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

The next day the homicide detective told Skip that the bullet was a common .303 used in hunting rifles. Though the killing was tragic, it was probably a hunting accident. The woods around Phantom’s long-vacant property were known to be full of small game. Lots of hunters in the area, more than usual in the last few economically lean years. The perpetrator would possibly never be discovered.

Skip explained all this to Ernie and Ernie’s crew. Even though the men were understandably upset at the loss of their friend, several shoulders lowered in an easing of tension at hearing that it could’ve been a hunting accident, and work resumed.

After a few more days, the crews were working up to speed again, and the shock faded.

Then, a week later, Ernie stepped into an animal trap. Ernie, a normally soft-spoken man, screamed in a shrill agony that caused the men to drop their tools and run to him from all over the site. The trap, an old iron one that he swore hadn’t been there the day before, was big enough to incapacitate a full-grown bear. Although the rusted jaws could’ve severed his leg, he was luckily wearing work boots that limited the damage to broken bones.

As the ambulance trundled an agonized but sedated Ernie to St. Charles hospital, the men stared at each other with white faces. Skip was speechless. Without being told, Ernie’s assistant, using Skip’s car phone, called the constable, who immediately called homicide again.

After much discussion, even Skip had to admit that the detective’s theory — that it was only more hunting equipment, long forgotten and overlooked by Ernie’s crew — was somewhat reasonable.

The lot, he remembered Conrad’s saying, had stood vacant for years. The men agreed with the detective, although he could tell they were uneasy about it. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t too convinced himself, but at least Ernie would definitely be okay, suffering only a broken leg, unlike the poor carpenter. After an hour’s milling about and an early lunch, the men returned to work. It sure was a puzzle.

A few days later, Skip “heard” from his boss.

Skip called an impromptu meeting at the mayor’s office. After offhandedly pointing out the report of Phantom’s whereabouts in the Newsday newspaper (Liz Smith’s column) to Mayor Harper, Mr. Drexel, Dr. Villas, Harder, Sr., the nice-looking Ms. Bellwood, Conrad, and Ernie’s assistant, Skip showed them the message Phantom had faxed from Eastern Europe where he was doing benefits for the newly formed ex-Soviet Satellite countries.

The lengthy communication, typed in faded, “foreign looking” letters, complimented his manager, Mark Daniels, and the people working so hard from the village of Wyndham-by-the-Sea, for their quick work in carrying out his — Phantom’s — wishes.

However — and it was a big however — Phantom stated that he was walking a mental and physical tightrope that could snap at any time, so he’d be flying directly to Wyndham in his private jet from the last gig on his tour.

“Mark” must speed up work even more, and arrange safe shipment of his furniture, art collection, sound equipment, and so forth, from where they were presently being stored so that all would be in place for his arrival. Phantom’s tour was at a particularly manic stage. In lieu of transferring funds from bank to bank — a nightmarish tangle of transactions when attempted from deep within the Eastern Bloc — he promised to settle all accounts fully the day he arrived. From that point, Phantom said, he looked forward to the complete rest and total quiet promised him by the villagers of beautiful Wyndham-by-the-Sea. “See you all soon. Phantom.”

Mr. Harder and Mr. Arsdale, who’d jointly been pressing Skip for additional deposits and signed papers, retreated in awe. “All accounts settled fully”... the words floated in the air like the promise of paradise. With a flourish, Skip wrote out another draft on the borrowed bank funds and handed it to Ernie’s assistant.

“To hire new crews?” asked the assistant.

Skip nodded gravely.

“You got it, boss,” he said, and he marched smartly out of the mayor’s office to notify Ernie and collect more men.

Conrad prodded his father with an elbow and Mr. Harder, Sr., cleared his throat. “Well, I hate to bother you, Mark, but you know, we haven’t closed on this property yet. Strictly speaking, the owners have every right—”

Before he could finish speaking, Skip wrote out a check to “cash” for ten thousand dollars. Word had trickled back to Skip through the subcontractors and thus through Ernie that Mr. Harder himself was the absent unnamed owner, but Skip felt no need to mention it. He handed the check to Mr. Harder, Sr. “As an extra bonus,” Skip said, “for the property owners, for their kind cooperation. This doesn’t go into escrow, and it doesn’t apply to the purchase price. Do you think it’ll help their patience any?” Now Skip had ten thousand four hundred fifty dollars left of his original bankroll and owed the bank an astronomical amount of money.