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

“McIntyre spilled his guts when he realized he was facing a murder charge for Kessler, never mind the rest of it. He didn’t plant the bomb, though.”

“Who did?” said Kessler, wiping his chin. I shrugged.

“Some soldier from New Jersey. McIntyre was doing business with the mob. He was contacted by a firm that needed some hauling done. Discreetly.”

“Toxic waste,” said Gilliat.

“Right. They hired a number of small outfits that were already doing business in Jersey. Four-Lane was one of them. McIntyre’s trucks would haul legitimate cargo into the state, unload, then swing by another location and load up with barrels of God-knows-what. They were told to pick an isolated area in Maine and simply dump the stuff in the woods.”

“How did Kessler get onto it?”

“Fuel bills, a minor accident report, all from the same place in Maine. Four-Lane didn’t do any business in Maine, you see, so Kessler probably figured one of the drivers was skylarking, had a girlfriend up there, something. He must have brought it to McIntyre’s attention and was told to forget it.

“But then more bills came in. Kessler may have gone to McIntyre again, I don’t know. We do know that he became suspicious. He took the trouble to copy the fuel bills and conceal them among his own papers. Somewhere along the line he must have put two and two together and decided to see for himself. He loved the outdoors, and the possibility of illegal dumping of toxic waste would have been anathema to him. So he took the cabin, but before he had a chance to nose around, he got taken out.”

“But,” said Kessler, “how did they get to him so fast?”

I shrugged. “He must have slipped up, not realizing the full extent of the danger he was in. He may have mentioned to someone at work where he was going. Word got back to McIntyre, who panicked and called the organization in Jersey.”

Gilliat shook his head. “Clumsy way to do it. A fishing accident would have been neater.” He glanced at Kessler to see if he had offended him.

“Who knows, maybe they figured a bomb would put the cops off the track by suggesting a shady past, or a case of mistaken identity, which in fact it did.” Floyd started gathering up the dishes.

“Say, Floyd,” I said. “You did such a bang-up job on that logic puzzle, I was wondering if you’d help me out with another one.”

“Certainly, Charles. What is it?”

“Well, there are these two airplanes: Airplane A and Airplane B—”

Summer Evil

by Nora H. Caplan

The drive, almost obscured by flanking bridal wreath, lilacs, and forsythia, followed one boundary line of the property to a stone building that had once been a barn. Between that and the house was a boxwood hedge pruned to a height of six feet.

The house was built in the early 1830’s. It was a small, two story cottage of red brick with a slate roof and huge central chimney. Weathered green shutters framed the windows and recessed front door. Beyond the swell of pin oaks and pines sheltering the site lay Sugar Loaf Mountain. And beyond that, a hazy suggestion of the Catoctin range.

From the moment they first saw the house, Phyllis had a watchful feeling about it. As if she expected some major obstacle to prevent their buying it. But the price was incredibly within their means; Ben had no objection to driving thirty-five miles in to Washington; and the county school Kate would attend had a fine reputation.

One night shortly after they’d moved in, Phyllis and Ben were sitting on the steps of the back porch, watching Kate gather grass for a jarful of lightning bugs, her bangs damp with concentration. The sun had almost gone down, and there was a faint mist rising from the creek that crossed the back of their land. The air seemed to be layered with both warmth and coolness, pungent with sweet grass and pennyroyal.

“I’d feel a lot easier in my mind,” Phyllis said to Ben, “if we’d discover even one thing wrong about all this. People like us just don’t find one-hundred-twenty-five-year-old homes in perfect condition for twenty-three thousand.”

Ben folded the sports page and leaned back against her knees. “It’s pretty far out here, and most families wouldn’t consider a two bedroom house.” Then he added dryly, “Besides, I’ve never liked the way old houses smell. I noticed it about this one, too, right off.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s the boxwood. That’s what the smell is, not the house, darling. Anyway, you’ll have to get used to it. I have absolutely no intention of getting rid of that hedge. Mrs. Gastell said it’s as old as the house.”

Ben grinned as he turned and looked up at her. “Then would you at least trust me to spray it? There are spiderwebs all over the stuff.”

“You’d better check with that nurseryman first, just to be sure. What’s his name...” Phyllis pulled a letter from the pocket of her jamaicas and glanced through it. “Newton. He’s just this side of the bridge in Gaithersburg.”

“Who’s the letter from? The old lady?” Phyllis nodded. “What’d she have to say?”