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

The road led among the deserted cave formations on the narrow sides and declivities of the upland. West stopped the car and dragged the body of the dead man to a particularly inverted formation of rock. Then he went back to the car and got the acid, and when he was finished with his work there was no recognizing Mr. Hathaway — not now and not, certainly, at any future date when someone might stumble across Mr. Hathaway. The odds were about a hundred to one that anybody ever would.

Then West took the labels off the acid jugs and burned them, and then smashed the jugs themselves on a plateau of rock nearby. Finally, he replaced the used bullets in the gun, put it back in the glove compartment, and drove home.

Rather than try to get rid of any of the contents of Hathaway’s pockets, he took them all home with him. That night, he suggested to his wife that she visit her mother in California, something his wife had been talking of doing for some time. She agreed to leave the following day.

He saw his wife off on the plane the next morning, then purchased some plain stationery and envelopes at the airport counter and went to a telephone and called Mr. Simpson.

“I think I’ve got that twenty-four-hour virus,” he said. “I’d better not come in till tomorrow.”

“Take care of yourself,” Simpson said. “How did Hathaway like the Ford place?”

“Sounded interested, believe it or not,” West said. “He’s going to let us know.”

When he had finished with his phone conversation, West drove home and took from his own suit the contents of Hathaway’s pockets. There were several items of identification — a New York driver’s license, Social Security card, and so forth. There was nothing to indicate that Hathaway had any connections of a personal nature in the East. He must have been telling the truth when he said he had no relatives, no ties.

There was a checkbook from the Mesa bank and a savings book as well, indicating that Hathaway had deposited a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in the checking account and twenty-five thousand in the savings. For a time, West practiced imitating Hathaway’s signature. Finally he got it down to his satisfaction.

Then he wrote out a check for three thousand dollars and made it out to the Greater Arizona Realty Company. He signed Hathaway’s name to the check, and on the border of the check wrote “Earnest Money on Ford Property.” Then he put the check in an envelope, addressed the envelope to Mr. Simpson at the realty office, and went out and mailed it.

West was at his desk the next morning when Simpson came over with the check.

“That Hathaway’s a real nut,” Simpson said. “Here’s a deposit on the property, but no note with it or anything. Where’s he staying?”

“I don’t know,” West said. “I thought you knew.” He shrugged. “Well, at least you’ve got his money. You’ll be hearing from him.” He paused. “If his check’s any good. Anybody crazy enough to buy that Ford place would do anything.”

“Well, suppose I just call the bank and find out if it’s good,” Simpson said.

“Good idea,” West said.

He waited, and in a few minutes Simpson came back. “Good as gold,” he said.

“Then we’ve made a sale,” West said happily.

He waited until Simpson had come back from lunch before making the next move. Then he went into Simpson’s office and said, “That fellow Hathaway called while you were out to lunch. He’s a nut, all right. Now he’s leaving town for a few weeks, but he wanted to make sure we’d hold the house for him.”

“So long as we’ve got his money,” Simpson said, “I don’t care what he does.”

West had not yet, in the time he had lived in Arizona, been anywhere northwest of Phoenix. Now, however, he went to the Glendale branch of the bank in which Hathaway had opened his account. Here he identified himself as Hathaway, producing the bank books on the other branch as proof, and transferred eighty-five thousand dollars to the Glendale branch.

He did not touch any of this money. Instead, over the next two weeks, he drew several checks on the Mesa bank and cashed them at the Glendale bank.

When he had fifty thousand in cash, he stopped. There was still eighty-five thousand in the Glendale bank and sixty-two thousand in the Mesa bank.

At this point, West destroyed all the Hathaway bank books and other credentials. He would spend the money slowly and keep it hidden, never depositing it to his own bank account. For this purpose, he took out a safe deposit box at his own bank, into which he put most of the money.

If I were to commit a crime, he had said, it would be for money... most of the money would be left untouched... it would be done alone, for you never can trust anyone else...