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

“Admiring yourself?” Vincent asked with a sneer. “You ain’t that beautiful.”

“It’s getting thin on top,” Ross said.

Vincent laughed. “I ain’t had hair on top in ten years. Welcome to the club.”

Ross followed Vincent back into the dining room just as the uniformed cop returned, ushering in four men who frowned or looked worried or, in one case, politely smiled.

“Sergeant Vincent? These are the loan officers.”

Ross appraised them as the cop said their names.

“James Neal.” A short, thirtyish, blond guy, tan suit, tan overcoat, polished shoes, pale complexion, pale blue eyes. Frowning hard, indignantly. Pompous, Ross decided. Arrogant.

“This is Tony DeVoss.” A big, heavyset, dark-haired guy, black shifting eyes, large beak nose, clean-shaven but with a shadow already appearing in the area of his beard, thick black eyebrows. DeVoss was also scowling, looking angry, his big heavy fists clenched at his sides.

“Bill McCready.” The polite smiler. Ross decided McCready was eager to please. About six feet, late twenties, bland, fair, aviator-styled glasses, flashy sport coat, loud tie. Ross could smell McCready’s cologne. There were four guys standing there, but it had to be McCready’s.

“And Frank Keller.” This was the scared-looking guy. Short, plump, in his twenties, a little stubbly reddish mustache, short red hair, boyish features, dark eyes darting all around. Afraid of — what? Being charged with murder?

Sam Vincent said gruffly, “I’m sorry to drag you gentlemen down here, but your boss, Phil Hendrix, was shot to death earlier this morning. I suppose you’ve already been informed?”

They all nodded. Tony DeVoss said loudly, “So what? Are you arresting us or something? How come we gotta get pulled down here?”

“We have reason to believe,” Vincent said, “that Hendrix was shot by somebody in his office. Which is to say, your office. So we’d like to ask you all a few questions.”

“That’s bull,” DeVoss said, scowling harder.

“I don’t know anything,” Frank Keller stammered, glancing around nervously.

McCready, polite and flashy, just smiled and said nothing. Next to him, Neal remained arrogant and indignant. “This is highly irregular,” he said. “We’re executives.”

Allen Ross hid a smile. Executives. Loan officers. Strange world, he thought. Executives. He was trying to think. Something kept nagging at him. While Sam Vincent started questioning the four executives, Ross decided to go back out on the porch for another smoke, where he could be alone and do some figuring.

It was cold out there; the morning sun seemed weak and ineffectual. Down on the street a small car rumbled past, its tires singing on the dry pavement. Evidently it had just been started — its side and rear windows were all fogged up. Ross had once owned a little Renault that had been hard to keep defrosted in winter.

A uniformed cop came out to join him, shuffling his black shoes and lighting a thin cigar. “How’s it going, Allen?”

Ross nodded. “Not bad. The sergeant getting anything yet? A confession?”

The cop grinned. “Naw. He won’t, neither. Nothing to go on. Unless one of those birds owns a .38. Too bad we don’t actually know which one did it, we could maybe try for a search warrant, look for the gun. But with four suspects we’d be fishing, I doubt we’d get a warrant. Hell, you’re a prosecutor. Am I wrong?”

Allen Ross shook his head. “You’re not wrong. It’d be tough.”

“Weird case, though,” the cop said, puffing at his cigar. “Guy shaves in a locked bathroom, then gets plugged holding onto a bar of soap. I asked my partner, what was Hendrix going to do with that bar of soap? Hit the killer with it? Some weapon. If it was me, I’d at least have gone at him with my razor.”

Ross took off his glasses and wiped at them again with his handkerchief. “Dam things keep fogging up when I go inside,” he said. “Hendrix must have a humidifier.”

The cop nodded. “Yeah. You know, another weird thing. Hendrix had a chip of soap under one of his fingers, the index finger on the other hand. He must’ve really been hanging on to that soap bar for dear life. Hey, speaking of soap, you know what my wife does with her glasses? You can buy that gunk to spray ’em with, you know, keep ’em from fogging up? But she smears a little soap on the lenses, works just like that gunk you can buy. Maybe you oughta try it.”

Ross thought for a time, then smiled at the cop. “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

He’d just solved the case.

He went back inside the house and his horn-rims fogged up again. Taking them off and wiping the lenses with his handkerchief, he went down the hall and found Sam Vincent in the dining room with the four suspects. Vincent glanced up.

“Hello,” Ross said pleasantly, putting his glasses back on. “Anything yet?”

“Nobody’s confessed to shooting Hendrix, if that’s what you mean,” Vincent replied dryly.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Ross said. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

“That’s a crime scene,” Vincent said irritably. “Use someplace else, can’t you?”