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

“What did Mrs. Fox-Nugent say you stole?” Simon held tight to the calloused little hand and didn’t look at Volanda.

“He say I stole it. He tell her that!”

“Who? Who?”

“The big fella! Scared me to death! Say he cut my tongue out if I tell on him!”

“Who? Who was the big fella?”

“Simon!” Volanda started around the bed. Willie’s head was turning back and forth on the pillow. He murmured, “That waiter. Fella came in to help at the dinner party.”

Volanda grabbed Simon’s shoulder and turned him around. “Are you nuts, making a disturbance in here at this hour? If I’d thought you were going to...”

But Simon did not hear the rest. He was striding to the door and now he was out of the place and running down the street. There were people on the sidewalk and he knew they turned and looked at him but he didn’t care. He was madder than he’d ever been in his life. His mind was empty of everything but the sound of the quavering old voice and the words, “I never done it! I never stole it.”

He reached the house on the corner where Volanda lived with her mother and two little brothers. As he pulled open the garage doors one of the little brothers called from an upstairs window, “You taking your bike, Si?”

“Sure am. What are you doing up at this hour, Tyrone?”

Volanda’s mother came to the window and shooed the boy away. She said, “I only just dragged him out of that garage half an hour ago. He’s been sitting in there all day looking at that motorbike like it was something holy.”

“I was guarding it for you, Si,” came Tyrone’s voice from the depths of his room.

“You shush and go to bed,” Volanda’s mother said. “Simon, where’s Voley?”

“Still at work. I dropped in there. Thanks for guarding the bike, Ty.”

He rolled it to the street, then got on and gunned it. He told himself not to go too fast. He didn’t want to be stopped, no sir, not tonight. When he got back to Sapphire Drive he drove slowly to the museum entrance. Would his luck hold? The area was deathly quiet and nice big clouds sailed over the moon. Simon ran the bike up the slope and along in the shadow of the wall to the crown of Neptune. He put down the stand and muttered, “Be a good guy, Nep, and guard it for me like Tyrone.”

Now he was over the fence and down the ramp. As he put the key in the lock he looked at his watch; twenty minutes till Mr. O’Malley’s rounds. Just time to face the lady down! Simon sped along the corridor and pulled up breathless before Dorothea’s portrait. Scared to think she might actually reappear, but knowing he’d be furious if she didn’t, he said aloud, “Dorothea! You owe me!”

The canvas quivered and dissolved, and she stepped out with her jewels flashing. Simon gulped, but hung onto his cool. Dorothea said, “What a vulgar expression. I owe you nothing.”

“Oh, no?” He imitated her voice. “ ‘I once had a stableboy who was a Negro and he was also a thief.’ Well, he was also my uncle and he was no thief. He was just a poor little kid taking some garbage home to his family and you believed a creepy waiter who accused him of stealing. And don’t tell me you don’t remember it!”

“I remember it vividly.” Her face had changed slightly. “The boy’s name was Willie.”

“Well, Willie’s an old man now and he’s never gotten over the rotten injustice of it.” Simon knew his voice was shaking. “It screwed up his family too, and that’s what I mean when I say you owe me and him.”

He paused for breath and heard, to his dismay, a step on the stairs and saw the beam of an approaching flashlight. Simon dived behind the window draperies. He stuck his head out and whispered to Dorothea’s shimmering form, “Scram, will you? That’s the least you can do for me!”

But she remained there, motionless and bright. This is the end of me, Simon thought. No, he had one chance. He pulled his T-shirt up to his shoulders; if he covered his face with it and made a run for the hall... He peered through a tiny gap in the curtains. Mr. O’Malley stood in the door.

Dorothea said, “Be careful not to drag on those draperies. They’re very old.”

Mr. O’Malley beamed his light around the room and went off down the hall. Simon emerged, pulling his shirt down and staring at Dorothea.

“I’m the only one who can see you or hear you?”

“Certainly. You are the miscreant.”

“What’s a miscreant?”

“Someone who has done something wrong.”

Simon said slowly, “Suppose someone has made a little kid’s life miserable. Would that someone be a miscreant?”

Dorothea’s light flared, then dimmed, flared, then dimmed, as if controlled by disturbed vibes. She said icily, “Will you have the common courtesy to listen to my side of the story?”

“Okay, okay. Don’t blow a fuse.” He walked to one of the big carved chairs that stood against the wall, sat down, and leaned back. “Sure. Let’s hear your version, Dorothea.”

“I suppose you realize,” she floated to a chair against the opposite wall, “that it’s very impudent of you to continue to call me Dorothea.”