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

“The same, yes. He comes back to earth and each week sits in on trumpet with a different band, while at the same time helping some person change his or her life for the better,” explained Filchock. “One week Gabe plays with a rock group, the next it’s polka time, then country & western and—”

“Casey’s car,” cried Wes suddenly. “Back there.”

Filchock slowed the auto. “At that motel we just passed?”

“Yeah, I spotted her red Toyota in the parking lot in front of the Golden Bear Inn & Motor Lodge.”

“You’re certain?” He pulled over to the side of the highway.

“How many red Toyotas have a ‘Bertha the Biker’ decal in the back window?”

“I’d guess the number was limited.” As soon as there was a break in the traffic flow, Filchock executed a U-turn and drove back to the motor lodge.

They parked near Casey’s car and got out.

“We’ll ask the manager if she’s got a room here.”

“I hesitate to mention this, old buddy, but it’s just possible that she’s here for a rendezvous with some old beau. In which case—”

“We’ll ask anyway.” Frowning, Wes moved ahead of his friend and trotted across the white gravel to the rustic motel office.

There didn’t seem to be anyone behind the desk. But when Wes got close to the counter and peered over it, he saw a plump bald man in a Hawaiian shirt sprawled facedown on the floor.

Very slowly, very carefully, Wes stretched up out of his cautious crouch. When his head was a few inches above the sill of the open motel cabin window, he risked a glance inside.

He heard the slap before he spotted Casey.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her fingertips over the red splotch on her cheek. “This would be a stupid time to lie to you guys, wouldn’t it?” she asked the large, wide, bald man who was leaning angrily over her.

“Just tell us the damned truth,” he told her in his raspy, high-pitched voice.

There was at least one other man in the room with Casey. Wes saw part of him, stained jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. Apparently he was slouched in an armchair, watching his associate threaten the young woman.

“They’ll notice you,” warned Filchock in a whisper as he tugged at Wes’s coatsleeve. They were kneeling amidst the overgrown shrubbery on the muddy ground beside the cabin wall.

Wes hunched down below window level.

“She’s in there,” he mouthed, pointing with his thumb. “At least two men have got her.”

“But that was just, you know, fate,” they heard Casey saying inside.

Turning his back on his friend, Wes raised his head a few more inches and listened.

“After all, that poor film noir actress was buried an awful long time ago,” Casey went on.

“Why’d you turn back?” asked the bald one.

“I didn’t until I realized that—”

“It was because you noticed we were following you,” accused the other goon.

“Fellows, honestly, I didn’t have any notion you were dogging my, trail until you burst in here just now,” Casey assured them. “Had I suspected a pair of thugs was trailing me, I wouldn’t have checked into a roadside motel to catch a nap, would I?”

The bald one said, “Well, you’re coming with us now and show us just where she’s buried.”

“But,” said Casey, impatient, “I already explained the problem to you guys. There’s a whole town there now, and Neva Maxton’s impromptu grave is smack under a dam mall.”

“You don’t want to make us mad, the way Omony did,” advised the bald man. “We know she was buried in the woods, not under a shopping plaza. That old actor told us that before—”

“Then, yes. But keep in mind that it was decades ago. Nobody can stand in the way of progress,” Casey explained. “Fact is, I should have realized myself that everything would’ve changed in all this—”

“We have to get that locket and then find out where she buried her jewels. The sooner you—”

“But I was just there,” Casey said. “Once I saw the situation, I turned around and came back.”

“You must’ve made a mistake.”

“No, I used this map, Dick Barn-son’s map. Here, take a look at it yourself.”

“Careful what you pull out of that pocket.”

“Well, honestly, how could I conceal a weapon in the pocket of a pair of Levi’s that are this tight? It’s a wonder I could even stuff the folded map in here.”

Wes was poked in the arm. Without turning, he made a stop-that gesture at Filchock.

“That wasn’t me,” said his friend aloud.

Wes looked back and saw a thin, bearded man in jeans and cowboy boots standing there pointing a .38 revolver at him.

“If you’re going to lurk,” he told Wes, “you got to be a hell of a lot quieter than you two.”

“Well, I’ve never known her to lie,” said Wes. “And Casey and I have been friends for a good long while.”

Filchock made a strange sound.

The bald man scowled at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Allergies,” answered the writer. He had been made to sit in the straight-backed chair that went with the rickety writing table.

The bearded man gestured at Casey with his gun. “The only way for us to settle this is for you to come along with us.”