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

Eric made appropriate sympathetic noises which she seemed not to hear, as if by some immense effort of will she had already distanced herself from the catastrophe and was forcing herself to be practical, the abandoned lovebird flying from the nest. Eric asked her where she would go and she said, “I came from the South and to the South I shall return. Anywhere out of this city. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, darling. I’m shipping my books on ahead. I can’t live without my books, but I wanted to ask you to store my memories for me. I’ve talked to the manager, and it’ll be all right, until I send for them. If you’ll just carry them down to the basement when I have them packed. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course, anything.” But was she sure she was doing the right thing, not acting hastily?

“Darling, what else can I do? When the play is ended one makes one’s exit, with as much dignity as possible. A settlement! I’d rather starve in the street. Nor do I want any consolation prizes. I’ve packed all the little presents he ever gave me into my overnight bag and I shall insist he take them back.”

Shortly after twelve the following night the door from the street opened and a slight figure dressed all in black stood for a moment stamping the snow from his shoes before approaching the desk.

“Good evening,” he said in a voice as cold as the air outside. “Will you please ring Miss Beaujean’s room and tell her Mr. Swann is here.”

Eric regarded the pompous little man with a resentment equally as frigid, wishing he could reach out and rudely strip off that hairy mask of hypocrisy. Swann, or whatever his real name might be, stood very erectly with his head thrown back, the lid of a black fedora almost resting on darkly tinted glasses. As if rooted below the false black underbrush, the stub of a cigar added a sinister, gangster touch to the disguised features. He turned his back and stood tapping a foot impatiently on the carpet as Eric dialed Leda’s room, then with a hasty, military step the little V.I.P. marched to the elevator and pressed the button.

The reunion lasted far longer than Eric might have expected; it was past two when Leda called down to the desk. “Mr. Swann will be leaving in five minutes. Will you fetch a cab for him, darling?”

Eric went out into the street, which was a whirling mass of snowflakes and quite deserted. He hugged his arms to his chest and walked to the end of the block before finding a cab and directing it to the Kerbridge.

Presently Mr. Swann emerged from the elevator carrying an overnight bag in one hand, a fresh cigar clamped between his teeth. He did not bestow so much as a glance or word of thanks on Eric as he strode across the lobby to the door.

Eric debated whether to ring Leda’s room, or even to pop up and offer a perhaps much needed word of comfort, but the memory of that room and the fear of intruding upon Leda in what would likely be a state of emotional devastation restrained him.

The following night he did go up to remove the cartons of memorabilia he’d promised to store in the basement. The room looked bare and desolate, as if finally the remnants of that endless party had been swept away. Yet Leda herself appeared far less visibly distraught than Eric had feared as she insisted on their sharing a drink from the last of Mr. Swann’s bottles of Napoleon brandy.

“You’re really going, then?” he asked.

“Of course, darling. I shall embrace the sun and read my books and dream beside the sea.”

“But how will you live? Or did you accept—”

“Don’t be crass, darling. And as you may have noticed I made him carry away all his little love tokens. How shall I live? ‘As birds do, mother.’ Remember your Macbeth? I never did much Shakespeare. I rather think I’d make a fairly credible Lady Macbeth, don’t you?”

Eric laughed. “Frankly, I can’t quite see you in the role.”

“Ah, you don’t really know me. Any more than Mr. Swann did, the beast.”

“You’ll write and tell me where you are,” he said.

“Oh, darling, first thing. You’ll have to know where to send my memories.”

Smiling, she raised her glass.

Monday was Eric’s night off and on Tuesday two police detectives from the precinct arrived at the hotel to question him. They were investigating the disappearance of Mr. Oscar Browning, a name Eric instantly recognized as that of a fairly prominent Broadway producer.

“The gentleman was last seen getting out of a taxi at Grand Central around two o’clock Monday morning.” He exchanged a sly glance with his companion. “Somewhat disguised.”

“Then you know—”