Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“One reason we pay our taxes,” the chief gently reminded her, “is so that I can continue to draw my salary.” He swallowed one of the tablets dry, peering blearily around for something to wash it down with.

“This,” declared Mrs. Robideau, indicating the small woman as if introducing a royal personage, “is Betty-Anne Bretton, and she has a crime to report. Hear that? A crime! Go on, Bets, tell him. If he tries to bully you, I’m right here.”

The little woman continued to stare fixedly at the chief as if concerned that he might jump up at any moment and make a rush at her. She had a tiny voice.

“It’s... it’s something that I heard in the disposal chute.”

“In the what?” The chief’s rumble pressed the little woman back an inch.

“In the garbage chute,” interjected Mrs. Robideau, “aren’t you listening? Are you going to interrupt, or are you going to let her have her say?”

The chief rumbled again but said nothing. The woman explained, “I live in the Highcliff Apartments. I wasn’t actually in the disposal chute, of course, I was standing in front of it, holding the flap open, ready to drop my kitchen Tidy Bag in. That’s when I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

“Heard the murderer. I’ll remember his words for the rest of my life. They made my blood run cold! He said, ‘If you play games with me, I’ll fix you good.’ That’s what I heard. Those very words.”

The chief closed his eyes. “And you think that was a murder threat?”

“Well, the voice said—”

“ ‘I’ll fix you.’ That could mean a number of things.”

Betty-Anne closed her mouth with an audible click and turned in desperation to Mrs. Robideau, who placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. “Dear,” she advised, “be patient. The official mind is slow on the take sometimes, and things aren’t helped by the fact that my husband has obviously eaten something disagreeable for lunch instead of the nice sandwich I made him. It’s in his desk drawer. I looked. He’ll throw it away later. He thinks food grows on trees.”

“It does,” the chief reminded her. “And I’d have eaten that sandwich except that I was at the Sunrise Diner earlier, quoting our new bylaws to Rani Probal, the owner, and he practically shoved his chili burger special down my throat.”

Mrs. Robideau observed him as if from a distance.

“Yes, I can see how that might happen. He tied you to a chair with aprons and force-fed you with a pair of tongs. Now he’ll vanish from your inspection list.” She raised an eyebrow. “It’s strange how that happens. Like some kind of an X-File.”

The chief wisely abandoned the argument. “What about those details? If somebody’s making threats, I’ll look into it.”

“Looking is one thing,” said Mrs. Robideau airily. “Doing something is quite another. But there’s detail if you want it. We believe the threat was carried out, don’t we, dear?”

Betty-Anne nodded. “Well, I... I mean — yes!”

“Then let’s have it,” Robideau said. He wasn’t convinced. End of Main was small, the budget was small. Even when he had staff to assist him (a condition that came and went with each balance sheet), the chief dealt with every report personally, and in his experience most complaints derived from misunderstandings that could be put right with a phone call. But he tried to sound less grumpy. “Take your time.”

“Go ahead, dear,” said Mrs. Robideau encouragingly.

“Well, this all started a few weeks ago, on a Wednesday. I know it was Wednesday because we’d just had our card party — not a party party, but a get-together in the hospitality room for a few hands of whatever interests us — rummy, euchre, frustration...”

“Yes, yes, go on.” The woman dragged on like a magistrate.

“It was my job to tidy up afterwards. It’s a room we share, you see, and—”

“Right, yes.”

“—so it’s important to keep it tidy. Anyway, I finished up, locked the door, and went down to the end of the hall to drop the trash down the garbage chute.”

Hmm, garbage chute. The chief pulled his new list of potential bylaw infractions out of his top drawer and, yes, there it was, amendment 23: sec. B, para. 4: Trash disposal chutes prohibited... No new construction; existing installations to be sealed up in favor of recycling bins and the town’s normal refuse collection. As the chair of the Green Committee had argued, one couldn’t have people anonymously popping unsorted rubbish down a chute into an incinerator, plastics and God-only-knew-what-else spewing toxic fumes into the air. The chief saw the problem, but he did have other concerns — like the graffiti that seemed to be spreading like a blight throughout the town.

“The chute door is set in the wall. Heavy iron, a flap that lifts up. As soon as I raised it, I heard that voice.” Mrs. Bretton shuddered. “It was so cruel and cutting. I could easily imagine that threat being carried out.”

I’m sure you could, the chief thought. “Did you recognize the voice?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t hear clearly.”

“Do you know where it came from?”