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

“Never mind what he said. Play around with it, find a solvent that works on it, but don’t actually erase the words till I say you can. Got that?”

Seeking a few peaceful moments in which to compose his thoughts, Robideau stopped at a sleepy coffeeshop, the paper from Ted’s room, compliments of Mrs. Tozer, tucked into his pocket. It was too dark now to inspect the graffiti; he would do so first thing in the morning. For now he would content himself with mulling things over.

Poking around the girl’s suite, inspecting her meager mail, interviewing her neighbors, the chief had learned nothing conclusive. The ladies had been helpful to a point, and forthcoming — with the possible exception of Mrs. Pashniak. She almost seemed frightened, as if she knew more than she was telling.

On the other hand, she might simply be afraid for the missing girl.

As for the disappearance of a man who may have defaced the rear of the Highcliff apartments, was it coincidence? Not likely. With a connection running from Tozer to Overberg, and from Overberg to Angela Lemay, one couldn’t dismiss the matter so easily. Besides, Tozer was a middle-aged man. Why on earth would he be scrawling graffiti?

He drank some coffee.

But if Ted were the graffiti bandit, was he caught by Angela Lemay scribbling on the rear of the building? Had she admonished him, and had all that bottled up hate and spite come boiling out, driving him to attack her, and — perhaps unintentionally — knock her head too hard against the wall? Panicking, had he hidden the body in the dumpster and run off?

But why wait so long? He’d hung about another two weeks or more, and in that time would surely have calmed down long enough to pack a suitcase.

And then there was Overberg, who, like Mrs. Pashniak, seemed to know more than he was admitting to.

But none of this explained the voices in the chute, or Miss Lemay’s distress on the staircase as dutifully reported by Mrs. Remillard.

Start over.

Suppose Tozer had attacked Lemay and was seen by someone. This “someone” later emerged with a blackmail threat, prompting Tozer to flee...

But you don’t blackmail a penniless loser.

Robideau ordered a sour-milk doughnut. He lacked information. He didn’t know precisely when Lemay had come to harm, or even if she had come to harm. The plants were being seen to, the mail was being collected, but the clock showed the wrong time. Of course, resetting the clock would be a priority only to somebody actually living there. And Overberg had yet to produce that canceled check...

Overberg.

These were murky waters, but every time Robideau stirred them, the old businessman bobbed up like a cork.

So turn it around. Say Overberg was the instrument of Miss Lemay’s disappearance and Tozer the witness. It hung together better. Tozer’s bedroom overlooked the rear of the Highcliff, so conceivably he might have witnessed something. And if that incident were compromising to Overberg?

Tozer attempts blackmail. A reasonable assumption — the man being a cheat and a crook. Overberg doesn’t respond. Tozer applies pressure with some fake graffiti, emulating the stuff appearing all over town. (If only Robideau knew what that damned scrawling meant!) But despite Tozer’s efforts, Overberg identifies his tormentor, perhaps by determining which house and window have a view of the crime scene. Exposed, Tozer takes off running.

The argument was rickety, in need of a crutch, but it could stand. There were missing elements, such as the nature of the relationship between Overberg and Lemay. The chief didn’t know yet that there had been a relationship.

But Robideau smiled inwardly. He was starting to get somewhere.

The following day, Tozer’s hieroglyphs in hand, Robideau drove to the Highcliff. He walked up the alley to the back of the building, where some boys were amusing themselves by bouncing a hockey puck off the side of the garbage dumpster.

He quickly settled one thing. The two sets of markings were a match, with identical if indecipherable words appearing both on the wall and on the sheet of paper. They were the product of the same hand. Apparently, as he had surmised, Boski’s “gerfeedy kid” was none other than Ted Tozer, a middle-aged man. Robideau struggled with it. Secretary. An unlikely word. Might this actually be “secret,” with a flowery embellishment tagged on?

On impulse he called to the boys. One of them ambled over, cautious but inquisitive. “We’re not hurting anything,” he said defensively.

“I can see that. But I’ve got a question — if you can answer it.”

“My mom told me not to talk to strangers,” the boy said deadpan, eliciting a burst of hilarity from his pals.

“That’s good advice. I doubt if you can explain it anyway.”

“Explain what?” The boy shuffled closer.

“Well, I’m wondering why this graffiti is so hard to decipher. I mean, if someone wants to say something, why not make sure people can read it?”

“People can read it,” said the boy. “Some people.”

“People like you?”