Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

Wendy, Ronald's wife, came into the room slowly, looking confused. Old Mrs. Deane was asleep in her chair; Ronald had left for another part of the house. Malone took a deep breath, but Wendy spoke before he had a chance.

'I don't see why you have to ask us about this terrible thing,' she told him at once. 'Whoever killed James had nothing to do with us. How could he have?'

Malone sighed. 'I just thought you might know something,' he said slowly. 'For instance, suppose James had some information about the family. That could be important. If he knew something nobody wanted to talk about — '

'Oh, that,' Wendy said, in a discouraged tone. 'My goodness, yes. Only it's no good asking me what information he had. I wouldn't know, and the will was drawn up long before I even met Ronald or anybody.'

'Ah,' Malone said intelligently. 'But you do know about it?'

'Oh, naturally,' Wendy said. 'Ronald's mother made sure everybody knew about it; she loved it, she loved to talk about it. It made old Mr. Deane so uncomfortable.'

'I take it,' Malone said, 'that you didn't like her talking about the hush-money all the time?'

Wendy shrugged. 'It got boring,' she said. 'Especially when you didn't know what the secrets could possibly be, or anything.'

Boring, Malone told himself, was not the word. Confusing was more like it. He certainly had a lead — or, anyhow, he thought he had. Only it was a lead that didn't lead to anything, if that made sense. It didn't go anywhere.

Or did it?

Malone decided, with great suddenness, that it did.

He knew exactly who the murderer was.

And Wendy Deane had told him.

* * *

'But what I don't see,' Mrs. Dohr said, later that afternoon, 'is how you managed to figure out what the secret was. I mean the secret Gerald was paying hush-money for.'

'Simple,' Malone said. 'The secret had to involve Gerald, his wife or Ronald. It couldn't have anything to do with Wendy; she wasn't even around when the will was drawn up. She said so herself, and it's easy enough to check.'

'That still leaves three people,' Mrs. Dohr objected.

'Not for long it doesn't,' Malone said. 'If the secret was something to do with Gerald, then there was no reason for James to be killed. Gerald's dead already.'

'And that,' Maggie said, 'leaves old Mrs. Deane and Ronald. Why Ronald?'

'Because Mrs. Deane liked the secret, and liked the whole idea of James' having it. She said so — and so did Wendy. She wouldn't have liked it so much if she'd been the object of that secret. Right?'

'I suppose so,' Mrs. Dohr said.

'So it couldn't have been Mrs. Deane,' Malone said. 'It had to be Ronald. Simple elimination.'

Mrs. Dohr frowned slightly. 'But, Malone,' she said. 'What was this secret? What did James know?'

Malone took out a fresh cigar and lit it with a casual air. 'Frankly,' he said, 'I don't have the faintest idea. Ronald knows, but he won't tell. And James Dohr, of course, was a good butler. He kept his mouth shut.'

'So we still don't know why my husband was killed,' Maggie said.

'That's right,' Malone said. 'We don't know why. But, somehow, it doesn't seem to matter now. After all, the killer's safely behind bars.'

Mrs. Dohr looked worshipful. 'Malone,' she said, 'you're wonderful.'

Malone took a slow, relaxed puff on his cigar. 'That,' he said with becoming shyness, 'is a hell of an understatement.'

Christmas Gift by ROBERT TURNER

You might like this Christmas story very much. You might not like it at all. But of this I feel sure: you will remember it for many months to come.

* * *

There was no snow and the temperature was a mild sixty-eight degrees and in some of the yards nearby the shrubbery was green, along with the palm trees, but still you knew it was Christmas Eve. Doors on the houses along the street held wreaths, some of them lighted. A lot of windows were lighted with red, green and blue lights. Through some of them you could see the lighted glitter of Christmas trees. Then, of course there was the music, which you could hear coming from some of the houses, the old familiar songs, White Christmas, Ave Maria, Silent Night.

All of that should have been fine, because Christmas in a Florida city is like Christmas any place else, a good time, a tender time. Even if you're a cop. Even if you pulled duty Christmas Eve and can't be home with your own wife and kid. But not necessarily if you're a cop on duty with four others and you're going to have to grab an escaped con and send him back, or more probably have to kill him because he was a lifer and just won't go back.

In the car with me was McKee, a Third-Grade, only away from a beat a few months. Young, clear-eyed, rosy-cheeked. All-American boy type and very, very serious about his work. Which was fine; which was the way you should be. We were parked about four houses down from the rented house where Mrs. Bogen and her three children were living.

At the same distance the other side of the house was a sedan in which sat Lieutenant Mortell and Detective First-Grade Thrasher. Mortell was a bitter-mouthed, needle-thin man, middle-aged and with very little human expression left in his eyes. He was in charge. Thrasher was a plumpish, ordinary guy, an ordinary cop.

On the street in back of the Bogen house, was another precinct car, with two other Firsts in it, a couple of guys named Dodey and Fischman. They were back there in case Earl Bogen got away from us and took off through some yards to that other block. I didn't much think he'd get to do that.

After a while McKee said: 'I wonder if it's snowing up north. I'll bet the hell it is.' He shifted his position. 'It don't really seem like Christmas, no snow. Christmas with palm trees, what a deal!'

'That's the way it was with the first one,' I reminded him.

He thought about that. Then he said: 'Yeah. Yeah. That's right. But I still don't like it.'

I started to ask him why he stayed down here, then I remembered about his mother. She needed the climate; it was all that kept her alive.

'Y'know,' McKee said then. 'Sarge, I been thinking; this guy Bogen must be nuts.'

'You mean because he's human? Because he wants to see his wife and kids on Christmas?'

'Well, he must know there's a chance he'll be caught. If he is, it'll be worse for his wife and kids, won't it? Why the hell couldn't he just have sent them presents or something and then called them on the phone? Huh?'

'You're not married, are you, McKee?'

'No.'

'And you don't have kids of your own. So I can't answer that question for you.'

'I still think he's nuts.'

I didn't answer. I was thinking how I could hound the stinking stoolie who had tipped us about Earl Bogen's visit home for Christmas, all next year, without getting into trouble. There was a real rat in my book, a guy who would stool on something like that. I was going to give him a bad time if it broke me.

Then I thought about what Lieutenant Mortell had told me an hour ago. 'Tim,' he said. 'I'm afraid you're not a very good cop. You're too sentimental. You ought to know by now a cop can't be sentimental. Was Bogen sentimental when he crippled for life that manager of the finance company he stuck up on his last hit? Did he