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

Mrs. Wingfield had arrived fifteen minutes before us. She was in the chief’s office. He’d given instructions to send us in if we turned up.

She was handsome and slightly overweight, in her early thirties. She was wearing charcoal grey slacks, a heavy cream-colored sweater, and a suede coat lined with lamb’s wool. She turned to the door as we entered and the chief introduced us. Her eyes were dry and she looked very self-possessed.

“Mrs. Wingfield was just telling me about her husband,” the chief said. He gave me a quick glance that implied it was an earful.

We sat down.

“So he left on Friday morning,” the chief continued, “and arrived here Saturday night. Was he in the habit of taking vacations alone, Mrs. Wingfield?”

“We both have, for many years now.” She had a dry, grating voice.

“You didn’t get along very well?”

“We’d been married for eleven years. The first two were all right.”

“Do you think it’s possible your husband was involved with another woman here?”

“Quite possible.”

“He’d done that sort of thing before?”

“Oh, yes. Claude was a womanizer. He preferred big-chested, blue-eyed blondes. You notice I’m dark.”

“Your husband was seen with a blonde woman last night, Mrs. Wingfield,” I interrupted.

The chief raised his eyes at this. This time his eyes said it wouldn’t have hurt if I’d filled him in first.

Mrs. Wingfield shrugged her shoulders. “It might have been Marilyn Losser.”

“Who’s Marilyn Losser?” the chief asked.

“His most recent flame, as far as I know. Somebody else’s wife. One of my friends was kind enough to tell me about it.”

“All the indications are that your husband came out here alone,” the chief said.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said.

“Do you know the address of this Marilyn Losser?” I asked.

“No. You could try the Des Moines telephone book.”

“Do you have any children, Mrs. Wingfield?” I asked.

“No. I suppose you’re wondering why I stayed with him. The answer’s very simple. Money. I’m not used to doing without it and I’m not very good at making it myself.”

“You’re very blunt,” I said.

“It facilitates things, doesn’t it?” she replied bitterly. “What else would you like to know?”

“Did Mr. Wingfield have any enemies who might want to kill him?” the chief asked.

“You mean besides Marilyn Losser’s husband? Yes, quite a few, I imagine.” She paused and asked the chief for a cigarette. He passed the pack across and lit one for her. “Claude wasn’t an especially likeable man. He wasn’t a bad person, but his manner was a bit too self-confident, distant, forceful. He smelled of success. He’d made a name for himself in Des Moines, especially after the scandal two years ago.”

“What was that?”

“There was a big political scandal — misuse of municipal funds, bribes, kickbacks. One of the people involved committed suicide.”

“What was your husband’s part in that?”

“He exposed it. He wasn’t a professional do-gooder, but he had information on some people and saw that it would suit his career to make the mess public, so he did.”

Chief Hewitt cleared his throat.

“Do you want to see the body now? We need positive identification. But it can wait till tomorrow.”

“I’ll see it now,” she said.

He rose. “I’ll have one of my men take you.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have a hotel room?”

“I hoped you could help me with that.”

“Of course,” the chief said.

“I’m willing to stay here as long as you need me,” Mrs. Wingfield said, “but I don’t want to stay any longer than that.”

“I understand,” the chief said and went to fetch one of his men.

Joe wanted to get an early start next morning. I wanted to see Chief Hewitt first.

“I’ll start packing the stuff on the car,” Joe said. “Don’t take all morning. It’s not your case.”

I met Hewitt and another cop coming out of the station as I was going in.

“You’re just in time to join us for a walk,” Hewitt said.

“Where to?”

“Green Pine Lodge.”

“What’s up?”

“Wingfield had a fight with a guy in a bar Monday night. The bar’s just down the street from the Green Pine. The fight, apparently, was over a woman — a blonde.”

“How did you get that information?”

“Three people volunteered it after they saw Wingfield’s picture in last night’s paper. One of them knew the other guy. He’s staying at the Green Pine. Same as Wingfield was.”

For an older man, the chief was a fast walker. We covered the four blocks to the lodge in as many minutes.

Green Pine Lodge was a three story affair with a lobby full of big-leafed plants. It had oiled wooden walls, a shiny red-tiled floor, and, to the left of the reception desk, a brick fireplace. Two youngish clerks stood behind the desk.

Chief Hewitt asked to see Mrs. Muller.

One of the clerks knocked on a door behind the desk and a woman opened it from inside. The clerk spoke to her a moment and pointed to us. She called, “Come on in, chief. I’ve been expecting you.”

We walked through the hinged counter and into the office. The chief shut the door after him and introduced me to Mrs. Muller. She took a seat at her desk and we dropped into comfortable armchairs.