Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

Editor’s Notes by Cathleen Jordan

Here we are again, as promised in recent issues of AHMM, with another special issue, bringing you virtually twice as much fiction as we do in our regular issues. And as before, it’s a mixture of new stories and ones from the past that we particularly enjoyed.

“And Down She Lay,” for instance, probably our all-time favorite from Jeffry Scott. “Storm Over Longvalley,” the first and somehow the sunniest, despite the troubles therein, in a fine collection by Jessica Callow. And “Variations on a Scheme,” surely one of Jack Ritchie’s most entertaining.

Which is not to say that the new stories aren’t right up there, too! Gary Alexander, who has been making a hit with his Superintendent Kiet novels, introduces us this time to Jakarta, with all the flavor of that part of the world. Arthur Porges goes farther yet, not only far away but long ago, with a surprising and fascinating tale. And Alec Ross takes us delightfully into the world of spies and small boys.

And, of course, that’s not all. Here is a grand total of seventeen stories, for your pleasure. We pass them along with the same.

By Night Disguised by Donald Olson

With its chandeliers, blood-red carpeting, and ageless, dignified furnishings, the lobby of the Kerbridge Residential Hotel creates much the same effect as the East Side mortuary where Eric had worked as an attendant before taking the job of night clerk at the Kerbridge; a similar atmosphere as well, an impression of hushed, genteel regard for the amenities of the living as tastefully unobtrusive as those for the dead at the mortuary.

“Mostly old duffers, retired professionals,” Eric’s predecessor had explained. “You’ll rarely see a living soul between midnight and dawn — except Miss Beaujean.”

“Miss Beaujean?”

“Miss Leda Beaujean, a lady of the theater who’s been ‘resting’ for years. Or should I say nesting?” he’d added with a leer. Like Eric, this young man was also an aspiring actor who, failing to make any headway in New York, had decided to try his luck on the Coast. “You know what I mean, kid. Love-nesting. She has this mysterious gentleman friend who pays her rent and visits her twice a week. Once a week lately, which I think has Miss Leda worried — the reek of eau de cognac’s been growing stronger.”

From this Eric pictures a gabby showgirl type, all glitz and giggles, and is therefore quite unprepared for the reality when a couple of nights later the elevator doors open and a woman wearing what might easily pass for a garment of the bedchamber glides across the lobby to where Eric leans on the desk studying the script of an off-Broadway play for which he hopes to audition. A cloud of streaky blonde hair frames a squarish face which betrays its age in those areas of the jaw and neck where makeup, liberally applied elsewhere, cannot disguise the process. Yet something of the unsoiled innocence of childhood lingers in the melting softness of her smile as she reaches out and taps Eric’s wrist with a playful spanking gesture.

“You’re the new young man. And an actor, Jimmy told me. Welcome to the Kerbridge, darling. I’m Leda Beaujean, in 351.” The contralto voice, huskily intimate, breathes the faintest whiff of brandy across the desk. “Please don’t tell me the pharmacy hasn’t yet delivered an itsy-bitsy package for me.”

Eric smiles and reaches under the counter. “It came a few minutes ago.”

She takes it with another airy flick of her wrist. “Divine of the drugstore, isn’t it, to provide us with these sweet little nuggets of slumber.”

Eric politely inquires if she has trouble sleeping, trying to recall if he’s ever seen her face before, which isn’t likely, as Jimmy had said her career had never progressed beyond the fringes of the legitimate theater.

“Only recently,” she murmurs. “Not that I ever try to sleep before dawn.” Her luminous gray eyes range around the lobby with a cozily approving smile. “That’s what I adore about the Kerbridge. I can waltz down and while away the small hours quite as if I’m the lady of the manor and this my drawing room. While the gentlemen enjoy their brandy and cigars. Do you like brandy and cigars, darling?”

“My budget won’t let me, I’m afraid.”

“My friend likes brandy and cigars.” She drifts across the lobby, peers through the etched-glass doors beyond which the sounds of traffic are already muted. “Don’t you adore Manhattan when it snows?”

“Snow’s no novelty to me. I’m from Minnesota.”

She whirls gracefully. “I played summer stock in Minnesota back in the Dark Ages. Be nice to me and I’ll do my Blanche Dubois for you one of these nights. Have you done any Williams?”

“Only in class.”