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

“Oh,” Mr. Harder, Sr., said. He laughed nervously, taken aback. “Well, hey...” He slid it into an inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” he said with dignity. He and Conrad left the office smiling. Skip shook hands with the remaining board members and left. Everybody was happy.

Ernie returned to work the next day in a wheelchair, defying his doctor’s command to rest. Two hard-driving, backbreaking weeks passed, during which time the foundation was filled, the shell of the house was finished, the stucco was beginning to be applied, work on the fence circling the property (with electronic sensors in the gate and an intercom system) was completed, and the terra cotta roofing arrived. Drywallers and decorators swarmed the interior.

Best of all, the plumbers finished hooking up the septic system, which perked up the entire exhausted crew. Port-o-lets can become downright uncivilized when accommodating so many users.

But when the well was dug, and a pump rigged to provide a convenient on-site source of water for the men, the water tasted so odd that the men avoided it. Several of the crew worried about what Phantom would think of the taste, but Skip had no time to deal with it. He just resumed deliveries of bottled water and moved his attention to other, more urgent, matters.

Summer arrived and the days warmed enough to become uncomfortable for the hardworking crews. One sweating plasterer was filling a thermos at the stand of icy bottled water when the skidding, gravel-flinging arrival of Skip’s truck startled him. He froze in astonishment as Skip sprinted towards him and knocked his thermos to the ground.

“Did you drink any of that water?” Skip shouted into the plasterer’s face.

“Uh... no,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Who did?” Skip turned and screamed to the staring work crew scattered all over the large house, “Did any of you drink this water?”

It turned out that a few had. Skip called an ambulance, shouting instructions into his car phone. A few of the men began rubbing their bellies and grimacing. By the time the ambulance arrived, eight men were vomiting and needed no urging to go to the hospital. Skip drove the overflow from the crowded ambulance in his truck. He looked ten years older by the time they pulled up to St. Charles Hospital’s emergency entrance.

The waiting attendants whisked the by now seriously ailing men in to the doctors, who’d been warned and were standing by. Then Skip turned around and drove back to those waiting at the building site. They wanted some answers. So did he.

He pulled in right behind the homicide detective and the constable. The detective just gazed at Skip and shook his head. He sent a water sample in to the lab for immediate testing, taped up the remaining bottles, and left the constable in charge. After all, no one had died. Yet. This time.

Ernie, who was getting around on crutches now, sat down heavily on the hood of Skip’s pickup truck. The men gathered around. A white-faced Skip stared at the bewildered men.

“How’d you know?” Ernie finally asked, voicing one of the main questions on everybody’s mind. The other questions were who, how, and why, but not many of them really thought that Skip, whom they all liked, would know the answers.

Skip’s pale lips moved before any words emerged. When they did come out, they sounded parched and shaken. “I visited the site this morning early, way before the rest of you were due. Took a drink. It felt odd in my stomach. Traveling with Phantom so much, you learn to recognize bad water... stuff like that. Made myself throw it up. Figured you guys didn’t need to get sick, too — came as fast as I...” He was unable to finish. He swallowed hard. It’d taken him the entire drive from his house to the property to dream up that explanation.

He looked around him. The men seemed convinced. Before they moved back towards their unfinished work, a few punched him sympathetically in the bicep, which brought a choked feeling to Skip’s throat that had nothing to do with dust.

Just then, the constable ambled over towards Skip and Ernie, a troubled look on his face. “Got it over the car radio. The lab nailed it soon enough to save the guys, thank God... sodium triouroacetate.”

“Uh, what?” asked Skip.

“Pest control. Rat killer. Used to call it Tri-Zan. All the waterfront industries used it to control the rat population back in the early fifties, until it got banned,” said the constable. “Pathologist said they hadn’t seen the stuff in decades. But with the location, and the symptoms, an old guy in the lab thought of it right away. Lucky he did.”

Ernie explained to Skip, “This used to be a big shipbuilding region. Where there’s water and ships, there’s rats. I remember now that the stuff damn near killed off the whole town, years ago. Real disaster. Takes just a tiny bit...”

The constable nodded. “You probably saved the lives of every one of those guys who drank any. Odorless, and practically tasteless.”