Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

It didn’t matter: the only fact she might’ve told him was that the lab tests had revealed no surprises and would easily solve a pesky problem for the new owner: the spring contained pure, clean water. The well water was polluted with natural gas, which simply confirmed the good sense of the men in avoiding drinking it.

Only a daily ritual of visiting his post office box immediately after the noon delivery broke his concentration on building the house. His breath would stick in his chest until he twisted the key in the small door, opened it, thrust in a hand to search for that certain envelope which he would know by touch alone — and he would breathe again. Another twenty-four hours had passed without word from the anonymous letter writer, and Skip could go back to work.

Finally the last nail was driven home and stuccoed over. The moment had arrived for the next step in Skip’s plan.

After first checking in with the witch, Skip summoned Conrad to meet him for lunch at Harrington’s on the waterfront. Once there, Skip handed over a notarized list of items, complete with appraisals, that would be installed in Phantom’s house the next day (the result of several nights’ research, catalogue photocopying, and forgery on Skip’s part).

Phantom’s possessions were too valuable to spend a second unguarded and unsecured, Skip told Conrad. The house and its pending contents needed legal protection, even though the papers remained unsigned and technically the property and house were both still unpurchased. It wasn’t Phantom’s way of working to allow anything to chance. Everything must be insured, from the merest tack to the most priceless piece of art.

After an astonished pause, Conrad opened his mouth to say only he knew what, because Skip stopped him with an upraised palm and the words, “Phantom insists.” Conrad’s mouth snapped shut, and he hastened to comply. Within hours, Skip returned to the witch’s house with the signed documents. He hardly cared. The only document he was really anxious over hadn’t so far appeared... a new anonymous letter from the murderer warning him of some fresh disaster.

That night a sixteen-wheeler arrived and disturbed the peace of Mrs. Risk, who was the only human being within earshot of the commotion, their two properties being in an isolated part of town. From her bed she listened to the racket and shouting that informed her that Phantom’s “possessions” were being moved into his fixture home. She smiled grimly to herself. She wished she could be sure that what she was hearing was the trap closing around her quarry. She spent the rest of the night thinking.

The next day, bright and early, Skip did the rounds of the village employment spots. By midaftemoon he’d hired a cook, an assistant cook, gardeners, groundskeepers, a gatekeeper, a mechanic, handymen, and three sisters to keep house for Phantom. They were to report for work tomorrow at eight A.M., in time to look the place over and sort things out in preparation for Phantom’s early evening arrival on that same day. They were to be sure to arrive exactly at eight, so he wouldn’t have to spend precious time manning the electrified gate until the gatekeeper he’d hired showed up. Everyone promised.

Then Skip ordered food, household goods, and flowers from the specialty shops, delis, and gourmet grocers, to be delivered an hour after his new staff arrived tomorrow. This required the use of his remaining store of cash.

Now he was broke.

While these transactions were taking place, excitement spread like unquarantined measles until the entire village lost their collective reason and abandoned their shops and businesses. Who could work in an atmosphere of such delirium? Singlehandedly, Phantom had practically wiped out Wyndham’s recession. The mayor strolled Main Street chatting and shaking voters’ hands in case someone forgot whom to credit for this bonanza, and the trustees spent the remaining daylight admonishing the villagers to keep their “secret.”

As dark set in, Skip locked himself inside Phantom’s house to brood, convinced hell had arrived at Wyndham-by-the-Sea and he had brought it.

Mrs. Risk also remained indoors, at her own house, in case any of the villagers, deprived of a glimpse of Phantom’s sprawling stucco mansion by the enormous fence surrounding it, decided to see how a witch lived.

The sun sank in the west, spreading a hazy rose beneficat over the hysterical villagers, who simmered impatiently in their homes, waiting for Phantom’s impending arrival. Eventually the last bedroom light was extinguished, and everyone slept... or pretended to.

Around three in the morning, in the peaceful wooded coastline east of NSIC, an arm of flame reached for the moon. Phantom’s house was on fire. By the time a patrolling constable spotted the blaze and the volunteer fire department assembled themselves, the fire had become all-encompassing.