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

“Evans,” I said. “I don’t believe it’ll be necessary for each of us to try to kill the other.”

“Really?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded. “We can split the fund.”

“But that’s impossible. Florian said our charter terms were absolutely unbreakable.”

“There is another way. I will write a suicide note and leave it, along with my coat perhaps, on a conveniently high bridge. The police will assume that I jumped off, was drowned, and that my body floated out into the lake.”

Evans considered that. “And then when I inherit the fund, I split it with you?”

“Well, not exactly. You see, I will have to disappear. Leave the country, as a matter of fact. It would be inconvenient and dangerous to our plan for me to reappear for my share. I have a much better idea.”

Evans waited expectantly.

“You say that you have some four hundred thousand dollars. Why not convert that into cash, give it to me, and then I will disappear. You will inherit the entire fund.”

Evans looked vaguely dubious.

“I’m perfectly willing to settle for four hundred thousand,” I said. “Even though my honest share should be half a million. You may consider the extra hundred thousand my contribution to your art center.”

Evans beamed. “That’s awfully decent of you, Henry. I’ll name one of the galleries in your honor.”

“Small bills, please,” I said. “But remember that this is our little secret. Don’t tell your lawyers why you’re converting your assets to cash.”

“Of course not,” Evans said stiffly. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

It took Evans two months to make the conversion to cash. I accepted the money, arranged my suicide, and moved to Mexico.

Evans inherited the fund, but I’m afraid that he was in for a bit of a shock.

Really, it is criminal how little the government left poor Evans. Something in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand, I believe.

And I, of course, had four hundred thousand intact.

Dead men do not pay inheritance taxes.

The Wrong Century

by Jay Bailey

I, me, little old Kelly John Kelly, was parked on a stool at the Terrapin Inn contemplating my future and drinking a cola. Whither, whence, thought I. Now, I pride myself on being a pretty good sculptor, or at least I’m in the process of becoming same, and I want to learn everything I can, including painting. I’d been studying at the art center and beating myself on the head because I didn’t know more. I’d just blown a sculpture that day and, as I’m a perfectionist and a fanatic (so was Michelangelo), I felt mighty low, mighty low indeed.

Anyhow, as I was sinking into my ratty old pea coat and my own self-abuse and misery, in walked this really impressive-looking beard, all gray and black, with a neat looking little old guy behind it. He was wrapped up in a nutty looking poncho, like he’d made it himself, and he had great big squeaky sandals on his dirty bare feet (and in this weather, too). Up here in Point Magiway, man, it gets really cold, so immediately I thought, wow, here’s a tough old character.

About this village, there are sure some great people who make it up like good rough and ready types, loggers and fishermen. The artists who can’t take it just disappear, and the really serious ones stay on and study at the art center. Only six teachers, but just fantastic, so this place is like the core of where it’s happening.

Those teachers — oh, rats magoo, how can I say it, but they’re people who are just as fanatic as I am and that’s pretty far out. I’m not very articulate sometimes — I just know what I know. When I’m working with my hands, that’s a different matter. Then I don’t feel so sort of tongue-tied.

Anyhow, in walked this little man. He sat down beside me and of course we started talking, what with me being lonely and hating myself at the moment, and as it turned out we were both in the same racket, like art.

“My name is Wilfred Block,” said he, pulling his poncho around him and leaning over his coffee and sort of inhaling it.

“Hi,” I mumbled, hunching over my cola. Some character this! “I’m teaching, you know, my boy — up at the center. Do you know the center, lad?”

Well, did I know the center? Hell, yes. So we engaged in conversation and suddenly I felt greatness all around me, and my scuzzy beard embarrassed me because his was so good and old.

Pretty soon I was flipping out of my depression because this ancient guy could teach me about paint and like that, and so right there I enrolled in his painting class. Finally we were really buddy-buddy, like I was his son, and somehow the subject got around to a recent art theft in Southern California.

“Lad,” whispered Mr. Block as he sipped his coffee and pulled his shoulders up even higher, “one of the most magnificent paintings in the world was stolen. Did you know that, lad? Hey? Surely you’ve seen reproductions of Calagria’s work? No? What is this world coming to, tell me that, pray.”

I just sort of smiled and nodded and waited, knowing I’d get some information laid on me.