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

After that he talked. He claimed he had been cut out of his inheritance by his aunt and had come to Blue Hill to get some of the things he felt were rightfully his. Finding nothing of value in the house, and desperate for another source of funds, he came up with his hoax. He knew his aunt would be away and couldn’t supply a key to the police. With a trace of pride, he explained how he had set up the hoax. He had tapped into the circuits of the lights and projector and connected them to his homemade “system operator,” a few microchips and a modem. It was then a simple matter to operate them via modem from his own computer. Ironically, he’d taken all his computer courses while serving a four year sentence in Florida.

When Findlay arrived at the post office Wednesday morning, Merrill was there shaking hands and basking in the admiration of the townspeople. “The whole story will be in the Weekly Packet tomorrow,” he told Findlay.

“Your stock has certainly gone up in this town,” Findlay grinned.

“So’s my job security. You wouldn’t believe how many people now think Mary Waltham was murdered. I can investigate that for years!”

Accounts Payable

by D. H. Reddall

I wasted part of the morning trying to solve a logic puzzle. According to the problem, seven guys using seven brooms can sweep up seven tons of sand in seven hours. I was supposed to figure out how long it would take ten guys using ten brooms to sweep up ten tons of sand.

Right away I rejected the obvious. They wouldn’t have bothered to put the thing in the paper if the answer was ten hours. After kicking it around for awhile I lost interest, just like I used to lose interest in the sixth grade when trying, unsuccessfully, to solve problems involving Airplane A and Airplane B.

I tossed the paper aside just as the door opened, admitting a tall gangly number wearing a suit that had gone out of style with the big bands. He looked to be in his sixties, and from the scowl I figured he wasn’t selling insurance.

“I’m lookin’ for a Stubblefield.”

“Congratulations. You just found one.” He looked me over pretty closely for a minute, then lumbered over to the other chair.

“Name’s Luther Kessler.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kessler?”

He stared at me as if I were simple. “Why, you can get the animals that killed Earl.”

“Who’s Earl?”

“My brother. They killed him.”

“Who did?”

“Now how would I know that? If I knew who killed him, do you suppose I’d be settin’ here and jawin’ with you?” He slapped the desk with a calloused palm. “They killed him. Blew him up on his doorstep.”

I remembered then. It had been in the news a few weeks earlier. Earl Kessler had been bookkeeper for a local trucking outfit. He’d taken a vacation in Maine, rented a cabin on a lake, and the next morning had picked up a package that was left on the porch. The ensuing explosion had flattened the cabin and killed Kessler.

I said, “The police are working on it.” Kessler nodded vigorously.

“I know they are. But there’s nothing wrong with bringing in a freelance. Reckon a man like yourself might be able to find out things the police can’t.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Cops don’t appreciate having people blown up in their jurisdiction. They’ll be motivated.”

“Well, I’m damn well motivated myself. I come all the way up here because I want some justice done. And not next year, or the next life neither. Never did have any truck with that karma nonsense. I figure if there’s any justice in this world you got to see to it yourself. Now, you interested or not?”

I was. It had seemed odd at the time that an anonymous bookkeeper from Cape Cod, an older man of modest means at that, should be the object of such an attack. It still seemed odd.

“Your brother have any enemies?”

“None I know of.”

“Had he made any changes in his life recently, or done anything unusual?”

“I don’t believe he had, but then I didn’t see Earl much. I’ve been fanning out to Illinois since ’53, sort of lost touch.” He shot me a look. “You ever work on a farm?” I said I hadn’t. Kessler snorted.

“Figured not.”

I let it go. Kessler struck me as the kind of guy who believed nothing of value had transpired in America since 1945. Hell, he could be right, but I didn’t want to get into it.

“All right, Mr. Kessler.” I slid a pad and small pencil across the desk. “Write down where I can reach you.”

He paused in his scribbling. “Another thing. Maybe you’ve noticed what a mess the courts are in these days, all them killers and drug fiends walking away free on account of the liberals all the time hollering about their ‘rights.’ ” He jabbed the pencil at me. “You find the people blew Earl up, don’t waste the taxpayers’ time and money, if you know what I mean.”

I assured him that I understood, took his retainer, and saw him on his way.

Bob Gilliat was a corporal in the state police. We’d played basketball together in high school and had managed to stay in touch in the years since. We were sitting at the counter in the Rudder.