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

“It’s a chute. It serves every floor. I don’t know what else it connects to. You could ask the janitor.”

“And who’s that?”

“Leonard Boski.”

The chief winced. He knew Leonard. He was doubtful that Leonard could tell him anything besides the exact operating hours of every pub in a ten mile radius.

“Okay, so you heard this threat, but you also claim that the actual crime was committed.”

“Oh yes.” She was gaining confidence. She sat on the edge of her chair, erect, as if to convince him by her physical bearing.

“You see, Miss Lemay has disappeared.”

“Who?” The chief scowled. “Angela Lemay. A dancer who lived in our block. No one knew her well. She took the top corner suite only a week after old Mr. Jarvis left. But we tried to make her feel welcome — we all did. And now—”

“You say she was a dancer?”

“That’s right. Oh, not one of those kind. A real dancer. Ballet. A very cultured girl from the city who was going to open a dance school right here in town. Mr. Overberg — our landlord — says she was lucky to come along just when an empty suite was available.”

The chief cleared his throat. “So you want me to find this woman?”

Mrs. Bretton looked baffled.

“Well, certainly. We’re very afraid for her.”

“But you don’t know that the threat you overheard was directed at her—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” interjected Mrs. Robideau, “she’s missing, isn’t she?”

“We can assume she’s missing, but there are less fanciful explanations. She could have gone on a holiday, be visiting friends, or—”

“Or she could be the victim of a horrendous outrage,” pronounced Mrs. Robideau, leaving no doubt that she had put up with all the procrastination she was going to. “For crying in the sink, aren’t you paying attention? A woman is threatened, then — poof! — disappears! If that doesn’t concern you, then no woman’s safe. Not even me. Especially not me!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that with a husband as dense as you looking out for me, I might as well give myself up to the nearest murderer right this minute. Hang out a sign. ‘Easy pickings. Husband dumb as a post.’ ” She steered Betty-Anne to the door by the arm. “Don’t strain yourself over those new bylaws!”

“You did what?”

Mrs. Remillard stopped dealing the cards and stared openmouthed at Betty-Anne Bretton, who had a new confidence, bearding Robideau the way she had. “I went to see Chief Robideau, and told him about Miss Lemay.” She added quickly, defensively, “Just like I said I would!”

“We know what you said, dear, but—”

“Let’s not argue,” broke in Mrs. Pashniak worriedly, “I’m anxious to hear what the chief is going to do about the matter.”

“He’s looking into it.”

“Looking into it?” This was Mrs. Hundt, the remaining member of the foursome. “Then he’d better wear his bifocals. When it comes to crime, Chief Robideau couldn’t see a cow on a dining room table unless it was well-done with mashed potatoes on the side.” She let out something between a snigger and a snort. “And just when does this amazing event come about? Probably not until the men in white coats arrive to—”

A beep from the intercom silenced her. They sat there wide-eyed a moment, then Betty-Anne got up and pressed the button.

“Who... who is it?”

The voice was official-sounding. “It’s Chief Robideau, Mrs. Bretton. I’d like to talk with you, if I may.”

Close up, he seemed very large. One didn’t notice that so much in the queue at the grocery store, or in the Legion on a Saturday night. But he seemed pleased at finding them all together and wasted no time asking whether they were all of one opinion about the new tenant, top floor, corner suite.

“She’s missing, all right,” confirmed Mrs. Hundt. “I took her some cheese pirogies — I give everybody cheese pirogies — but I didn’t get no answer even after I knocked at her door for fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes?” The chief raised his eyebrows.

“Well, it seemed like fifteen minutes, though maybe it wasn’t quite that long. Anyways, no answer, so I went back and put the pirogies in the fridge. Someone’ll eat them. They’re the best ones going.”

“Mine are dam good,” asserted Mrs. Remillard with a snippy lift of her chin.

“Your cabbage rolls are, dear, but—”

“Yes, yes,” Chief Robideau said. “What else can you tell me? Who saw the young lady last?”

“That was me,” admitted Mrs. Remillard. “I’d just got home from the bakery, set my bags down to fish out my key, and I hear this sniffling. I look, and there’s Miss Lemay sitting in the stairwell, head down, crying her eyes out. She scurried off without one word. I never did know what she was weeping about.”

“You’d weep,” Mrs. Hundt reminded her, “if you were about to be killed!”

“Only if I seen it coming.”

A chill silence descended as the ramifications of that thought gripped them.

“This happened...” Robideau urged Mrs. Remillard.

“Two and a half, three weeks ago. On a Monday — that’s when I shop. Must of been — let’s see — the twenty-eighth of last month.”

“And you live...”

“Top floor, same as she does — did.”