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

“What good am I to anybody like this? And the pain — I just can’t stand it any more.” Her voice had risen with a startling anguish.

Allison, listening in spite of herself, had held herself tense, wondering. Just that afternoon Dodie had denied pain, yet now... Hot tears had welled in Allison’s eyes as she listened to the tortured voice.

If she hadn’t hated Frank so much for what he had done to Dodie, she might have been able to pity him as his voice broke with indecision. “Dodie,

I can’t do it! Don’t ask me to. Even if you’re ready to die, think of the position you’d put me in. They’d say I killed you. Think of me, Dodie! They’d give me the chair!”

The argument had gone on. Three different nights Dodie had hammered away. Then last night, while Allison, hypnotized, watched the shadows shifting on the drawn blind, Dodie had played out her drama. She had won. Frank gave her the pills.

Allison had no longer felt the heat of the night. Chilled with horror, she had fought her own battle. Her throat had throbbed with a scream to that silent window. She couldn’t let Dodie do this! But a thin hand to her lips cut off that scream before it sounded. What right did she have to interfere? Dodie must hate with an unsuspected fury to die for her revenge. She wouldn’t thank Allison for stopping her now.

Allison had sat quietly. Soon the Patricks’ light went out. Only then did she rise stiffly and plod to her bedroom, where no one could hear her poorly stifled sobs.

The white cat had followed her to the bedroom. One soft, easy leap settled him beside the tired, sorrowing old lady. Allison remembered the day Dodie had brought him to her.

“Frank says he’s allergic to cats, Miss Ryder. He won’t have one in the house. But he’s such a darling!” The vibrant face had gone quiet as she crooned over the kitten. “Snowball’d be a good name, don’t you think? If you kept him, I could see him often. I could help groom him, and things. It wouldn’t hurt so much if I knew you had him.”

So Allison had kept Snowball, but Dodie had never visited him in his new home. The accident came only days later. That’s what Allison resolutely called it, although she was very much afraid it was something else. Through those harrowing days the kitten grew, and comforted Allison. He was full-grown by the time Dodie left the hospital.

Please come home, Snowball, Allison begged in her heart, forgetful of the waiting policeman. I need you so. There’s not much left for an old lady. I had Dodie and I had you. Now Dodie’s gone. Snowball, don’t you know how much I need you?

A tear that couldn’t be restrained by a lifetime of self-discipline slipped down the wrinkled, gray cheek.

Captain Barkley, tactfully clearing his throat again, brought Allison back to the present. This policeman and his questions! Allison was weary. Please, no more decisions...

Barkley hoisted himself out of the deep leather chair. “Well, Miss Ryder, I think you’ve told us what we need to know. One thing — when you get the chance, could you just write down the names of those other ladies you mentioned, who heard Mrs. Patrick say she suffered no pain? I won’t trouble you now. I’ll send a man by later today for it.”

Dodie wins, Allison thought, but she felt no elation. Yes, Frank had killed Dodie, killed her youth and killed her innocence, and pummeled her spirit until she wanted to die. Yet, did Dodie, or did Allison, have the right to sentence him? Heedless of the waiting policeman, Allison closed her eyes momentarily, yielding to the grief that closed around her like a gray fog. Dodie was gone — but Allison didn’t have to decide. All she had to do was let things go ahead without her, and all those other people would have to decide.

Allison struggled out of her chair. Captain Barkley rushed to help her, but she waved him aside. “Thank you, young man, but I have to do things by myself nowadays.”

Yes, Allison, she mused, you have to do things by yourself. Once you make this decision, don’t fool yourself that somebody else sent Frank to the electric chair. They still execute murderers in this state, you know, and rightly speaking, Frank did not murder Dodie. For eighty-three years you’ve known right from wrong. You’ve faced up to truths, whether you liked the result or not. Now...

“Captain...” she started. Then her taut nerves jerked her like a marionette as the doorbell shrilled.

“I’ll get it,” the policeman offered.

It was another policeman, a close-shaven young man too big for his uniform, who bobbed his head respectfully to her, then turned to the captain. “Morrison says to tell you they’re all finished over there, any time you’re ready to go back to the station.”

Captain Barkley glanced in speculation at Allison. Her expression told him nothing.

“I’ll be out to the car in a minute.” He held the door open for the younger man.