Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

“Hendrix told us all the locks had recently been changed, remember? I don’t think the bomber knew that. I figure he had a master key that was old and would no longer work. When he found that out, it was too late — he was reduced to having to pick the lock, which took him a while. Meantime, enter Timmons and Becker.”

“And Spellman and Rice,” Timmons said quietly.

“Yeah.”

Timmons asked, frowning, “Why 3246?”

“What?”

“Why’d he pick that particular office? He was in a hurry, right? If he had a master key, and he could pick any room he wanted, why pick one at the opposite end of the hall from the phone and light switch?”

Becker frowned. That hadn’t occurred to him. “Go on,” he said.

“I don’t think he had a master key,” Timmons said, his brow furrowed. “You were right about the lock-change delaying him, but I think he had an office key. I think he had a key just for room 3246.”

“You mean he had an accomplice?” Becker could see his point. “That’s possible. We could check and see whose office that is—”

“Whose it was,” Timmons corrected. “Our theory is that the key didn’t work, remember? I’ll bet we’ll find that whoever used to be in 3246 was one of the people Hendrix said left the firm.”

Slowly Becker nodded. “Not bad, Eddie. Not bad at all.”

Timmons shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Well, we’d better have a few leads, right? I realize we’ve got a description and prints, which is more than we had before, but he did get away. And if he’s gone to ground...”

Becker nodded. “Then he could still be hard for you to catch.”

“You mean for us to catch.”

“No, I mean you, Eddie.” Becker fetched a sigh. “I’m getting too old for this. Come tomorrow, I’ll be back to being a desk sergeant, and—”

“Nobody’ll have to catch him, gentlemen,” a voice behind them said. They both turned to look at Chief Wellborn, who had walked up without their noticing him. “One of the firemen just found this, out back.” He held out a hand, and what they saw in his palm was a blue police nametag. It was blackened and warped, with almost an inch missing off one end, but the lettering on it was perfectly clear.

“Spellman,” Timmons murmured.

The chief nodded. “Your suspect ran, but he ran the wrong way. He must’ve gone out back and climbed down into the construction site, thinking he’d sit out the show at a safe distance and still have a good view, I guess. The body — what was left of it — was found hidden behind a bulldozer in a back corner of the pit.” The chief shook his head. “Talk about bad decisions...”

Becker swallowed, his eyes still riveted to the nameplate. He couldn’t quite believe it. The bomber was dead, killed by his own bomb. Maybe there was justice in the world after all.

After the chief had left them to report this latest news to the media, Becker stood up, ran a hand through his hair, and stretched. “Hold the fort, partner,” he said. “I need to get some air.”

“Not yet,” Timmons said, nodding toward the other side of the lobby. A young fellow in a business suit was hurrying toward them with a cell phone, his eyes fixed on Tom Becker. He looked excited.

“You Sergeant Becker?” the young man whispered, as he drew closer.

“That’s me,” Becker whispered back.

The young man thrust the phone at him, holding it with both hands like a sword. “It’s the governor,” he hissed.

Becker turned to Timmons. “Eddie?” he said. “It’s for you.”

He was still smiling as he walked out the door.

An Ingraft of Evil

by James Lincoln Warren

These were decadent days, thought Dr. Tindle. The seed of mankind had not run true, and abominations abounded. Aquae Sulis this town had once been called: the Waters of Minerva, in dedication to the virgin goddess of righteous war. And now? It was simply and ludicrously Bath, as if it were some licentious Turkish bagnio filled to the brim with idleness, sin, and frivolity.

Where once brave Roman legionaries had used the mineral waters to harden their bodies for battle against the brutish Picts and Scots, where centurions and cohorts purified themselves by flushing the effluvia of death and corruption from their skins, now rakehells and whores revelled in disease, and silken-clad ponces traipsed effeminately to the strains of minuets, bobbing and smiling at bare-bosomed harlots bedizened with towers of silver-painted hair.

But the trumpet would sound soon! By his own calculations, assisted by scripture and signs, Dr. Tindle had fixed the First Day as December 22, 4227 B.C. The Seventh Millennium was nearly at hand! Judgment would descend at dawn, this December 22, 1773, barely a month hence, and the world would feel the wrath of the Lord of Lords.