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

Ginny Concludes:

The story ended much differently, and on one of those truly springlike days in early May when the temperature is eighty degrees, the wind blows in quickening gusts, and an overcast sky threatens rain from four or five different types of clouds.

At eleven A.M. on that particular morning a small convoy of vehicles turned into the Mansion Lakes development from the county highway and followed the winding road beside the water to a point perhaps two hundred yards short of the Byron L. Davis residence. It halted and persons from four of the six vehicles emerged to confer, each of them making occasional gestures at the nearest approach to the lake, which along this abbreviated stretch consists of a moderately steep slope of lush green grass ending in deep, murky waters.

The man in the diver’s wetsuit signaled agreement and angled cautiously down the slope in bare feet, carrying flippers and a face mask in one hand and a tank harness in the other. The sheriff’s deputy waved the last two cars of the convoy onward, and after they had passed, the driver of the heavy equipment towtruck maneuvered his vehicle into a position on the pavement that was perpendicular to the shoreline below. Beside the third of the parked vehicles stood two solemn, foreign-looking men in black business suits, one of them middle-aged and one of them considerably older. As the man in diving dress jumped into the water, the older man made an impatient gesture and began an awkward, zig-zag course down the slope toward the shore.

That was the last glimpse I had for an interval of what R. J. called the “fishing expedition” because in the next moment he and I in the company of the county sheriff were shown by a sullenly handsome younger man into the foyer of the Davis house and from there into a spacious front sitting room lined with books and display cases.

“You’ll have to join the party, Mr. Macmillan,” R. J. said to him. “At least for a while.”

As we entered the room, we could observe Byron L. Davis, our involuntary host, standing near a distant casement window with his arms folded, staring out over a terrace at the activity farther down the shore. He turned reluctantly as we approached and said, “Good morning. Only I sense that the morning is far from good.” He singled R. J. out with his look. “You appear to have decided that Václav made it nearly to our door. How terribly strange.”

“I think it might be even stranger than that, Mr. Davis,” R. J. said. “I’m sort of hoping you and Mr. Macmillan can help us decide how much of it is really strange and how much of it isn’t.” He put his hand on my arm and said, “This is my wife, by the way. Ginny Carr, who helps me out sometimes when I’m stumped, and I understand that you’ve already met Sheriff Bonner.”

“I’m pleased,” Davis said to me with an unpleased face and held out a limp hand, following the performance of which duty he invited us to sit in a nearby group of sofas and chairs. A short period of quiet ensued before he cleared his throat. “What... or rather, I’m at a loss, Sheriff Bonner, and Mr. Carr, as to what information you are seeking.”

All at once a metallic whining noise reached our ears through the row of open casements, and we turned as a group to look in that direction. I rose to my feet, saying, “I’m the least necessary person to this conversation, I’m sure, so I think perhaps...” Without finishing the sentence except with a nod I moved quickly across to the windows and looked out.

“Nothing yet,” I reported disingenuously to the group, since I could see quite clearly that a long, heavy cable was unwinding from the rear of the towtruck, then down the slope and into the lake, and that the two men in black suits were now standing together on what appeared to be the very verge of the shoreline, leaning out intently over the water.

“Good,” I heard R. J. say. “Because I’d rather get this settled ahead of any developments.”

Developments, however, appeared to be coming on rather quickly. As I stood at the window watching, the diver surfaced from the depths, removed his breathing apparatus, and gave a shout, whereupon, in an incident of disturbing irony, one of the two men along the verge, the older one, overbalanced and fell into the lake.

Behind me R. J.’s steady voice was saying, “...so let me put it to you this way, Mr. Davis and Mr. Macmillan: provided that the body of Václav Hucek is found down below, can you suggest any reason why his cause of death might be something other than drowning?”

As for drowning, the unlucky gentleman who had lost his footing seemed to be a capable swimmer in spite of his age, and he was quickly helped back onto the land in his dripping suitcoat and pants by his companion.

“I — can’t imagine anything,” said Byron Davis in answer to my husband’s question. “Can you, Clive?”

“Yes, I can,” the young man responded in a guarded tone.