Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

View of Pont Neuf was delivered to Aichele’s flat two months later. He accepted the painting from Mme. Sieurac in lieu of cash payment for his services. Boucherot and M. St. Cloud had graciously sold back to her, on credit, their collection of her husband’s work, for exactly the prices on their list. The paintings were then assembled into a posthumous exhibit, which became an extraordinary critical and financial success. This was due in no small part to an unprecedented barrage of glowing pre-exhibit publicity, spearheaded by M. Boucherot and Le Figaro. He wrote, among other things, how it sometimes takes the tragedy of a man’s death for the world to appreciate his life’s work.

Aichele had compiled a small scrapbook of these articles. Also included, in the author’s inimitable, flowery prose, was a complete and signed account of the proposed swindle of Marcel Sieurac.

Since it was Monday, Aichele waited until Mrs. Poll arrived to hang the painting. It was in the study, along with two glasses of red wine.

“You are to be congratulated, Aichele,” she said. “You have made Marcel Sieurac famous. Boucherot more than fulfilled my expectations.”

“Mine, too. Remind me to return his confession some day. After all, I did promise. But I am afraid his anxiety cannot compare with what Marcel Sieurac must have felt when he realized the significance of those three names.”

“That Sunday, when he read the Gazette?” Mrs. Poll said.

“Quite possibly. But whenever it was, he knew he had been swindled, just as you surmised. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had already accepted payment for the paintings. If he complained, M. St. Cloud and Boucherot could have simply locked them away forever — their investment was that small. And the only other choice was to watch others enrich themselves speculating on what he had given away so cheaply.”

“He could have painted more paintings.”

“No, and that must have been what drove him to such desperate ends. As you said, the bubble would burst, most likely sooner than later. The art buyers would not just ignore Marcel Sieurac, they would revile him.”

“So he created his own murder, knowing M. St. Cloud, and maybe even Boucherot, would be accused. But what a terrible price to pay for revenge.”

“But what exquisite revenge.”

Aichele held View of Pont Neuf up against a bare spot on the wall. “What do you think? How does our painting look here?” he asked.

“Our painting?”

“Of course. It is half yours.”

Aichele moved it to another spot.

“When I want to look at the Pont Neuf, I will walk down the street and look at it.”

“But you would not see this,” Aichele cautioned.

“Goodness, no,” Mrs. Poll agreed.

“You would be on the wrong side of the river. The View is from the Louvre.” Aichele held the painting, waiting for Mrs. Poll’s comment. Finally he looked back over his shoulder. The room was empty, but there was the swish of a feather duster coming from the hallway.

Find Me by Jeffrey Bush

The phone rang. Kelly picked it up.

“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”

Silence.

“Can I help you?” she said again.

More silence.

“I’m Kelly,” she said. “What’s your name?”

She waited.

There was a procedure for silent callers — you gave them as much time as they needed. Maybe they were deciding if they liked your voice. Maybe it had taken so much nerve for them to call that they didn’t know what to say.

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

There was another possibility.

Kelly didn’t like to think about it. But she had to.

Maybe they couldn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?”

Maybe they’d done something. Like cut themselves. Or taken an overdose.

“If you can’t say anything, can you make a noise?”

She listened.

“Can you tap the telephone?”

There was no sound.

Or was there?

Had she heard, in the background, the sound of something? Something ordinary — like a car — but not exactly a car — passing by?

Whatever it had been, the sound was gone now.

“I have to hang up,” she said. “But you can call back any time.”

She made her voice as friendly as she could.

Sometimes people called because they didn’t have any other friends. Because they were lonely.

And that was reason enough.

“Teen Lifeline is open until nine tonight. And there’s always the regular Lifeline. The regular Lifeline is open twenty-four hours a day, and they’ll be glad to take your call.”

She waited.

She let what she thought was enough time go by. Then, to make sure, she waited a little more.

Just as she was about to hang up, the line went dead.

Which was a relief. She didn’t like to hang up on a caller.

She liked to think that she’d done everything she could.

And she had, hadn’t she?

Of course she had.

She worried too much.

At the phone in the next cubicle, Marianne was murmuring, “Yes” and “Uh-uh.”

Marianne was on the regular Lifeline. Marianne was nice. She was about forty and slight, with a soft, comforting voice.