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

“A signal from that garage door controller?”

“Not as it was set when we found it. But it could be reset to the right frequency for either one of these. Do you want a demonstration?”

Auburn looked at his watch. “I haven’t time right now. Just tell me what those things are for.”

“I’ve already told you. They’re remote-controlled solenoids.” Kestrel was visibly piqued that Auburn didn’t care to watch him playing wizard. “They can do anything that requires a pull of ten kilos. They were not mass-produced. Brendel made them. What he made them for isn’t deducible from the available data.”

A neat formula, thought Auburn, for admitting ignorance without admitting ignorance. He consulted a file card and, from Kestrel’s phone, dialed a number. A recorded message told him that Hick’s Red Carpet Transmission was closed until seven next morning. Mentally buffeting himself about the head and face for not calling earlier, he went back to headquarters.

While he ate a solitary dinner in the canteen, he pored over the Brendel file. Then he headed for the downtown branch of the public library, which was open until ten o’clock on weeknights.

He was back in his office before seven P.M. Auburn seldom wore his service revolver as he went about his daily chores, but tonight he spent time putting it in order before strapping it on. When he left headquarters for Roseland Court, he had the garage door controller in his pocket.

He cruised slowly past each of the houses he had visited that morning, hitting the button on the remote opposite each garage. Nothing happened. He parked opposite the Raysters’ and went up to the door. It was now nearly dark and lights showed in several windows.

Monica Rayster came to the door in a hot pink sweatsuit with a matching elastic band around her head. Somewhere in the house a tape player or VCR was pounding out an aerobic dance routine. “Oh, it’s the policeman again!”

“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Rayster. Maybe I should’ve phoned first.”

“No problem. Come in.” She ushered him into the room with the merry-go-rounds, went away to turn off the tape, and came back with a towel.

“This won’t take long,” said Auburn. “I wonder, did you or your husband have any transmission work done on your cars recently?”

She looked stunned. “Our cars? No. Why?”

“Did you have any work done on your garage door opener?”

Her surprise increased. “No. John would have fixed that himself. He installed it in the first place.”

“I imagine you’re probably into doing some electrical work yourself, aren’t you?” He glanced at the examples of “elektrokitsch” displayed in the room.

“Oh, not really. I know not to connect the black wire to the white wire, but John does all the repairs and restorations on the mechanisms. Why do you ask?”

“One more question. Are any of the pieces in your collection operated by remote control?”

She was now completely bewildered. “What do you mean by remote control?”

“Radio controlled. Like these little cars the kids have, with the—”

“Oh no. The only toys we collect are antiques, from before the days of radio. How does all this tie in with that man getting killed? Or does it?” She gave him a bemused smile, as if she thought he had just dreamed up some idiotic questions so as to have an excuse for coming back for a second interview.

“Apparently it doesn’t,” he said, matching her smile as he rose to leave.

Things hadn’t changed much at the Roetherls’. The fog of cigarette smoke was perhaps a few degrees denser and more acrid, and a tray with soiled dishes showed that Mrs. Roetherl had lately had her dinner. But the television still babbled unheeded, and Roetherl was still puttering over his hooked rug. Auburn asked him if he’d had any work done on his garage door recently.

“The garage door?” Roetherl inhaled smoke deeply and expelled it in billows from his nostrils. “You mean repairs?”

“Yes. In particular, on the electric door opener. If you have one.”

“I have one, and it works fine. I just greased the chain in August. What’s your point?”

“Do you do your own automotive repairs, too?”

“Some of them. We don’t use the car much now. Lambie gets carsick, and I don’t dare leave her alone.”

“What about transmission work?”

“I wouldn’t touch that. But I’ve never had any transmission trouble with this car.”

“Does Mrs. Roetherl — I mean — can she walk?”

Roetherl grimaced through another cloud of smoke. “The doctor says the muscles are okay but she just can’t get it together up here.” He pounded his temple with his forefinger, spilling ashes. “I carry her down those stairs every morning and carry her up every night. I asked the doctor about a chair lift, and he said wait a while. You know what that means.” He selected a length of colored yam and fitted it into his latchhook. “We had some good times, though, Lambie and I. Went around the world three times.”

“I understand you’ve been retired for quite a number of years.”