Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

“Maybe it’s too late for a cure,” he replied. “This isn’t a spool of thread or a handbag you took, Ruth. This is something valuable — God only knows how valuable.”

“But they forced me to do it! They blackmailed me into it!”

“Is that what we’re going to tell the police?”

“Police?”

“Of course. We have to call them, Ruth. Don’t you see that?”

“Why? Why must we?”

“Because it’s dangerous not to. If you were recognized — if that salesman can give your description — then things will look worse than they really are. Don’t you see that? We must call them!”

As he dialed the operator Ruth said: “But, Ralph — what if they don’t believe me?”

Captain Samuel Wright, a graying, intelligent policeman, wasn’t that incredulous. But his words of advice weren’t encouraging when Ruth Moody told her story.

“Listen, Mrs. Moody. If you’re holding anything back, don’t. I’m not saying your story is a phony. My own subtle viewpoint is it’s too cockeyed to be phony. But I could be wrong, dead wrong. Now, if you could identify those men—”

Ruth’s husband said hotly, “Why should she lie about this? What does she have to gain?”

The Captain shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s no argument. She could stand to gain a diamond, a diamond worth maybe eight to ten grand. She could be double-crossing her accomplices. She could have figured that she had been spotted in Travells, so she’s playing it safe with this screwy story.” He held up a hand. “I don’t say that’s what’s happened. But I don’t sit on the judge’s bench, Mr. Moody. I’m a policeman.”

“But it’s true,” Ruth said plaintively. “So help me, it’s the truth.”

“It’s a heck of a way to pull a robbery, though. You’ll have to admit that. How many people are going to believe it your way?” He lifted his wide shoulders in a gesture of doubt.

He paced the floor a moment.

“If you could only give me a better description. Except for one being sunburned, we got nothing to work with, really. You say they looked ‘ordinary.’ ”

“But you checked that hotel, you know they were in that room.”

“We only know somebody took the room, Mrs. Moody. Somebody who signed the register as a Mr. Fred Johnson, from Cleveland. We got no way of knowing whether it’s an alias or not, now that the guy’s checked out.”

“But doesn’t that prove—”

“It doesn’t prove a thing. They might have colored their hair, changed their appearance. The sunburn for instance — that’s not going to last too long.” He chewed his lip.

Ralph snapped his fingers. “The thousand dollars! They promised to mail Ruth a thousand dollars if she played along. Wouldn’t that prove at least that my wife’s innocent?”

“Don’t count on that thousand dollars, Mr. Moody. If your wife’s telling the truth, you’ll never hear a peep out of those guys again.”

The Captain sat down, his face strained. “Okay! So maybe you’re right. So maybe it’s a new dodge. Maybe those guys can pull these ‘safe’ robberies of theirs all over the place. Maybe one of them works in a department store, and has access to the names of recognized kleptos—”

“Couldn’t we check the stores? Identify the employees?”

“You know how many people work in those places? You’re asking for an awful lot, Mr. Moody.”

The tears were coming again and Ruth reached for her purse and a tissue. She applied the corner of it to her damp eyes.

Something inside her purse caught her attention as she was about to shut it.

She took the object out and stared at it. Then she turned it on its side and studied it again.

When she looked up once more her eyes were bright and miraculously dry.

“Captain!—”

“Yes, Mrs. Moody?”

“You need better information. Would the name of the man in the hotel room help?”

“His name?” The Captain put his hands on his hips. “Are you kidding? You can really tell me his name?”

“I can. I can!” Ruth said. Then she started to laugh. The sound of it frightened her husband until he realized that it was genuine, honest mirth.

“Here,” she said, handing him the object from her purse. “I don’t know why I did — but I did. I took it from that hotel room yesterday.”

The Captain turned the object over in his hand. It was a fairly high-priced fountain pen, gold, with a black cap. He peered closely at the gold letters engraved on the side: Harrison V. Moyer.

He grinned at Ruth, and went to the telephone. He used the end of the pen to dial headquarters.