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

He nearly had to put a bullet through Roetherl to stop him. Keeping the big man covered, he called headquarters on the kitchen phone. Funny how steady his hand was now, holding a loaded revolver, when his charade with an empty one to verify Neldrick’s blindness had turned him into a shivering wreck.

At least he had recovered his self-command in time to prevent Roetherl from committing deliberate murder right under his nose. That, as the lieutenant’s daughter might express it, would have been majorly uncool.

The Honeymoon Kill by Bill Knox

David Bannerman knew it as a sad, cynical truth. When you’re feeling happy, at the crest of a wave, hold on tight — there’s often a deep trough of misery lurking on the other side. He heard a sigh come from Helen Bannerman, his sister and business partner, and knew she felt the same.

Andrew Adams, the man seated opposite them, was in his fifties, well-dressed and prosperous, a director in a rock-solid Scottish stockbroking firm. He had arrived without an appointment at the Banner Agency, the small private investigation and security consultancy the Bannermans operated from the top floor of an old Georgian building in the heart of Edinburgh.

But Adams had a handwritten introduction from the banker who nursed the Bannermans’ joint overdraft through moments of crisis. So they’d listened, almost able to feel his despair.

Two weeks earlier the world had been bright for Andrew Adams. He and his wife had been in New York, where his only son was being married. Now they’d been told their son was dead, buried under an avalanche in Switzerland.

“Except you don’t believe it,” said Bannerman softly. “So you want us to find the truth.”

“Win or lose,” agreed his visitor tightly. “Will you try?”

David Bannerman glanced at his sister. She gave a fractional nod, which made it unanimous.

“We’ll try,” said David. He walked to the window and looked over the grey slate rooftops of the Scottish capital towards the medieval bulk of Edinburgh Castle.

“Let’s go over the basics again. Your son’s name is Mark, he’s a newly qualified lawyer, his bride’s name is Susan, she’s an American citizen from—”

“From New York,” nodded Andrew Adams. “They met when Mark was in the States on a graduate exchange scheme. Susan is a nurse.”

They’d met at a university party and been engaged within a month. The wedding was in New York; then Mark Adams had brought his bride back to Europe, to honeymoon in Switzerland. They had collected a Volvo in Edinburgh and had driven across Europe to the Bernese Alpine resort village of Grindelwald, close under the legendary Eiger mountain. Telephone calls to both sets of parents had said everything was fine. But it was now forty-eight hours since Mark had vanished. The last thing known was that he’d gone walking near the mountain while his bride had a hair appointment at the village beauty salon.

It was early spring; there’d been late snowfalls and risks of avalanches. The young lawyer had simply disappeared without a trace.

“I should be there,” said Andrew Adams in a weary voice. “But there is my wife to consider—”

Mark Adams’ mother had a weak heart and had collapsed on hearing her son was missing. She was in hospital, too ill to be moved. The other set of parents, now in regular telephone touch from New York, were getting ready to fly over to be with their daughter.

“But you say Susan wants everyone to wait until she has more news,” frowned Helen, puzzled.

“That’s what she says,” Andrew Adams nodded. “And all we can get from the police is that this was just another tourist accident.” His mouth tightened. “I know what that means. They’ll leave things until summer; they’ll look for a body when the snow melts.”

“There’s probably not a lot we can do,” warned David.

“Maybe not, but forget the cost.” The stockbroker clenched his fists. “On the phone Susan sounds near collapse. But something’s wrong. She’s no fool. It’s as if she’s holding something back. Something she’s frightened to tell me.”

“Give me a moment,” said Helen Bannerman. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time she returned, her brother had gathered more details and the stockbroker had produced a wedding day photograph of the couple. Mark Adams was a dark-haired man in his twenties with a plump, cheerful face. His bride Susan was about the same age, slim and attractive, with blonde, shoulder-length hair.

Andrew Adams left. Once he’d gone, the Bannermans exchanged a wry glance. “Better see when we can get a flight,” suggested David.

“I already did,” said Helen mildly. “I spoke to that redhead you know at the airport.”

“And?” said her brother warily.

“We’re booked on the next Swissair flight, at one A.M.” She grinned. “For you, says your redhead, anything.”