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

“Haberdashery,” Fred said. Then he smiled faintly. “But that’s getting to be an old fashioned word. I own a men’s clothing store back in Santa Fe. Was driving west to visit my daughter when I ran out of gas.”

I glanced at Fred. His suit seemed to be of a good quality, but I couldn’t admire the tailoring of the jacket. The back of the collar gaped away from the neck.

Fred patted his armrest. “Nice car. Chevy, isn’t it?”

I nodded and then corrected myself. “No. A Ford. My last car was a Chevy. I keep getting the two mixed up.”

Far ahead of us, a small cluster of houses came into view. They grew bigger as we approached, and finally we passed a sign that read EVERETTVILLE, POP. 278.

Half a dozen cars were parked in front of what appeared to be the town’s only cafe.

I glanced at my watch. “Nearly six. Frankly, I could use a bite to eat.”

Fred nodded quickly. “Sounds like a pretty good idea to me.”

I pulled into the parking area, and Fred and I entered the cafe.

It seemed to be fairly well filled with patrons. The three booths were all occupied and only two stools, side by side, appeared to be open at the counter.

A law officer, apparently a sheriff, sat at the far end of the counter eating his supper. He was a somewhat paunchy middle-aged man wearing sunglasses. He also came equipped with a wide-brimmed white hat and a service revolver on a belt generously studded with cartridges.

Fred and I took the two vacant stools and studied the typewritten menu cards.

Fred looked up at the wall clock. “Excuse me, I think I’d better phone my daughter and explain why I’ll be late. Save my stool.” He went to the phone booth at the end of the room.

His back was turned toward me, but as I watched him I thought I saw him writing something on the margin of the telephone book.

I studied him for another few seconds and then pulled a paper napkin from its holder. Using my ballpoint pen, I wrote:

Hannibal Coggins, the escaped killer, is sitting next to me at this counter. He is dangerous and probably armed and will not hesitate to kill.

I folded the napkin into a tight wad and rose. I walked past the telephone booth to the jukebox, ostensibly to study the list of records.

Almost at my elbow, the sheriff transported a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth.

I glanced at the phone booth again. Fred seemed to be still busy, but was he somehow watching me?

As unobtrusively as possible, I flipped the wadded napkin over the sheriff’s shoulder. It bounced off the catsup bottle and came to rest in his saucer of peas.

I strode firmly back to my stool and picked up the menu.

Fred joined me in less than a minute. “Anything look good enough to eat?”

The sheriff appeared behind us. He tapped the shoulder of a burly individual on my right. “Are you Hannibal Coggins?”

“Not him,” I whispered fiercely. “On my other side.” I pointed to Fred.

Fred, in turn, pointed a Finger at me. “Careful, sheriff, he’s probably armed.”

The sheriff’s eyes went over both of us. Then he produced the note I’d written and read it aloud.

Fred’s mouth gaped slightly.

The sheriff next read from a scrap of paper which had evidently been torn from a telephone book:

The man on the stool to my right is Hannibal Coggins, who escaped from the state prison farm today. He’s a mass killer and extremely dangerous.

I smiled tightly. “Quick thinking, Fred, but my note takes precedence.”

Fred reached for his back pocket, but stopped when the sheriff’s hand went to the butt of his gun.

“My name is Fred Stevens,” Fred said stiffly. “I’m from Santa Fe. I’ve got full identification.”

“Of course,” I said dryly. “And out there in the desert lies the body of a man without a wallet or a suit of clothes.” I indicated Fred’s collar. “Would a man who claims he owns a haberdashery wear a suit that bulges so badly at the collar? It’s little things like that which trip up the criminal.”

Fred’s voice rose. “I’ve got square shoulders and it’s pretty hard to find a ready-made suit that fits square shoulders.” He turned on me. “And what about you? You were driving a Ford, but you thought it was a Chevy until you took another look at the nameplate. Speaking of bodies in the desert, there’s probably somebody lying out there who used to own a Ford.”

The sheriff studied us and then rubbed his jaw. “I don’t have any mug shots of Hannibal Coggins yet. The state police will probably get around to sending me some in a couple of days.”

Fred blinked. “But surely you must have a description of Hannibal Coggins?”

“Well, yes. But it’s pretty general and could fit either one of you, or half a dozen people in town. Suppose I just put both of you behind bars until I find out which one is the real Hannibal Coggins?”