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

“Purchasing the land yourself would’ve bought you more time — time you needed to wait for Aisa’s death. Because when Aisa died, your inheritance would not have just paid off your personal debts. You could’ve discreetly replaced the pipelines and still maintained your lifestyle... maintained your — your rightful position in the village, and in the Manhattan society of which you’re so fond.

“But instead,” she continued, “you were greedy. In order to stop construction, you chose to kill the poor carpenter. When the police decided the murder was an accident, work on the project continued. Then you were driven to kill someone else, but this time you merely broke the leg of the construction boss. Nothing seemed to go your way. Nobody would stop working on that house. Mark never publicized your anonymous letters, either, which might have stopped things. You must have been horribly frustrated.”

“I was,” he said. “I was.”

“Poisoning the water nearly brought you success... nearly. You didn’t want to keep murdering people, but what else could you do, Matthew? What else could you do?”

Matthew Drexel let out a long, pent-up breath. “Everybody was frantic to get that house built, to have that rock star live here. I didn’t care myself until they picked out that one piece of property. I just couldn’t let it happen. But nobody would give in.”

Then Matthew Drexel looked her quizzically in the eye. “How did you figure it out?”

“I found an underwater spring flowing through Phantom’s property. It tasted good, which made me wonder why his well water tasted so bad. I had both waters tested. The water from the water table was polluted. Tainted with natural gas. Natural gas isn’t found on Long Island, Matthew. NSIC has it brought in by ship, and then they store it. Everyone knew whom Aisa trusted to carry out his wishes, his orders, for NSIC’s cleanup. You, Matthew.”

“Phantom’s got money, more money than God,” he said bitterly. “I knew when he tasted the lousy water he could afford to get experts in to fix it. And they’d figure out that NSIC had polluted the water table. And... and then everybody would find out everything.”

“You mean Aisa Garrett would find out everything, don’t you? And disinherit you?”

Mr. Drexel seemed to shrink as he sat there.

“But Aisa Garrett just kept getting older,” said Mrs. Risk.

“That old man might’ve lived to be a hundred if... if he hadn’t died just then,” Mr. Drexel said petulantly.

“If you hadn’t killed him.”

An angry murmur spread through the people standing nearest Mr. Drexel. He seemed oblivious. Or uncaring. He looked exhausted. Beaten.

Detective Michael Hahn took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him up from the chair. They moved toward the door and the waiting patrol car just beyond.

“After Aisa’s death,” suddenly continued Mrs. Risk as if she’d just thought of something. The detective paused, pulling Mr. Drexel up short. “Because you thought you’d soon inherit the company and the income to go with it, you no longer needed to prevent Phantom’s arrival. Aisa’s money would soon solve everything. The fire probably seemed to you to be a bonus. A huge stroke of luck.”

Mr. Drexel brightened for a second, but the look faded. “That was lucky, yes. I thought I’d won everything. Everything,” he repeated.

“But you didn’t,” stated Mrs. Risk flatly.

A spasm of anger flashed across his face. “No,” he said shortly, and he turned away from her.

Detective Michael Hahn pulled his captive’s arms together behind his back to handcuff him. The crowd sprang into angry life. The detective pushed Drexel before him, using broad shoulders to wedge their way through the enclosing mass. Despite the detective’s best efforts, a few fists and feet found their way to Matthew’s anatomy.

Then a high quavery voice interrupted the growing uproar from over the loudspeaker. It was Aisa Garrett. He was standing up on the mayor’s platform being steadied by the mayor’s grip on his elbow. He looked frail, but he was certainly alive.

“Stop it now, everyone. Stop it,” commanded Aisa Garrett. “He was more unsuccessful than you know, about murdering me, anyway.”

The villagers, after gaping at this apparition of a dead man, cheered. “Aisa!” they shouted.

Aisa held up an arm and waved. “Listen,” he croaked at them. Mayor Harper rapped on his table. “Listen — thank you, mayor — listen, folks. I want to tell you how much I regret letting this greedy son of a bitch get away with his... his scheme, but I swear I’ll make it up to you all, as much as I can make it up to anybody. That carpenter’s wife will be supported for life, and her kids are going to college.” A few cheered, but mostly faces looked grave. Silence spread through the crowd.