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

Corby Collins gave me a quick look of appraisal. “Very good thinking,” he said dryly. “Who was it who said that behind every successful man was a clever woman, or words to that effect? Perhaps I’m just now learning what made Andy tick. I assume you know where Mr. Tuttle can be reached.”

Incredibly, my watch showed that it was not yet eight. “They will still be at the Whitmans’.” As I finished dialing the number there was a sharp, metallic rap on the front door. “That will be Bill,” I said, and handed the phone to Dr. Collins.

The street light showed the comfortable bulk of Bill Dean’s silhouette. When the door was opened he stepped inside and gripped my hands. “In heaven’s name, why did he do it, Sylvia?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “That’s what makes it so awful. I don’t know!”

He asked the same questions of Corby Collins, and the doctor said, “It wasn’t his health. You can rule that out. He had a physical every six months. So did Laura Lee. I checked them in July before they went on their vacation and they were in excellent shape.”

There was a peremptory rattling of the big front doors and I went through to admit Mayor Tuttle. “Where’s Corby?” he demanded. “What in hell is this all about? Why’d he call me away from—”

“Andrew Wyatt has committed suicide,” I cut in coldly. “Come into his office, please.” Addison Tuttle is ruthless and ambitious, qualities that make him a man to be reckoned with, but certainly endear him to no one.

Bill sat with his face in his hands, unashamedly weeping. By contrast, Ad Tuttle walked around Andy, apparently needing to assure himself that Wyattsville’s favorite son was no longer a threat to his political future. Satisfied, he turned his long, thin-lipped face toward Corby Collins. “Incurably ill?” he asked.

“No. Nothing so convenient. I just told Bill and Mrs. Sommers that I had given him a complete physical in July and his health was fine.”

The mayor’s small, pale eyes swiveled around to me. “Anything here at the bank that could be considered — irregular?”

“Nothing,” I said positively.

“Another woman?” he asked. “Anything like that?”

All of them looked toward me hopefully. “Of course not,” I said. “I’m surprised you would even ask.”

“But if there had been,” he persisted, “you would have known, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I was responsible for his deposits and withdrawals, and there was never a transaction which couldn’t have been reported in the Sentinel.”

“An extramarital relationship doesn’t have to involve money,” Mayor Tuttle pointed out. “It could be someone we all know.”

“In Wyattsville?” Dr. Collins’ laugh was a short, derisive bark. “It would have been common gossip.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ad Tuttle conceded. He dragged at the lobe of his ear, then said, “See if there’s a bottle in the desk drawer, Mrs. Sommers. All of us could use a drink.”

Andy never would have a bar in his office, but he kept a fifth available. The bottle was about two thirds full. I got four paper cups from the dispenser beside the bottled water, and the mayor poured two or three ounces into each. There was an awkward pause after we picked them up, and then Bill Dean cleared his throat loudly and said. “To Andy. A really great guy.”

“The greatest.” Ad Tuttle took his whisky in one long swallow and dropped the empty cup into the wastebasket. “But dead. Why did he have to pick the first week in September?” He began to pace up and down the office, his long chin thrust out and up. “What we have to watch now is how this story breaks,” he said. “If we can keep it under wraps for a few hours the Rodeo Ball will go off as scheduled. Then if it is in the morning papers, our final day should be terrific! I’ll go to the Lambertsons’ and talk to Drew,” he decided. Drew owns the Sentinel. “Good thinking?” He tapped his temple and grinned at us.

“Very good,” Corby Collins said. “We’ve been long on that tonight, if somewhat short on sentiment. I’m going to talk to Laura Lee.”

“Do that,” Ad urged. “And work out some plausible explanation for them missing the ball.” He did not see the withering glance the doctor gave him because he had turned to Bill. “Ev Grant can be trusted, can’t he?” he asked. “Call the mortuary and tell him to pick up the body after ten — after ten, mind — when everybody will be in the auditorium.”

When I came back from letting Mayor Tuttle out of the building I was grateful to see that Bill had brought the bottle into my office. “You mustn’t blame Ad,” he said, filling two paper cups. “It’s that kind of clear thinking that has made him what he is in Wyattsville. Here,” he handed me my drink, “let’s you and me drink to the Andy we knew. We can include the high school class of ’42 and our first year at Cal, or we can just say the hell with it and drink to get drunk.”