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

“He was on a skiing vacation in Colorado. Someone shot him to death on the slopes.”

“And you have no idea who?”

“An idea or two — yes. Not much in the way of facts yet.”

“I never quite got over Claude,” she said as if talking to herself. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, Lieutenant Timothy. I can’t think who might have shot him.”

“Do you know of any other blonde woman he’d been seeing recently?”

“No. Do you think it was a woman?”

“He was with a blonde out there. She disappeared right after the murder.”

“I’ve been in town all week,” she said defensively. “I can prove that in two minutes.”

“You don’t have to prove it. I believe you.”

“And so has my husband,” she said.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mrs. Losser. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well?” Joe said as I came in.

“She’s not the blonde we’re looking for.”

“What about the husband?”

“She says he hasn’t left town.”

“Well, are you ready to go home?”

“Not yet. I want to call Mrs. Wingfield. She’s probably back in town. Throw me that phone book. And after I talk to her, I think I’m going to pay a visit to the Des Moines Register.”

“What for?” Joe asked.

“To look at pictures.”

We waited till six o’clock to drive over. Most people are home around dinnertime.

The apartment house was in a nice part of town. Joe was wearing his gun. There was a guard at the entrance, but when we flashed our badges he let us through. The inner lobby was marble and there were paintings on the walls. We took the elevator up to the sixth floor and got out into a carpeted hallway with indirect lighting. The apartment we wanted was the last on the right. We could hear the faint sound of a radio or stereo through the solid door. Joe stood off to the side against the wall. I planted myself in front of the peephole and knocked.

The first knock brought no response. I knocked again, louder. The peephole slid open. There was a pause, then the door opened a bit, and I saw her pretty face through the crack.

“You,” she said. “How in the world—”

“Mind if I come in?”

“I don’t know—” There was a chain on the door.

“It’s pretty uncomfortable talking like this,” I said.

She hesitated, then slipped the chain. I pushed through fast, and Joe was right behind me. Before she fully comprehended the situation, he’d closed the door behind us.

“What the hell is this?” she said angrily.

“You’re a pretty fearless girl,” I said. “But I guess if you can kill somebody you’ve got to be fearless.”

“Who are you guys?”

I took out my badge and so did Joe. She studied them carefully. “Aren’t you a little bit off your beat?”

“I’m on my beat,” I said. “You forget — I’m the one who fell over his body.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing here or what you’re talking about,” she said. She snapped off the radio. Her lovely blue-grey eyes were flashing. The beige negligee she was wearing showed enough of her figure to explain why that see-through blouse would make grown men do silly things.

“From what I hear, you must be even more fetching as a blonde, Miss Brower. Or do you prefer Petersen — or Howells?”

“Get out of here.”

“Why don’t we sit down?”

“I said get out.”

“All right, I’ll sit down.” Joe remained on his feet. So did she, fuming.

“You really had us running around,” I said. “That blonde hair was a neat, if obvious, idea. He was a guy who went for blondes. Whose idea was it to go out to Colorado separately?”

She stared at me.

“And whose idea was the separate rooms? His, I’ll bet. He liked to be careful. He was an up-and-coming man in this town. Up-and-coming as a result of what he’d done to your father and several other politicians here. But only your father broke down and committed suicide.”

A strange noise came from her throat.

“The idea of the Colorado trip suited you perfectly, didn’t it? You thought you’d never be connected with his being murdered out there. On the day you killed him, you redyed your hair to its natural color. That was necessary so that he’d recognize you before you shot him. Most revenge murderers need that satisfaction. It also facilitated your leaving town; you’d been seen around with him as a blonde — a very noticeable blonde. Are you ready to go downtown to the station?”

Suddenly she looked very tired — the way they look when they know they’ve had it. I saw Joe relax.

She went over to a wall table and plucked a cigarette from a pack lying on top. Then she searched for a light. I reached into my pocket for my lighter but before I’d brought it out she’d opened the table drawer and come up with a .32 automatic in her hand.

Joe spit out a nasty word and I dropped the lighter. She held the gun on us with remarkable steadiness.

“The penalty for being male chauvinists,” she said sarcastically. “You’d have been more careful if I were a man.”

“You can’t shoot both of us before one jumps you,” I said.

“Don’t underestimate me. My father trained me to use this. He said a girl needed to know how to protect herself.”

Joe repeated the nasty word.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” she said. “I just want to get out.”

“Where can you go?”