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

Andy laughed. It was a curiously light-hearted laugh. “I’m glad you’ve given his mother full credit,” he said. “If he succeeds, I’m sure she will be on hand to take her bows. Now, how do I address this infamous document?”

“I resent that remark.” For the first time her voice betrayed emotion. “My life has been devoted to this boy and I see nothing wrong in letting him know he is indebted to me. I intend to be a part of the success he will enjoy, and I expect him to feel that rightly I should be.”

“The address, Mrs. Metcalf?”

“Send it to me: Mrs. John Metcalf, Box 1123, San Francisco. I’ll mail it before my bus leaves at six fifty. I have a stamp.”

“I was sure you would have.”

“This,” Mrs. Metcalf said, “I shall consider a guarantee of your good faith, and I will have no further worry about Jack’s future.”

“You need have none.” Andy’s voice had the deadly quality which he reserved for special occasions. “You have the boy’s feet planted firmly on the economic ladder and he will be booted up it as high as he is capable of going, not because of any threats you have made, but because he is a Wyatt. Now, get out!”

There was some unidentifiable sound — an outraged gasp, perhaps — and then I heard a door close. I leaned over the tape, willing it to yield something more; but there were only small noises — the creaking of his chair, muted car horns from the street, something which might have been an epithet muttered through clenched teeth, and then the opening and closing of a drawer. Ten minutes later there was a sharp report of the gun and the muffled sound as it struck the floor.

I played it all back again and then I went to my typewriter and wrote:

Dear Mr. Metcalf,

No doubt you will hear of Mr. Andrew Wyatt’s death before learning that his last act was to assure you of a position with the Wyattsville Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank. This is a commitment which the family will wish to honor. Please arrange to be here on Monday, September 14, at 3:00 P.M. for an interview.

There is an excellent opportunity for advancement in this community, and in the years to come I am sure your mother will have reason to be very proud of you.

Yours very truly,

Sylvia Sommers

In the San Francisco directory I found a Mrs. John B. Metcalf and a John B. Metcalf, Jr., listed at the same address on Clay. This seemed appropriate for her income so I sent the letter there. It afforded me satisfaction to imagine her wondering how I knew of her conversation with Andy; how much, in fact, I knew about Jack.

In the safe in Andy’s office there was a metal box for which he and I had the only keys. I took it out and went through the contents carefully. There was a considerable amount of cash, an exquisite diamond and emerald necklace which Laura Lee had seen and admired and which Andy had subsequently purchased as a surprise for her on her birthday in October, birth certificates for all of them, and two tape recordings which could bring Ad Tuttle’s little political empire tumbling down in ruins. I took the tapes, and the things which were mine: the baby’s identification bracelet, a larger one that read “Mary Sylvia Skouros Sommers,” a plastic envelope that held a downy feather of dark hair, and the twenty-three stock certificates which had been Andy’s penance candles.

He gave me the first seven of them on November 22, 1948. “Money’s no substitute for a child,” he said bluntly, “but it’s one hell of a nice thing to have. These cost five thousand dollars each.” He fanned them out on his desk. “They’ll appreciate. Hang on to them, Sylvia, and one day you’ll be a woman of property.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

“I know that. Let’s say I do it for the same reason I give Laura Lee jewels. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, and you’re the only one I ever wholly trusted.” And then he said, “There’ll be another of these each year.”

They had appreciated, and I am a woman of property. I put all of these things into my handbag together with the carbon of my letter to Jack, the carbon paper I had used, and the recording made that afternoon. Whatever was left in Andy’s office or mine was anybody’s business, and would be tomorrow.