Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

If I disposed of my competing murderer, the survivor would immediately rush to the police. I certainly could not have that.

However, if I first got rid of the one of us who was pure as the snow, then my opposite number certainly could not go rushing to the police.

His accidents certainly could not bear the scrutiny of the police, either.

And that would leave just the two of us — cautious and wary — but I had every faith that I would triumph in the finals.

But which one of them was the murderer? Evans or Florian? Could I get them together and dispatch them as one? I did not see how.

Momentarily I thought of murdering from the viewpoint of availability. I knew where Florian would be tonight. He was the only one of us who made his home in this city. Evans undoubtedly was at a hotel, but I hadn’t the faintest idea which one.

But I rejected that course of action. There was a fifty-fifty chance that I might be killing the wrong man first. Not very good odds after all the work I’d done.

The motive for the decimation of our club was money, but how to discover which one of those two did not actually have any?

A sudden thought came to me. Perhaps there was a way. Not definitive, but I had to do something.

I consulted the yellow pages of the telephone book and winced when I discovered that there were some ninety-three hotels listed. I sighed, picked up the phone, and attacked the columns alphabetically, hoping fervently that Evans was not at the Zymmerman Arms.

Fortunately for my patience, I found that he was registered at the Fraidlie House. The clerk inquired whether I wanted his room rung, but I demurred. Knowing where he was was sufficient for my purposes.

I am not familiar with this city or the status of its hotels, so I left to investigate further.

The Fraidlie House proved to be not much more than a rat-trap in a dilapidated neighborhood. The chill of evening made it appear even worse. Why, it was hardly better than the miserable place where I was registered.

I smiled. At least that settled that. Evans was the other murderer. His story about having four hundred thousand dollars was pure fabrication. No man in his right mind, and with money, would stay in a place like that.

I was about to start my car again and return to my hotel when I saw Evans leaving the Fraidlie House.

He carried no luggage, so he couldn’t possibly be returning to Minneapolis. He had the collar of his topcoat turned up; his movements were quick, furtive. Was it possible, I wondered, that tonight he might...

He hailed a passing cab.

I started my car and followed at a discreet distance.

His taxi went down the avenue and turned onto the lake-front drive. About four miles south, the road turned slightly inland and we were in a district of fine homes — semi-estates, actually, each with four or five acres of land. This was the area in which Florian lived.

I smiled. It did look as though Evans were going to get rid of Florian tonight. I had no objections. It would save me work.

Evans’s taxi stopped directly in front of Florian’s home.

Really now! That wasn’t particularly intelligent.

Evans was paying the driver as I passed. I drove on a bit, frowning. I remembered some of the previous accidents Evans had arranged. Good heavens, I thought, he could bungle the whole thing — and at this stage we certainly did not want a police investigation of any sort.

I made a U-turn and drove back. I stopped a good five hundred feet beyond Florian’s place and then walked. The street was dimly lit and deserted.

I had been a guest at Florian’s home some years back and I remembered his house as a two story affair, spacious, and with the quarters for the servants — a butler, a chauffeur, a cook, and a maid, married couples — over the four car garage.

It was only ten in the evening, but the living quarters over the garage were dark, and the only light from the house came from Florian’s study.

I glanced about, determining again that I was unobserved, and then slipped into the grounds. I made my way toward the light.

The french doors were slightly ajar, and I peered inside the room.

Florian lay on the couch, his face flushed. He was snoring loudly. A portable gas heater burned near his feet, and beside him on the floor stood an almost empty whisky bottle and a glass.

And standing over him, clumsily gripping a fireplace poker, stood Evans. He closed his eyes, raised the poker, and gave every indication of being about to strike.

I stepped swiftly into the room. “Hold on!”

Evans stopped his swing in mid-air, opened his eyes, and blinked. “Is that you, Henry?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I whispered savagely. “And keep your voice down. Do you want to wake Florian? What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Evans lowered the poker. “I was just about to bash Florian over the head.”

“Is that your idea of an accident?” I demanded sternly.

Evans shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it would look as though an intruder had murdered him. I was going to empty his wallet and all that sort of thing.”