growing panic. "I need it. What's taking so long?"

  Then, finally, she spoke. "Blinky," she said, slowly and with distaste.

  By way of introduction, may I present this bit of folklore. Among a small tribe of peace-loving cannibals, there was one more ingenious than all the rest. Not satisfied to merely eat the white man, he learned his ways. And so during one bountiful harvest season, he reduced his village's food supply to ashes, and placed the ashes in small jars labeled Instant People.

  * * *

  SECRET RECIPE

  BY CHARLES MERGENDAHL

  "You're sure?" Simon said into the phone. "Nothing you want me to pick up on the way home?"

  "No, everything's fine, dear. Polly's gone off with little Susie Steele, and I've planned a very exotic dinner - just like you suggested."

  "Well, it is important," Simon said.

  "Of course it is, dear." Sheila's voice sounded calm, almost too calm, and for a moment he felt serious doubts.

  He shook them off. "Well," he said, "we'll be there in a few minutes."

  "I'll be waiting."

  "And Mr. Brevoort likes his martinis very dry."

  "I'll place the vermouth bottle quite near the gin, then snatch it right away again." She laughed, almost gaily.

  He said good-bye and hung up, then sat there a moment, still hearing the gay laughter. "Not tonight," he prayed. "Please, God, not tonight."

  His secretary appeared in the office doorway. Her liquid eyes looked at his nervous hands, his teeth biting down on a lower lip. "It's five o'clock, Simon."

  "Oh ... Thanks, Ida."

  "Mrs. Brevoort arrived just a minute ago. I told Mr. Brevoort you'd pick them both up on your way out."

  "Yes, that's fine."

  Ida hesitated, then moved into the office and closed the door behind her. "Simon?"

  "Yes?"

  "You think it's wise?"

  "What else can I do?" He waved his hands helplessly. "The promotion comes up next Tuesday, and you know Brevoort - he likes to visit a man's home before making any real decision about him. So I've got to have them to dinner, and there's just no way out at all."

  "Poor Simon." Ida sat on the edge of the desk and caressed the little brown hairs at the back of his neck. "I keep remembering," she said softly, "those six months when your wife was away."

  "Yeah." He laughed ironically. "Away."

  "She might go away again," said Ida.

  "She will," he said.

  Silence for a moment, while Ida's fingers stroked his neck. Then suddenly she bent and kissed him, her familiar lips moving roughly against his own. "Poor Simon," and then matter-of-factly, "well, it's five after five." She slipped off the desk and straightened her blouse. She said, "Don't worry, it'll work out," and left the office.

  "It'll work out," Simon said. He rose, wiped off Ida's lipstick, and began clearing his desk. Beyond the door one of the stenographers giggled, and he sat again and put his hands over his ears. "Not tonight. Please, Sheila, don't do anything wrong tonight." He pulled upright and straightened his tie. He took a deep breath, put on his hat, smiled reassuringly at Ida as he passed her, and strode down the hallway toward the office of Mr. Walter Brevoort, President.

  The October leaves fell like huge brown snowflakes as he drove through the early evening streets toward his home in Brentwood. Behind him in the rear seat, the Brevoorts sat apart from each other, staring out opposite windows. Mr. Brevoort was squat and bald with a fringe of white hair above his ears. His wife was plump and jolly.

  Mrs. Brevoort said, "You have a daughter, don't you, Simon?"

  "Yes. Polly, twelve, and she's quite a beautiful child." He laughed, apologizing for his own pride. But Polly was beautiful all the same. Blonde and slender and he loved her terribly. In a domineering way, perhaps; possessively, perhaps. "She's beautiful," he said again.

  "Must get it from her mother." Mr. Brevoort chuckled at his own joke, and Simon said that yes, Sheila was attractive, too, and remembered that he had actually thought so once - before she'd been sent away to the sanitarium and returned with her "odd" ways that he'd tried to tolerate and now despised. "She might go away," Ida had said, and "She will," he had said. And she would, too, because that was the way he had planned it. Push her and push her. Exaggerate her idiosyncrasies to Doctor Birnam. Turn Polly against her. Drive her to the breaking point. Make her into a blabbering idiot. But not tonight. "Not tonight," he said aloud.

  "What's that, Simon?" Mr. Brevoort asked.

  "Nothing. Nothing." And he drove on through the dropping leaves, to the neat white house on the corner beneath the trees.

  "Lovely," said Mrs. Brevoort as he helped her out.

  He said, "We love our little house," and practically held his breath all the way up the walk, and did not breathe easily again until Sheila opened the door to greet them, and he saw that everything was going to be all right. She was dressed smartly in black, her dark brown hair done up neatly, her words slow and gracious, so that nothing gave her away at all - except perhaps the unusual brightness in her dark eyes, the twisted little smile on her lips when she raised them for his greeting kiss.

  Mrs. Brevoort said, "What a livable room!" and Mr. Brevoort slumped his squat body into an upholstered chair and said, "Tell a lot about a man from his home life. A man's life gets upset at home, it's bound to show up in his work."

  "Yes, sir," Simon said.

  "Bound to."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Like to meet your daughter, Simon."

  "Later," Simon said. "She's off with some friends just now." He looked at Sheila, who was serving the cocktails. "Where'd Polly go, dear?"

  "The early movie," Sheila said. "She'll be back by seven."

  "Then we can meet her," said Mrs. Brevoort.

  "She's her father's daughter," said Sheila, and went into the kitchen.

  Simon looked after her, frowning.

  "Charming," said Mrs. Brevoort.

  "Lovely wife," said her husband. "Don't know how you lived without her all those months she was visiting her family."

  Simon mumbled something about its having been a difficult time for everyone, downed his own martini, murmured an apology, and went into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  Sheila was bent over the stove, stirring the casserole before slipping it into the oven. "Everything all right?" he asked carefully.

  "Perfect. Except you're planning to send me back to the sanitarium and take Polly away from me and keep carrying on with that Ida girl."

  "Sheila..."

  "Otherwise everything's fine."

  "Not tonight, Sheila."

  "Last night and last week and last month. But not tonight."

  "If you'd try to understand -"

  "Oh, I do, Simon. I understand perfectly. I'm to play a little game that will help you get a promotion at the office. After that you'll get rid of me and keep Polly for yourself."

  "Look, Sheila -"

  "And maybe you will get rid of me, but you won't get Polly."

  "All right," he said. "Not now. Not now!"

  She turned and smiled a little. Her eyes had become very brigh
t, he thought, like that night months ago, just before the men had come in their white coats. He felt suddenly cold and said, "Anything I can do?"

  "Take out the garbage if you like."

  "After dinner."

  "Now, before it smells up the kitchen."

  He stepped on the pedal and drew the pail from the white container. The disposal bag was full, sealed tight.

  "Don't open it," she said. "It'll make you sick."

  He shrugged, carried the pail out the back door, dumped the bag into the garbage can, then returned to the kitchen.

  "Anything else?" he said.

  "Just remember what I told you."

  "I'm warning you, Sheila - " But he stopped then. He could not threaten her now. He should not have threatened her last night either. She was insanely jealous, and he had to handle her very delicately until after the Brevoorts had gone.

  He went back to the living room and poured everyone a second martini. The phone rang. It was Mrs. Steele. She wanted to know if Susie were visiting Polly, and if so, to send her right home to dinner. He told her that Polly and Susie had gone to the five o'clock movie, and Mrs. Steele said that was funny because Susie hadn't come home to ask her permission.

  "Just a minute." He put down the receiver and called to Sheila. "You're sure Polly went to the movies?"

  "Of course I'm sure." Sheila came out of the kitchen and stood there watching him.

  "But Mrs. Steele said that was funny -"

  "It isn't funny. I don't see what's funny about it." Her eyes were peculiarly bright again. He mumbled something to Mrs. Steele, then hung up and rejoined the Brevoorts. They were talking about a new television series that was a perfect howl, and he agreed, but could not seem to concentrate. He looked out the window and saw that dark had come rather suddenly tonight. He thought that Polly should not be out in the dark. He looked at Sheila, who was talking animatedly to Mrs. Brevoort. He thought her eyes should not be quite so bright, her lips not quite so moist and red. She should not be laughing quite so much.