Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

'I'll get in touch with you,' he said cagily. 'Tomorrow, the next day, maybe in a week.'

'Why not right now?'

He shook his head. 'No. You're very clever, Mr. Reeves. Perhaps you've devised a trap for this moment. I prefer to set the time and terms myself.'

I was unable to shake him out of his determination and he left five minutes later.

I rose at seven in the morning and went downstairs to purchase a newspaper. I had indeed killed the wrong man. A Fred Turley. I had never even heard of him before.

Atwood and Turley had returned from the dinner and an evening of cards together and driven into the garage. Turley had gone out of the side door, but Atwood remained behind to lock his car. Then he had seen his briefcase still on the rear seat. After he had recovered it, re-locked the car, and left the garage, he had found Turley dead on the path leading to the house. At first he had thought Turley had suffered a stroke of some kind. When he finally discovered the truth, he had raised an alarm. The police had no clues either to the identity of the murderer or the motive for the killing.

I found myself fretting about the apartment all morning waiting for Henry to phone me. I skimmed through the paper a half a dozen times before an item in the local section caught my eye.

It seemed that once again some fool had bought a 'money machine.'

This form of swindle was probably as old as currency itself. The victim was approached by a stranger claiming to have a money machine. One simply inserted a dollar, turned the handle, and a twenty dollar bill emerged from the opposite end. In this case, the victim had purchased the machine for five hundred dollars — the stranger claiming that he was forced to sell because he needed cash.

People are incredible idiots!

Couldn't the victim have the basic intelligence and imagination to realize that if the machine were actually genuine, all that the stranger had to do to get five hundred dollars himself was to turn the handle twenty-five times and transform twenty-five dollars into five hundred?

Yes, people are monumental…

I found myself reading the article again. Then I went to the liquor cabinet.

After two bourbons, I allowed myself to bask in the returning sun of sanity.

I had almost fallen into Henry's trap. I had, I reluctantly admitted, been just a bit stupid.

I smiled. Still… it might be a rather amusing adventure to see Henry's time machine — to see in what manner he hoped to convince me that it actually worked.

Henry came to my apartment at one o'clock in the afternoon. He appeared shaken. 'Horrible,' he muttered. 'Horrible.'

'What's horrible?'

'Custer's massacre.' He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. 'I'll have to avoid things like that in the future.'

I almost laughed. Rather a neat touch. Henry knew how to act. 'And now we see your machine?'

Henry nodded. 'I suppose so. We'll take your car. Mine's in the garage for repairs.'

I had driven him about a mile, when he told me to pull over to the curb. I glanced about. 'Is this where you live?'

'No. But from here on I drive your car. You will be blindfolded and you will lie on the back seat.'

'Oh, come now, Henry!'

'It's absolutely necessary if you want me to take you to the machine,' Henry said stubbornly. 'And I've got to search you to see that you aren't carrying a weapon.'

I was not carrying a weapon and Henry's idea of a blindfold consisted of a black hood that fitted over my entire head and was fastened by strings at the back of the neck.

'I'll be keeping an eye on you through the rear view mirror,' Henry cautioned. 'If I see you touch that blindfold the whole thing is off.'

Automatically I found myself trying to remember the turns Henry made as he drove and attempting to identify sounds which might tell me where he was taking me. However, the task proved too complicated and I finally relaxed as much as I could and waited for the drive to end.

After an hour, the car finally slowed to a stop. Henry left the wheel and I heard what I believed to be the sound of garage doors being opened. Henry returned to the car; we moved forward fifteen feet or so, and stopped again.

The doors were closed and I heard a light switch flicked on.

'We're here,' Henry said. 'I'll take off that blindfold now.'

As I had surmised, we were in a garage — but plywood sheets had been nailed over all the windows and a single electric light burned overhead. A stout oak door was in the cement building-block wall to the left.

Henry produced a revolver.

A horrendous thought gripped me. What a fool I had been! I had blindly — literally and figuratively — allowed myself to be lured here. And now, for reasons unknown to me, Henry was about to kill me!

'Henry,' I began, 'I'm sure we can talk this over and come to some…'

He waved the gun. 'This is just a precaution. In case you have any ideas.'

I was too uneasy to have any ideas.

Henry produced a key and went to the oak door. 'This used to be a two-car garage, but I divided it in half. The time machine is in here.' He unlocked the door and switched on an overhead light.

Henry's time machine was just about as I had anticipated — a metallic chair with some scant leather upholstering, a large mirror-bright aluminum shield or reflector behind it, and a series of levers, dials, and buttons on a control board attached to the platform on which the chair stood.

The room was windowless and all four walls — with the exception of three grated ventilators approximately shoulder high — were solid cement block. The floor was concrete and the ceiling was plastered.

I smiled. 'Henry, your machine looks almost like an electric chair.'

'Yes,' he said musingly, 'it does look rather like that, doesn't it?'

I stared at him. Could he have been so insidious as to actually… I studied the machine again. 'Naturally I want a demonstration. How does it work?'

'Get into the chair and I'll show you which levers to pull.'

The device did look a great deal like an electric chair. I cleared my throat. 'I have a better idea, Henry. Suppose you take a trip in the chair. I'll just wait right here until you return.'

Henry gave it a thought. 'All right. But you'll have to leave the room.'

Ah ha, I thought.

'You see when I start the machine,' Henry said, 'it creates quite a disturbance around me. That's why I had to make this room so solid. I've installed ventilators to take care of some of the turbulence, but I'm not too sure how well they work. I have no idea what might happen to you if you remained.'

I smiled. 'I might possibly be injured? Or killed?'

'Exactly. So if you'll leave and close the door I'll get on with it. And another precaution. When I return, you've got to be out of the room, too.'

I chuckled to myself as I left and closed the door behind me. I lit a cigar and waited, amused.

What happened next was most impressive. First there was a low whine, as though a generator were starting. It rose gradually in pitch and then came a rumbling sound mixed with the undulating keen of a fierce wind. It increased in volume and lasted for approximately a minute.

Then it stopped abruptly and there was absolute silence.

Yes, I thought. Altogether a good show. But then it would have to be if Henry expected to extract two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from me.

I went to the door and opened it.

The room was empty!

I stood there gaping. It couldn't be! The only way out of the room was the door I had just entered and even that was certainly too small to pull the chair through. And the only other openings were the three grated ventilators and they were less than two feet square!

The whining suddenly rose again. Strong air currents swirled around the room and I found myself gasping as I fled the room and slammed the door behind me.