Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“Well, I’ve always lived with you, if you know what I mean,” said Mrs. Stammers. “It’s just that I’m not their housekeeper any more,” she explained to Russell. “I had a bit of luck, I did. Got another housekeeper, but she doesn’t live on the premises.”

“Oh, yes,” said Russell.

“It was all my Aunt Pru’s doing. Hardly knew I had an aunt, and then I got this letter. Poor Aunt Pru.” Mrs. Stammers dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed serviette. “She wanted me to have her money before she died. Didn’t want the tax to get it. So she asked me to come and collect it. Said to bring a bodyguard along. You know, Mr. Davenport, I was going to ask you to come and protect me and help bring the money somewhere safe. Didn’t know whether you’d think it wicked to avoid the tax that way. But the brigadier said he’d come along.”

She smiled at the brigadier and he beamed back.

“So we went, and we got Aunt Pru’s money, and I put it all into premium bonds, every cent right up to the maximum, and we put some in the general’s name, and Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding’s name, ’cause we’re friends now, and we trust each other, don’t we? And we’ve been striking it lucky every month in the premium bonds lottery, haven’t we?”

“Got a big prize,” said Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding suddenly.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Stammers and waved her hand at the waiter. “More bubbly, luv!”

Fall Guy

by Dave Reddall

The snow was tapering off, coming straight down now. Small flakes that glistened like diamond dust. Even without the wind it was bitterly cold.

Kermit stashed the morning’s haul of returnable cans and bottles where they would be safe and set off for Liberty Street. He needed gloves, and Saturday was the day people usually chose to drop off food and clothing at the shelter.

Luck was with him for once: a brand new pair of insulated gloves. The right size, too. Kermit was a big man and rarely found anything to fit. As he stood in front of the shelter, flexing his fingers in his new gloves, Cadillac Jack stepped up and said good morning.

Most of the people on the street had nicknames. Kermit quickly became Froggie, from the television puppet. He detested the name but, short of kicking someone’s slats in, there was little he could do about it. And despite his size, he had a horror of violence.

Cadillac Jack got his nickname when he appeared at the shelter a couple of weeks earlier. He was dropped off by a midnight blue Coupe DeVille and you had to wonder, because he looked then like he looked now: ragged. But climbing out of a Caddy, nonetheless. He came and went and pretty much kept to himself, rarely engaging in conversation. Which made this morning’s greeting unusual.

“Want to make a quick hundred bucks, Frogman?”

Kermit was on guard at once. There was no such thing as free money.

“How?”

“Simple. You just fall down.”

Kermit grinned. “Hell, Jack. I’ve been known to do that on occasion.”

Jack moved closer, eyes narrowed. He was short and scrawny, not enough meat on him to make a sick man a sandwich, thought Kermit. But he vaguely remembered from his school days that Stalin was only about five foot four, and one of his legs was shorter than the other. Kermit wasn’t sure who Stalin was — probably a Nazi — but he knew that the little man had killed a lot of people, so you just never knew. And right now Cadillac Jack seemed just a little menacing.

“Listen up, Froggie. You need to be stone cold sober for this gig. Otherwise, forget it.”

Kermit considered what a hundred dollars would mean: a fistful of lottery tickets, something to drink besides cheap muscatel, a half hour with one of the whores down on Exeter Street.

“Okay. What’s the deal?”

“You know where the Big League Deli is on Dudley Avenue?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Right in front there’s a heave in the sidewalk — one section’s raised up an inch or two.” He flashed a thin smile. “Hell, someone could trip on that, get hurt.”

“Like me,” said Kermit.

Jack nodded. “At exactly twelve forty-five this afternoon you take a flop on that sidewalk. Make it a good one, and don’t get up right away. Your hip hurts. Your back hurts. You got some serious pain, right? So you lay there awhile until a guy wearing a long red scarf offers to drive you to the E.R. Go with him.”

“When do I get paid?”

“This guy will take you to see someone who’ll give you the yard.” He looked Kermit over critically. “Put on your best clothes, if you got any. And for crissake, shave. You want to make a good impression, don’t you?”

It was a piece of cake.

Kermit arrived at the designated time, stubbed his foot on the broken sidewalk, and went pinwheeling to the ground. He lay there, moaning and refusing help, until a well-dressed man in a red scarf offered assistance.

Now he leaned back in the plush leather seat of the blue Cadillac, shooting occasional glances at the silent driver.

“I was good, huh?”

“Yeah, a regular Bogart. Get out at the next corner. Go into the Starlight Lounge, take a booth, and wear this.” He handed Kermit the scarf. “Someone will be right along.”