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

She was a woman of about fifty-five — vigorous-looking, with long limbs and fancy inlaid eyeglasses on a gold chain. She looked as if she could handle not only Green Pine Lodge but half of the rest of the town as well. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s about that killing.”

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Muller.”

“First time we’ve ever had anything like that here. The place is fifteen years old.”

“It didn’t happen here,” the chief said. “It happened up on the mountain.”

“Still, it was one of our guests.”

“True. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Muller, I’m here to check out another of your guests. I don’t know his name, but he’s about five feet ten, has black hair and a bad complexion. Maybe a hundred and seventy pounds — age thirty or so.”

“Staying here alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask the desk clerk.”

She went out and returned about three minutes later. “It sounds like a man named Aaron — Room 26 on the second floor. He shares the room with a man named Kozinsky. Why are you looking for him?”

“Just a routine inquiry,” the chief said.

“I’m not anxious to have the place become notorious,” she said.

“It won’t, Mrs. Muller. We’ll just see if Mr. Aaron’s in.”

The chief unsnapped his holster and motioned to the other cop to do the same. We walked down the hall to 26 and Hewitt knocked. There was the sound of footsteps and the door swung open. A man in a T-shirt and ski pants stood looking at us. He matched the chief’s description perfectly.

“I’m the chief of police,” Hewitt told him. “Do you mind if we come in a minute?”

The man backed off to let us enter. “What’s this about?”

“Could I see some identification?” the chief asked.

The man pulled his wallet out of a back pocket in his pants and handed it to Hewitt, who checked the driver’s license. “Frank Aaron, San Francisco,” he verified.

“So?” Aaron said.

The chief handed him back his wallet. “You’re here with a friend?”

“That’s right. Ralph. He’s already out on the slopes. I’m on the way there myself.”

“You had a fight at the Silver Lode a couple of nights ago, I understand.”

“Maybe. What about it?”

“Know who the guy was?”

“Sure — that dude that’s staying down at the end of the hall. The one who thinks he’s a movie star.”

“Know his name?”

“Nope. I never asked him.”

“I guess you haven’t been reading the papers,” the chief said. “His name was Wingfield, and he was shot to death up on the mountain yesterday afternoon. How come you don’t know about it?”

“I haven’t been out of this room since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I was beat. Slept for twelve hours.”

It was the wrong reaction. Too pat. He was lying.

“What was the fight about, Mr. Aaron?” the chief asked.

“If you know about the fight, you should know what it was about.”

“You tell me.”

“It was over a woman, for God’s sake. I was drunk and I tried to move in on the blonde he was with. I wouldn’t have tried it if I’d been sober. He got sore. I guess I was pretty obnoxious. But it never got beyond some shouting and a couple of broken glasses.”

“Who was the blonde?” I asked him.

“The best-looking woman I’ve seen in a long time. She was wearing a see-through blouse.” He looked from me to Hewitt, then back at me. “Why the hell are you asking me? Ask at the desk. She’s staying here.”

“It’s all coming together,” the chief said.

“Do you own a gun, Mr. Aaron?” I asked.

“No,” he said. Then he looked down at his shoes. “All right, so I own a gun. You’d find out anyway. What does that prove?”

“You have it with you?”

“It’s in the glove compartment of my car, in the lot.”

“Show this officer your car,” the chief told him. “Let’s see if the blonde lady love is in,” he said to me.

Aaron went out to the lot with the other cop while the chief and I checked back at the desk. The blonde in question was registered as Jill Howells, Room 9. We walked to the room and knocked. There was no answer and the door was locked.

“Would you know where the lady in Room 9 might be?” Hewitt asked the desk clerk.

“She may be gone. She’s only paid through last night.”

“You didn’t see her go out?”

“No.”

“I’d like to have a look at the room,” the chief said.

The clerk pulled a key from a hook below the counter and we returned to Room 9. But there wasn’t a thing there except an unmade bed, used towels, and the door key on the bureau.

“Not even a stray bobby pin,” the chief remarked after we had a look around.

Back at the desk we asked to see the registration card again. Mrs. Muller came out of her office and watched us. The card gave a home address in Omaha. The part about car information was blank.

“Where’s her car information?” I asked the clerk.

“She must have come in by plane,” he said.

“Then she’d need a taxi to get back to the airport this morning.”

He shrugged. “She didn’t ask for one at the desk.”

“You’re interested in this woman too?” Mrs. Muller asked.

“She seems to have known Wingfield,” the chief said.

The policeman entered the lobby with Aaron. In the cop’s hand was a Colt .38.