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

“Of course I do. It’s the most profound event of the last forty-five years. I’m not about to be intimidated, start limiting myself to chatty little shows about seat belt laws or the big doings over in the finance committee, just because of a few screamers indulging themselves in their thumb-sucking rages.”

I looked at Windle. “Archie,” he pleaded.

“Absolutely not, Alfred. I will not be wet-nursed, and that’s final.” He returned to his papers. Windle beckoned me outside.

“I’m terribly sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Stubblefield,” he sighed. “I really can’t insist on it if he’s opposed to it. Please send the station a bill for your time.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “There’s no charge. It’s not every day that I get to exchange aphorisms with an expert.”

Breakfast at the Rudder is comparatively safe. The next morning I sat at the counter and ordered up eggs with bacon and an English muffin. Floyd came by, all smiles, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Enjoying your breakfast, Charles?” I was, actually, but tradition demanded an insult.

“Stuff tastes like dog food, Floyd.”

“Well, that depends on who’s eating it, I’d say.” He laughed and drifted over to the coffee machine. The newspaper was chock full of bad news and alarms, so I left it for the next guy and walked over to my office under a sky that looked bruised and swollen and full of snow. Windle and Chandler were waiting for me in the hall.

“What brings you gentlemen out so early?” I asked, but I figured I already knew.

“Trouble, Mr. Stubblefield,” said Windle. “Someone attempted to kill Archie last night.”

“About twelve thirty last night,” Chandler said as I led them into the office. “I was finishing up some work and getting ready to watch the Letterman show. I need very little sleep,” he explained, “and I rarely go to bed before two.” He was subdued now, not the same man I’d exchanged bon mots with the day before. “Fortunately, my wife and daughter were in bed. Fortunately for me, I had gone to the kitchen for a snack. While I was in the kitchen, somebody unloaded several shotguns through the living room windows.” He threw his hat on my desk and sat down heavily. “What the hell kind of person does a thing like that? My God, when I think of my family—”

Windle cleared his throat. “The police were there last night and again this morning, looking for evidence. I met with the board of directors this morning. All are agreed that Archie should have protection.” He looked at Chandler, who nodded his assent. “And now I have another meeting. I shall leave you two to work out the details.”

We sat in silence for awhile. Below, in the music store, someone was trying out a saxophone. Finally, Chandler spoke.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“How’s that?”

“I got into this business because I felt that public discourse in this country had degenerated into grunts and monosyllables on the one hand, and into obfuscatory bafflegab on the other: television and politics, you understand. Talk radio seemed an ideal arena for an open and rational exchange of ideas.” He massaged the back of his neck. “For my trouble, I get several loads of buckshot in my living room. So much for rational discourse.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe the one listener who knows what acrocephalic means took offense. By the way, what does it mean?”

Chandler laughed. “It means pinhead.” He stood and walked to the window. “How do you plan to proceed? I won’t tell you that this hasn’t shaken me up.”

“Well, for starters, can you get your family to another location?”

“Done. Doris left this morning with the baby for her sister’s place in Providence.”

“Okay. From now on, you go nowhere without me. We’ll check you into one of the motels on the strip. Use an assumed name and pay by cash. All right so far?”

“Yes, but I can’t live like that forever.”

“Let’s not worry about forever right now. Day at a time, as they say.”

I drove Chandler home so he could gather some clothes and essentials. Next stop was a hideous aquamarine Quonset hut called the Jolly Fisherman on Route 28. Chandler registered as Henry Mencken, threw his briefcase on the bed in disgust, and reminded me to pick him up by noon.

The desk sergeant let me into Carl Olivera’s office.

“Good morning, lieutenant.” Olivera folded his large square hands and looked up at me without expression.

“Stubblefield. To what do I owe my enormous good fortune?”

“Archie Chandler,” I said, taking the chair that had not been proffered. Olivera appraised me with flat black eyes.

“What about Chandler?”

“He stopped by this morning, asked for some protection.”

“So you’re going to hold Chandler’s hand. Why do I need to know this?”

“Come on, lieutenant. How many malignant duck hunters do I have to look out for?”

Olivera leaned back and sighed. “Probably one.”

“Chandler figures he heard ten, twelve shots.”