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

Frank’s voice had resounded with mocking laughter. “You can’t be that much of an innocent! Do you honestly think your simple charms could be enough for a man like me? Susie wasn’t the first, and you can be damned sure she won’t be the last. Come on now, Dodie. You’re a sweet kid, and your family’s been real helpful in getting me where I want to go, but you just can’t tie a man down.”

Allison cringed, remembering Dodie’s wounded cry. It had been followed by the slam of the screen door, then footsteps pounding across the porch and down the steps. The car door slammed and the engine roared to life. Gravel spurted as Dodie took off into the darkness.

Only Dodie knew whether the smashup truly was an accident. Perhaps she had simply tried to numb the pain with speed — but she had been twenty-one and she never walked again.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Miss Ryder?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you’ll excuse me for asking you so much about your friends and neighbors, but you see... well, it’s all going to come out eventually, and I’m sure you’ll be discreet. There are only three possibilities to account for Mrs. Patrick’s death. Crippled as she was, she had no access to the supply of sleeping pills. They were kept in the bathroom and her husband gave them to her whenever she needed them. It may be that she hoarded her pills, hiding them from her husband somehow, until she had enough for a lethal dose, and took them herself. Or it could be that Mr. Patrick was careless — criminally careless — and she received an accidental overdose. Or...” and he paused, while Allison’s eyes searched his. “Well, you realize, we must consider the, uh, possibility that... perhaps the overdose wasn’t accidental. Mr. Patrick wouldn’t be the first man burdened by a crippled wife who took the wrong way out.”

“Captain Barkley,” Allison said. “There was no reason in the world for Dodie to kill herself. What does Frank say happened?”

“He insists she must have taken them herself. According to him she suffered a great deal of pain. He claims she must have saved up the sleeping pills, which rules out any chance of an accident. This is why I wanted to talk to you. You were very close to Mrs. Patrick. Was she in much pain?”

Allison’s fingers unconsciously pleated the plum-colored fabric of the dress over her lap. Her head went a little higher, and an imperious generation spoke through her.

“I have already told you, there was no reason in the world for Dodie to kill herself. To my certain knowledge she was seldom, if ever, in pain. In fact, I can give you the names of three or four ladies who could confirm that fact, out of Dodie’s own mouth. We’d often gather on the Patricks’ front porch in the afternoon, so Dodie could be part of the group, and not a week ago we were discussing that case in the papers — you remember, the man who shot his wife because she was dying of cancer? Dodie was most upset. She was a dreadfully sympathetic child. She was torn between her distress at his immoral action and her sympathy with his concern for his wife’s suffering. ‘Perhaps I might judge differently,’ she said, ‘if I were in pain myself. I’m one of the fortunates, suffering only from the handicap. But even if I were in pain, I don’t believe that anyone but God has a right to take a life.’ The other ladies will bear me out on this, captain.”

Yes, she said to herself, we were discussing the case. Maybe nobody else noticed, it was so skillfully done, but Dodie herself was the one who maneuvered the conversation around to mercy killing. I didn’t know then, Dodie, but I can see now what you were doing.

“Mrs. Patrick said herself that she was in no pain? Ever?”

“At the time of the accident, and for several months afterward, yes, she did have pain. But not recently. I never once heard her complain.”

There now, Allison, she realized, you did tell a lie; you can’t wiggle out of that one. The same night as that get-together you told him about, remember? — and Sunday night — and last night...

The scene had been the same all three nights, and the script had followed the same lines. Allison had been in her comfortable corner on the porch, Snowball’s faint purrs pulsing against her caressing hand, the creaking wicker of the lounge cool against her bare arms. That first night it had rained earlier, breaking the heat, and the lilac leaves had whispered wetly to each other in the dark. Gentle dripping from the eaves seemed to deepen the quiet, rather than break it. Dodie’s blind had been pulled down only to the level of the raised window. The muted voices were carried across to her by the force of their intensity.

“Please, Frank! Please!” Never had Allison heard such pleading in Dodie’s voice.

“I’ve told you, I just can’t,” he’d said. “If the pain’s so bad, let me get a shot for you, or something. But you don’t know what you’re talking about, wanting to kill yourself.”