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

“Yes,” insisted Skip. He knew it was true because he’d read all about it in the newspaper while eating a snack in Atlantic City. He’d been struck then by how sad that was. “He wants to stroll down into the village and shop, just live quiet, like everybody else.”

“Hear that?” put in the mayor eagerly. “He wants to shop!”

“But—” the redhaired lady began again.

A man in a suit of obviously foreign cut and astronomical cost, a board member who hadn’t spoken before — Mr. Drexel — held up a single finger, which silenced her. It silenced everybody. He held the second highest executive position in Wyndham’s single industrial business, which paid the majority of village taxes. He nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that, about the hospital. It’s true.”

Mayor Harper grimaced at him. Deferring to others didn’t come easily to the mayor. “You’re right, sir. You’re a wonderful judge of character, as we all know. When you meet him, you won’t get over just how plain and down-to-earth Phantom really is,” continued the mayor expansively to the entire board, draping one arm over Skip’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion.

“How would you know?” asked the doctor skeptically.

“Why, Mark told me. True?” he asked Skip.

“Oh, true,” said Skip. He smiled again. His cheeks were beginning to ache.

“Well, great, but you can’t hide him here forever. People’ll recognize him. Word’ll get out,” said the doctor.

“If you don’t think you can do it...” Skip shrugged doubtfully.

“Now, hang on. You know what? We won’t wait for people to find out, we’ll tell them.” The mayor leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “We’ll get the whole village in on it. He promises to spend his money here — well, we’ll promise to keep his presence to ourselves. Totally. It’s the only humane thing to do.”

“We could adopt him,” said Ms. Bellwood, standing up in her enthusiasm. She had a kind face, thought Skip. And she was attractive for a middle-aged lady, he thought further. Nice body for a thirty-year-old.

“That’s a great idea,” declared the mayor. “Well adopt him. Phantom will be Wyndham’s Secret Son. I think people’ll like thinking about him that way. He needs us to help him rest and recuperate. We’ll make sure he gets his slightest wish fulfilled. Well make his life here... a joy. An absolute joy.”

“And he’ll pay for it,” said the doctor.

The mayor eyed him suspiciously, but the doctor seemed agreeable. Then again, Mayor Harper thought, doctors usually were agreeable about money. As were mayors, sighed Mayor Harper truthfully to himself, but only to himself.

A short man with white hair lifted a timorous hand as he rose from his seat and began making his way to the front. “You’ll be wanting to talk with me, young man.”

The mayor said, “Ah yes. May I introduce Horace Arsdale — our banker, Mark.”

After more discussion, endless questions which Skip answered patiently, and then handshaking and introductions all around, he left with Mr. Arsdale clinging to his arm.

Skip’s facial muscles twitched all night in his sleep from strain, but he was at Mr. Arsdale’s bank early the next day, regardless.

Mr. Arsdale beamed as brightly as the spring sun when he retrieved Skip’s check for forty-five thousand dollars from his desk, with Skip’s parting words ringing majestically in his ears: “This’s just a small token to open the account until the boss transfers building funds, and of course his living funds, from his regular bank.”

Mr. Arsdale had been positively thrilled to approve Phantom’s unsecured loan for a private residence. Everybody knew Phantom. In his mind, Mr. Arsdale feasted on the future delights of a friendship with this international celebrity. Horace M. Arsdale — banker to the stars. Harry and Phantom — pals.

To save time, Skip took Ernie Block, a local builder he’d hired on Mayor Harper’s recommendation, with him when his realty agent, Conrad Harder, Jr. (beloved only son of Mr. Harder the trustee), drove him to see the first piece of property. Since the property didn’t border Long Island Sound, Skip rejected it immediately.

“I did think I’d mentioned it last night to your dad, Conrad. That we want to be on the water, you know?”

“Ah, you’re right, sir, you did, sir.” Since Conrad was at least twice Skip’s age, Skip had to conceal a grimace at the “sir.”

At the next location, Skip got out of the car. Conrad was practically quivering with excitement... not an attractive sight in an older man, thought Skip. Obviously, here was land Conrad ached to sell him.