Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

“Who lives in Number One?
Is it Mr. Duncan Dunn?
Across the road in Number Two—
Hindu? Muslim? Christian? Jew?
That big house at Number Three
Has room for quite a family.
But perhaps there’s only Widow Gee
Who’ll ask me in and give me tea.
Who knows, who cares,
Indeed who cares one jot
Who lives in Number Three?

“Who lives in Number Eight?
Old Mr. Tate,
Leaning, lonely, on his gate,
Hoping to pass the time of day
With all of those who pass his way?
And does Miss Vine In Number Nine
Hang out nappies on the line
And softly sigh and sadly pine?
Who knows — who cares?

“Is Mrs. Dean, Who’s in Fifteen,
Always tidy, neat, and clean?
While Mrs. Surtee In Number Thirty
Is she (now I’ll fool you) — flirty?
Do they have fun
In Twenty-one
And live on stew
In Forty-two?

“Who knows — who cares?
Who dares
To knock on Number
Twenty-four?
Ah me,
Could I but see
What dangers lurk behind the door
Of fearsome Number Twenty-four?”

Pauli came in with the tea tray.

“Listen to the poem I’m writing,” said Percy, and proceeded to read it to her while she poured out. “What do you think?”

“Why do you always rhyme so much?” she complained.

“I can’t help it — not when I’m in a good mood.”

“You must always be in a good mood.”

“I am, mostly — is that bad?”

“I suppose not, but you’ll never get a poem in the Listener.”

“Who knows? Who cares? Who dares to send the Listener a rhyme? A poem that makes sense first time? These scones are good.”

And with that he addressed himself to the business at hand while his mind went off on its own track and his automatic defense system took over.

Pauli’s fault was that she never stopped talking and Percy had remained happy and sane simply by not listening while his own thoughts kept him entertained. His automatic mechanism dropped in an occasional “Yes, dear,” or “No, dear,” or “Fancy that” about every thirty seconds.

So Pauli chatted away and Percy worked on the problem of the sinister occupant of Number Twenty-four. Perhaps there was a Russian spy sending Listener poems to Moscow because he was convinced they were in code.

“Mrs. Jones’s cousin’s daughter, you know, the one who married the commercial traveler, had twins last week — that’s four girls she’s got now. More tea?”

“Yes, dear.” Or perhaps there was a white slaver who planned to kidnap Mrs. Jones’s four daughters and send them to a house of delight in Buenos Aires.

“The Stevensons’ holiday bach was broken into and two thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry was stolen. Would you believe anybody could leave so much jewelry in a bach? And a television.”

“No, dear.” It’s a hideout for a gang of thieves. Our hero watches from the shadows while masked men carry in stolen jewels and television sets.

“Mrs. Brown says her uncle has invented an electronic dog that growls and barks if burglars break in, but you can pat it if you’re a friend.”

“Fancy that.” There’s a mad professor living there. He is making robots in the shape of hideous beasts that roam the streets at night and frighten people to death.

“The Atkinsons are coming to tea this afternoon, but they won’t be here until three thirty because they’re going to the hospital first to look in on her cousin who’s got...”

“Yes, dear.” The man in Twenty-four strangled his wife because she never stopped talking.

“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying.” She gave him an affectionate pat on the knee. “Have you?”

Percy blinked and surfaced. The situation wasn’t all that uncommon. “Sorry, dear, I was preoccupied with ideas for a story about Number Twenty-four.”

“If Number Twenty-four is worrying you so much, why don’t you simply go round there and pay the occupants a visit?”

“What a good idea. In fact, why don’t I visit all the houses? I’ll start this very afternoon!”

“Bully for you,” said Pauli, knowing quite well that her dearly beloved was much too timid ever to knock on a stranger’s door.

“I’ll go straight after my after-lunch nap. I won’t take Bonzo — he might not be welcome.”

“And mind you wrap up warm.”

“I’ll take my scarf,” said Percy, looking out on the brilliant autumn sunshine.

“And don’t be too long. The Atkinsons will be here about half past three.”