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

“What were you thinking, Chip?” she said. “You shouldn’t have argued with the man. You should have just given him what he wanted right away. He might have killed you. Thank God he didn’t.”

She stroked my hand softly, covering my fingers with that scent. And I knew we would go out again; I knew I would hear her laugh again. I knew there must be a God in heaven after all.

Then there was a loud knock on the door. It was the police coming back to talk to me. No problem; I was rested, rehearsed, and ready to make my statement.

Only these cops didn’t have notebooks and sketchpads. They had handcuffs.

“There are a couple of holes in your story, Chip,” Marty stood up and said. “Big, big holes. The screwdriver was dusted and thoroughly checked for fingerprints, and nobody’s were on it except yours. And both doors to the store were still locked from the inside. So tell me, just how did this robber escape?”

Damn.

Well, it was true, I didn’t let anybody handle my tools, ever. It was a superstition of mine. And of course I locked the doors. I didn’t want anybody barging in while I was hitting myself in the head with an electric screwdriver. That kind of thing is hard to explain to people.

I should have planned it better, taken my time, not been so anxious to make Julia pity me. But I don’t care how clever you are, it’s difficult to pull off the perfect crime while simultaneously winning the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world.

Or, judging from the way she was staring all wide-eyed at me now, alienating her completely and making her think I was some kind of particularly loathsome scuzbug.

The police read me my rights and told me they were going to post a man at my door. I’d be going to jail as soon as I felt better.

That was bad enough, but what was even worse was that Julia let go of my hand. Dropped it like a red-hot root vegetable. She even slid her chair back from my bed like she couldn’t stand to be near such a black-hearted brother-robber.

Marty cut me a nasty look, then he left with the cops. But Julia stayed in the room. I almost wished she’d taken off, too. I couldn’t stand the way she was looking at me, like she was modeling for a dictionary illustration of “stunned horror.”

There was obviously something she wanted to say to me, and I had a strong feeling it wasn’t “What a wonderful man you are. I bet you did this all for me. When you get out of prison, I’m going to laugh and laugh. Laugh and smell delicious and go on lots more dates with you, you smooth talking bon mot maker,” like she was supposed to in my “what-if-I-get-caught?” script.

Judging by her eyes and by her hands that were no longer holding mine but flexing and clenching like she wished this hospital had had the forethought to supply visitors with big heavy rocks to hurl at the patients, it was probably something more along the lines of “I have known some lowdown geezwads in my time, but you are the lowest of the low. Don’t ever call or even daydream about me again.”

“Julia, I don’t know how the guy managed to get through a locked door. I don’t know why his fingerprints weren’t on the screwdriver. Maybe he’s an alien from another planet. Or maybe he’s one of those mysterious Hindu swami guys from India that can dematerialize. All I know is I’m not lying. I was robbed. Brutally beaten. You believe me, don’t you?”

That’s what I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was too tired, and I’d lied to her too many times already.

What I actually said was not clever or brave, but it was true.

“I am so sorry, J-Julia.” I shook my head, accidentally setting off a cerebellum-shattering explosion. “I know it was stupid. I know it was wrong. But all I wanted to do was make you keep on l-liking me. And it wasn’t as if I was going to keep the money or—”

“Shh, Chip,” she said, “don’t talk any more now.”

“But I have to, Julia. I have to make you understand why I did it. I have to show you—”

“What you have to do,” Julia said, “is rest.”

She walked back to my bedside. I instinctively drew back because I thought she might be going to slap me, but instead she adjusted my covers for me and fluffed up my pillows.

“Rest right now,” she told me. “I’ll be back later and we can—”

What?!

“You will? Really? You’ll be back? You mean you’re still speaking to me? You don’t hate me?”

She reached out and clasped my hand once more.

“Of course I don’t hate you, goofball. I’ll be back in a few hours with Mr. Walters — he owes me a favor after all that unpaid overtime I put in last month — and we can start preparing your case.”

My case. That was right. The thought of losing Julia forever was so horrible I’d forgotten it wasn’t my only problem.

“Boy, I have really messed things up this time,” I told her. “Yesterday I was working on the Information Superhighway; tomorrow I’ll probably be on the chain gang.”