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

“Did you find anything else interesting in the car?” the chief asked him. He shook his head no. “Put the gun back,” the chief said. He turned to Aaron, who looked cold after his excursion outside in his T-shirt. “Okay, that’s all. When are you planning to leave town?”

“Friday.”

“Fine,” the chief said. “If we need you for anything, we’ll get in touch.”

Aaron walked upstairs. The chief thanked Mrs. Muller for her help and we started back toward the station.

“Aaron’s lying about not knowing about the murder,” I said. “But I don’t think he’s involved — just scared.”

“Not unless he owns two guns,” Hewitt said.

“The girl’s Omaha address is a phony. Check Des Moines. But I don’t think you’ll turn up much. The name’s a phony, too.”

“It might just be a coincidence, their being in the same hotel,” Hewitt said.

“Might be.”

“What time are you leaving?”

“An hour ago. Joe must be frothing at the mouth.”

“Well, thanks for your help,” he said.

“Good luck.”

He just frowned and kept on walking.

We drove through the mountains with snow twelve feet deep beside the road. We drove through slushy Denver. It was a clear afternoon and we watched the blue Rockies dwindle on the horizon for a hundred miles. That night we stayed at a motel in Ogallala. The next morning we continued northward across flat, dull Nebraska, where we hit a blizzard around North Platte, then through Omaha and on into flat, dull Iowa. The weather was grey and dreary the second day. We ate at truck stops. Joe consistently exceeded the fifty-five-mile speed limit. He said that driving under seventy on Interstate 80 was like shoveling snow with a teaspoon. Every three hours we switched the driving. By nine in the evening we were passing Des Moines.

“About time to stop for a motel,” I suggested.

“Don’t you want to push through?”

“Why strain ourselves?”

“Saves some money,” Joe said.

“The tab’s on me,” I said.

“You know what I think?”

“No. What?”

“I bet as soon as we reach a motel you’re going to make a phone call to a local blonde named Marilyn Losser.”

“Could be.”

“I’d be willing to bet quite a lot on it,” Joe said.

There were only two Lossers in the phone book, and I hit her on the first try. Luckily she answered and not her husband.

“Mrs. Losser, my name’s Lieutenant Bob Timothy. I’m a policeman.”

“What is it?” she said anxiously. “Has someone had an accident?”

“In a way,” I said. “The person involved is Claude Wingfield.”

“I never heard of him,” she said, still sounding worried. “What is this?”

“He’s been involved in an accident. I’m on the case. I realize you can’t talk on the phone.”

“No,” she said, “I can’t.”

“I can come by your place in the morning while your husband’s at work. Or, if you prefer, we can meet somewhere.”

“How do I know you’re on the up-and-up?”

“I’m trying to avoid any problems for you,” I said.

“I’d prefer the second alternative,” she said after a pause.

“You have a car?”

“Yes.”

“What about in the coffee shop of the Colonial Motel? It’s near the interstate.”

“I know where it is. All right.”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll be wearing a yellow coat.” She hung up.

Joe had been listening from his bed. “I think it would be better if I met her alone,” I said. “Two of us might scare her. She’s half expecting a shake-down.”

The next morning was grey and chilly. We had breakfast in the coffee shop, then at a quarter to ten Joe went back upstairs and I waited, watching through the window. Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, a blue Nova pulled up outside and a very pretty blonde in a yellow coat got out. She was alone.

When she came through the door, she looked around uncertainly. Her eyes fell on me, and I signaled her toward the table. She angled through the crowded restaurant, and all the men in the place accompanied her with their eyes until she slid into the seat across from me.

“You’re the policeman.”

“That’s right.”

“Let me see your badge.”

I showed it to her. She was nervous. She didn’t look at it closely enough to see that it was out of state.

“What’s this about Claude Wingfield? You ruined a night’s sleep for me.”

“He’s been shot.” I watched her face. Either it was a real shock or she was a wonderful actress

“Is it bad?” she said. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know who did it. That’s why I’m here. It’s bad.”

“How bad?” Her blue eyes searched my face.

“He’s dead.”

She started to cry. It was real crying — there was no faking that. I remembered, by contrast, what Wingfield’s wife’s reaction had been.

I waited for her to pull herself together. “Was your husband in town on Tuesday, Mrs. Losser?”

She blew her nose. “Jack? Don’t be crazy. Jack would never do a thing like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I haven’t seen Claude since last summer. Women didn’t last long with Claude. Jack suspected — he hated Claude — but he’s not the type—”

“Was he in town on Tuesday?”

“Jack hasn’t been out of town since he went fishing in Canada last July.” She was clenching her wet, balled handkerchief. “God, I can’t believe it. How did it happen?”