I left the flat at about seven and took a taxi to Fulham. It was a beautiful evening, the air was warm and the trees waved gently on Parson's Green. I was wearing my turquoise suit with a silk blouse and Elsie's white gloves, and I looked like someone going to have perfectly innocent drinks with friends. The taxi dropped me at the bottom of Munster Road. I had lots of time to spare, so I took up station at an inside table at a pub diagonally opposite Safia Melkash's house. No mere flat for her, you notice. She must have been making a fortune. I drank two glasses of Kir, read a magazine, and waited for the right time to come. I wasn't at all nervous.
Until, that is, at precisely eight o'clock, my heart jolted. Safia came out of her house and walked to her car. She was wearing jeans and a blousy sort of top. As she drove away I reflected that ten years ago, you wouldn't have seen people arriving at an awards ceremony dressed like that, but there you are. I once even saw Robert De Niro without a tie at the Oscars.
I remained quite relaxed. I finished my Kir, rolled up my magazine, and walked slowly across the road and into the gate of Safia Melkash's house. There was a light singing in my ears. Was this really me? Was I really doing this?
Yes, I really was. The key slipped smoothly into the lock and turned like a hot spoon in butter. My heart sank. I had been desperately hoping against hope that the whole thing was a mistake, that I had made the whole thing up and that the key was for a security door at H.'s office. Now I knew I had been right all along. And now, suddenly, I did have trouble breathing, but I whispered to myself, “Come on, Pippa, nothing ventured,” and I stepped into the house of my husband's mistress.
I didn't waste time looking around downstairs. It was obvious that most of Safia Melkash's money went on the mortgage because the living rooms were rather sparsely furnished. Although I'm sure someone like her would have said “minimalist” rather than “half empty.” But there were a couple of half decent paintings. And there was a desk, covered with papers, a telephone, and what looked like a large red leather diary. Hmm . . . Later, perhaps.
I headed for the upper floors. It was one of those tall Victorian houses with a lowered kitchen in a half basement, living rooms on the ground floor, and then two floors of bedrooms and an attic. Two floors, mark you. Anyone who needs that many bedrooms is up to no good, that's quite clear.
I found her room very easily just by following the trails of scent. A huge room, with an en suite bathroom, which she had recently used, judging by the clouds of steam which still hung around. The bed was a ridiculous thing with a multitude of flounces and a canopy.
And all along one wall was the wardrobe, a giant thing with sliding mirrored doors. I opened one and gasped. The clothes she had. No wonder the downstairs rooms were sparsely furnished. There wasn't a thing here under a thousand pounds. This, I thought, was going to be fun. I took off my jacket, took the kitchen scissors out of my bag, and went to work.
It was fun. Every pair of legs I cut off a Versace suit, every skirt of every Saint Laurent model I hacked to ribbons was a blow against the fear, and with every slash I seemed to grow stronger and bigger, no longer stooping, no longer stooping and silly. I was the Avenger. It was wonderful. And off they all went, Westwood, Gaultier, McQueen, Lacroix, all to rags and tatters.
Until, between slashes, a slight sound warned me and I turned to see Safia Melkash in the doorway, staring at me and her ruined clothes. She had the look of someone who had found a snake in the bath. She also had the look of someone who was very definitely not going to a marketing awards ceremony. Oh dear. I stared back at her. This seemed to go on for an eternity, until both our hearts started beating again. Then, because she was goggling in such a ridiculous way, I couldn't help it, I actually laughed. Out loud. That broke the spell. She dropped the Safeway's carrier bag she was holding and hurled herself at me, screaming in the most appalling way.
She was a strong little thing, but I had the advantage of the fear and I'm big. And I had the scissors. And you know what scissors are like. They get away from you, scissors do.
At the end of it all, the room was very warm and still. I sat down, breathing heavily, on the bed. The room seemed full of something, I don't know what. And at the same time it felt emptier. Safia lay like a bag of dirty washing thrown carelessly into a corner, her half open eyes staring past me, staring from the here into the there. She looked as though she might be dozing, had it not been for the gaping wounds in her . . . well, that's quite enough of that.
I looked at myself in the mirrored wardrobe doors, expecting to see a horrific sight, a bloodstained maniacal killer; I looked wonderful. My hair was a little disordered as you'd expect, but my eyes were bright and there was a flush in my cheeks. There was some blood on my blouse, of course. But far less than you'd expect, and the little there was, was easily concealed as I found out when I put my jacket on. I wiped the scissors on her lace bedspread for good measure.
I didn't waste any more time in that house. I went out into the gathering London dusk, and pulled the door to without slamming it, turning the key quietly in the lock. I walked for a good long way before I caught a cab. I sat back in the seat and thought about it. This was a turn up, there was no doubt about it. Strangely, given that it was all his fault, my first thoughts were for H. No . . . even if they established a connection, he was with three or four hundred marketing types at the Hilton Hotel. And I was safe. There was no line between us. I had worn gloves like a good girl, and I reasoned that given Melkash's type, there was probably a queue of women waiting for her with scissors. But you never know. Yes, on reflection, I did need Elsie.
By the time H. arrived home, the worse for wear, as I heard from the way he tripped on the stairs and swore, I had showered, eaten a light supper, and gone to bed. An hour later, I slipped out of bed, found his key ring, and replaced the Melkash key.
The following morning (and I've realized that's still today, isn't that extraordinary?), I rang around London, trying to find Elsie. Nowhere. I left messages everywhere I could think of, impressing the urgency on everyone I spoke to.
In the afternoon I went out for a walk in the park, exhausted by sitting next to the damn phone that wouldn't ring. The fear was back with me again, although I knew it was ridiculous. I was completely safe. But I wondered if Elsie was doing this on purpose, keeping me waiting, just out of bloody-mindedness. It would be just like her. Still, the stroll relieved me of some of the stress and I walked back to the flat, feeling rather better for the fresh air. And there were these two men waiting for me.
The larger one presented himself as Inspector Something (I wasn't hearing properly, there was a strange ringing in my ears that I didn't like) and showed me what I suppose was a warrant card. He introduced the other man as Sergeant Harfsnarf, although I was sure that couldn't be right, and said they would like to ask me a few questions.
I had hardly let them into the flat when the phone started ringing. The larger man said, “Do you want to answer the phone, Mrs. Wadsworth? We can wait."
Of course, it was Elsie.
"Better late than never, dearie. Had to pop over to Eilat for a few days. Only got back this morning at sparrow-fart.” Typical, I thought. “But never fear, I sorted you out before I left. I've got a cast-iron unsinkable for you. A new client of mine. Right, this is where you were last night, if H. asks you."
I had to work desperately hard not to sigh aloud with relief. And then she told me my alibi.
"I hope it was worth it, dearie. Lovely chat. Must dash.” And she was gone, leaving me talking to the dead phone and staring at the two men and their little briefcase.
I knew, as certainly as if I had X-ray vision, exactly what was inside that briefcase: Safia Melkash's red leather diary with an entry for yesterday, Thursday: “8.30—Philippa Wadsworth—drinkies and supper here"—with my address and telephone number alongside for good measure. ("Don't worry, I sat and watched her write it down, dearie. Can't think why she seemed to find it so hellish amusing.")
And with
the diary into the bargain, there will also be a pair of white gloves with my name neatly marked inside. ("Bit of corroborative evidence for you. Realized I'd taken your gloves by mistake and then thought, Why not? Every little detail helps, doesn't it?")
The two men are still waiting for me. Well, they can jolly well wait. This is my phone. I can go on talking as long as I please.
As I talk on, I gaze aimlessly round my sitting room. Now that I look at it properly, I think how strange it is never to have noticed how small and stuffy this room really is.
Copyright © 2010 Neil Schofield
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Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
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Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 55, No. 5, May 2010. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2010 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: World Color St. Jean, 800 Blvd. Industrial, St. Jean, Quebec J3B 8G4. GST #R123054108.
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