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

Only nine ladies and gentlemen sat on the board this term, but the hiss of their accumulated intaken breath would have brought credit to the entire reptile house at the Bronx Zoo. Only one hapless soul asked, quaveringly, “Who...” He was ignored.

“We’re faced tonight with an opportunity, it seems. But I’ll let my friend Mark here explain. Mark?”

Skip Dolan rose, paused for an extra dose of oxygen and a last reminder to think of himself from here on in as “Mark Daniels,” and ambled to the front. He stepped onto the elevated plywood platform that served to remind the board that the mayor — although short in stature — was a man of importance, and faced the board members. He nodded a thank you and smiled warmly at Mayor Harper, and at the nine. Then he spoke:

“My boss, as you’ve probably heard, covers the entire world on his concert tours. He believes, you know, in doing his part for democracy, taking other countries the message through his music, you know... like an ambassador. Only not paid by the government.” He smiled again. They beamed back, obviously taken with the idea of an unpaid ambassador spreading the message of democracy.

“Well, as much as he loves everybody, loves democracy and the world, he gets so worn down that he has to get away now and then. You know. Away from people who all want to — to shake his hand, that kind of thing. It gets so he’s like a prisoner of his fame. And so a friend of his told him about this cute little village, being so pretty and right on the water of Long Island Sound and everything, and he thought it’d be a great place to have a house. A real home, where he could sorta hide away from everyone and get himself back together. So he can do more tours, more shows, you know. He sent me to look it over and talk to you guys... that kinda thing.”

“A house?” repeated one of the trustees, a compact dark man with black and grey stubble on his cheeks. Dr. Villas. He looked doubtful.

A tall dapper man with sleek silver hair, Mr. Harder, snapped to attention. He owned a realty firm.

“What about drugs, booze, screaming parties, that sort of thing?” put in a tall woman. Ms. Bellwood. She owned a bookstore and valued the peace and quiet of Wyndham.

“Oh no, ma’am. He doesn’t even smoke, for his voice.”

A few people nodded to each other and commented on how nice Phantom’s voice really was.

Skip waited until they settled down. “You see, when I say he gets tired, I mean he gets dead tired. Almost like sick. He’d be more interested in healthy food, quiet breezes, swimming in Long Island Sound, and no noise to disturb him. His nerves get shot, ma’am.” He paused and everyone waited expectantly.

“If you and I can reach an agreement, I’m supposed to scout out and buy property for him, hire a contractor, and all that. Construct a place for him tailored to his special needs. He wouldn’t be interested in any house already built. Like, I’d have to fix him up a sound studio. Don’t worry about the noise, though, that’s soundproofed so even he couldn’t hear himself in the next room.”

The board members tittered at the thought that he couldn’t hear himself.

The mayor cleared his throat. “And, Mark, where would Phantom get these materials, these contractors, the workmen, supplies, and so on? His food and services?” he asked, speaking with a heavy significance.

“Why, right here in Wyndham, mayor. Like we discussed before the meeting.”

Mayor Harper turned to the board and smiled meaningfully. “Got that, folks? Here in Wyndham. Where unemployment’s been godawful these last two years. Even the tourists been stayin’ home in times like these. Think of it. First the land, then a mansion — with all the accoutrements—” His eyebrows wiggled gleefully. He owned a hardware store. “Housekeepers, groceries, gardeners, landscaping, God only knows. Spreadin’ his money around here for years. Forever, if we keep him happy.”

“And how do we keep him happy?” asked the doctor sourly.

The mayor, who’d never liked the doctor, leaned forward ponderously. “By keeping our damned traps shut, my dear sir. No gossip. He wants privacy and plenty of it.”

“But the publicity!” a lady in the second row with suspiciously bright red hair cried out. She edited the village’s local weekly newspaper. “Tourism could explode here if we could take advantage of his presence.”

“Great,” said Skip with a grimace. “People’d be climbing his gates. He’d have to hire bodyguards to get him in and out of the house. He’d be just as much a prisoner here as on tour.

“Listen, folks. People get mad if he’s not good-natured with them every second. They stick their noses in his lunch, then complain how stuck up he is if he tries to move over. I know, ’cause he has to do it every day on tour. Think about it. Wouldn’t that drive you people nuts? If he doesn’t find a place to go, a place just to be quiet and rest, he’ll go stark raving crazy. Do you know where he has to go to get away nowadays? Like a vacation? He checks into a hospital.”

“No.” Ms. Bellwood was aghast.