Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

He hurried down the hall to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The room was bare except for some lockers and a few chairs. He hung up his blazer and tie, took off his white shirt, and pulled on a T-shirt. Then he got out of his trousers and into jeans. Standing before his locker mirror, he was smoothing his hair when a middle-aged fellow guide came in. Simon closed the locker door quickly and said, “Hi, Bill.”

“Big Saturday night date, Si?”

“Just Volanda.” He hated having to sound casual about Volanda because he liked her so much, but everything he said tonight had to sound casual. He turned the key in his locker and went out, telling Bill to have a nice weekend. He was fighting panic. If anything went wrong he’d lose his job, maybe go to jail, and his mother and Aunt Hannah and everybody he knew would be shocked and disappointed — everybody but Volanda. She’d suggested it and said it should work.

Bolstering his courage with that thought, Simon walked down the hall, passing other guides coming off duty. Their pleasant “good nights” made him feel horribly guilty; he was the youngest of them all and knew he was something of a favorite. Stairs took him to a door that opened onto the beautiful garden of the museum. The winter was unusually warm, and the place was a riot of flowers under bordering palm trees. Visitors were still straggling down the gravel path toward the big iron gate that formed one of the two entrances. The grounds were surrounded by a ten-foot-high red brick wall, and Simon had decided that this back gate would be better than the one to the parking lot, which was visible from the street.

Mr. Fitz, the head gardener, herded out the last of the visitors and started to close the gate, looking over his shoulder.

“Last call. You going out this way, Si?”

“No, I was just, er, thinking how pretty the garden looks.”

“I never thought you were much for gardens. You’re usually roaring off on that motorcycle of yours.”

“It’s in the shop,” Simon lied. “I gotta hike to the bus stop.”

“I’m out of here in five minutes.” Mr. Fitz pocketed his keys. “Give you a lift?”

“Oh — no thanks.” Simon backed hastily inside. “Come to think of it, a friend said he might pick me up.”

He joined the parade of employees moving toward the door to the parking lot. A beverage machine stood there and Simon got himself a soda. Then he walked across the lot and halfway down the drive. He sat on a stone bench and opened his soda. Trapped without his bike, he waved at the stream of departing cars, declined offers of lifts in favor of the non-existent friend who was picking him up, and glanced often at his watch with what he hoped looked like a “waiting” frown.

Now the parking lot was deserted except for the night watchman’s car. This week it was Mr. O’Malley, and right now he’d be having his supper in the little sitting room behind the office where the rather antiquated alarm system was. The museum had never had a break-in. Simon had learned in casual conversation with Mr. O’Malley that the watchman’s rounds were every three hours beginning at eight o’clock. Plenty of time if all went well. Simon had told his mother that he and Volanda were going to a movie so she wouldn’t expect him; she was the kind of mom who tended to “expect” you even though you were twenty.

He stuffed the soda can in a receptacle and went down the drive to Sun Circle with its pretty walk curving along the gulf, then up Sapphire Drive to the bus stop and the sign that read DOROTHEA FOX-NUGENT MUSEUM with an arrow. There were nice homes along here and some traffic now, but it would taper off later. Simon knew this because he and Volanda had walked around the area last night. He supposed he should eat something, but he doubted if he could swallow a crumb. Maybe a candy bar would go down. He strolled another block to a Quickmart and bought one. Then he crossed Route 41 and went into the crowded lobby of the Days Inn. He sat down in a corner with a magazine in front of his face and stared at it. And stared at it for what seemed like an eternity.

At eight thirty it was dark, at least as dark as it was going to be with that gorgeous big old moon hanging up there. Simon recrossed Route 41, walked back along the now quiet Sapphire Drive, and stood at the foot of the museum driveway. The château was on a rise and he looked up with a funny chill at its silhouette towering behind the wall. The wall itself cast a deep shadow, but the slope up to that protecting darkness was silvery bright. He figured it would take him ten or eleven seconds to sprint up, and if he was seen that was the end of him.

Simon took a deep breath and dashed. He reached the wall and leaned against it gasping for breath, looking and listening. Not a sound. Not a soul.