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

“Not quite.” I locked the door. “Come back where you can sit down. He shouldn’t be long.” In my office we talked about Pioneer Week and the marvelous record set by the Wyatt boys, and then the buzzer sounded. Emil Sondergard had left by the door to the parking area, the one we referred to as Andy’s “escape hatch,” so I took Mrs. Metcalf in and introduced her. “Unless you want anything else, Mr. Wyatt,” I said, “I’ll leave now.”

“Nothing more, thank you.” Andy smiled. “Will we see you at the Rodeo Ball?”

“No. Phil’s in San Francisco this weekend.” Phil Smart is the man who usually takes me to civic affairs.

“You can go with us,” Andy suggested.

“Thanks, but no just the same. I’ll see you Monday.”

I stopped at the supermarket and bought a T-bone steak and a can of asparagus (you develop a thing about the fresh vegetable when you live where it grows and have to breathe the peat dust) and then walked on to the Delta Arms where I have lived all the years since I went to work as Andy’s secretary. There are newer apartments, with pools and other attractions, but the Arms is within walking distance of the bank and it’s air conditioned. More than anything else, it’s sweet home to me.

After fixing a gin and tonic and leaving it to chill, I went in and took a shower and put on slacks and a shirt. It must have been seven thirty when Laura Lee called to ask if I knew where Andy was. They were already past due for the Bergens’ cocktail party and had to be at the Lambertsons’ for dinner at eight thirty. She reminded me (unnecessarily) that it was important they be on time because the dinner guests were all civic leaders whose appearance in time for the Grand March was obligatory. I promised her that I would go down to the bank and see if Andy were still there. I remember saying, “Wherever he is, Laura Lee, I’ll find him and send him home.”

I found him in his office, but I couldn’t send him home. He was sprawled in his chair, staring open-mouthed at the acoustical tile ceiling. Bits of him adhered to the wall behind him and his gun lay on the carpet under his left hand.

Habits of efficiency are a great help in a crisis. The Wyattsville High School’s marching band was to assemble in our parking lot, so I drew the curtains and made sure the “escape hatch” was locked. Then I picked up Andy’s phone, which is left with an open line after Velma closes the switchboard, and dialed Chet Bergen’s number. Someone answered and kept shouting “Hello? Hello?” over the background noise of a large and lively party. The answerer either closed a door or carried the telephone to another room because when he spoke again I could hear him distinctly and recognized his voice.

“Dr. Collins?” I said. “This is Sylvia Sommers. Can you come to the bank right away? Without saying anything to anyone? It’s very important.”

“Andy?”

“Yes. He’s dead.”

“I’ll be there.”

“He sure as hell did it himself,” Corby Collins said. “Nobody gets a guy to open his mouth and take a slug like that.” He looked down at the gun again. “I never knew Andy was left-handed.”

“He was taught to write right-handed, but he attended so many service club luncheons that he had to learn to eat right-handed in self defense. Actually, he was a southpaw.”

“That’s right,” Dr. Collins nodded. “He played golf and tennis left-handed.” He gave a deep sigh. “You might as well call Bill,” he said.

Bill Dean is our chief of police and one of Andy’s oldest friends. I reached him at home. “Bill,” I said, “this is Sylvia. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Andy committed suicide. Dr. Collins and I are at the bank. Can you come down, alone, without saying anything to anyone?”

I hung up and fumbled in my purse for cigarettes and lighter. “You’d better talk to Laura Lee,” I told Dr. Collins. “They already have missed the Bergens’ cocktail party, and she’s afraid they’ll be late at the Lambertsons’ dinner.” Hearing my own words, I knew I was in a state of shock. “Well, somebody has to tell her something!” I said desperately.

“You have to,” he said gently. “If I call, she’ll get the wind up and think he’s had a heart attack. I wish it were only that!” He took a turn around the office and came back to stand in front of me. “Just say he isn’t here, and that you’ll phone around and see if you can locate him.”

“But this just isn’t like him!” Laura Lee wailed. “What should I do, Sylvia? Shall I go on or wait here?”

“You’d better wait,” I advised. “I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.”

When I had cradled the phone, Dr. Collins said, “Indeed she will. Poor Laura Lee. I’ve coped with some heartbroken widows in my day, Mrs. Sommers, but I have a nasty feeling that tonight is going to set some sort of ghastly record.”

“Shouldn’t you get in touch with Mr. Tuttle?” I asked.