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

“You’re welcome to come in and set, Henry,” Caleb said to me, “but I know why you’re here and I’ll tell you like I told those people yestiddy...” He straightened as much as his back would allow. “I ain’t goin’ to leave my place here, no, sir!”

I knew he was stubborn, and I wasn’t about to argue with him. “That’s all right, Caleb,” I said pleasantly. “You can stay here if you want to. I came to fetch Chester.”

“Chester?” He looked at me in surprise. “What do you want with him?”

Chester was Caleb’s dog, a little cocker spaniel, the only thing in the world the old man had to love, and to be loved by. I made a show of searching around the room, looking behind the only armchair, under the skirt of the table.

“I’m not going to see Chester maybe drown or starve to death,” I said over my shoulder. “Now, where is he?”

I saw Caleb’s eyes go toward the woodbox by the stove. As I crossed the room, Caleb moved to stop me.

“You can’t take him, Henry! You got no right!”

“Yes, I do, Caleb. I’m still an officer of the law, you know. I won’t stand by and see a crime committed. I’m taking your dog to the shelter in town where he’ll be safe. You can stay here if you want to.”

The little dog was in a box behind the stove. Its hind legs were withered sticks, the result of a long-ago accident. Caleb had found the dog beside the road minutes after a car had run over his hindquarters, crushing his legs. Caleb had cared for the dog, and later he fashioned a two-wheel cart and harness with which the dog could pull himself around.

I stooped to pick Chester up. “Find me a blanket to wrap him in,” I said.

Caleb stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Wait, Henry! They told me I couldn’t keep him with me in town,” Caleb said, his voice ragged with panic. “He’s all I got, Henry, you know that!” His voice cracked. “He needs me!”

“I know, Caleb.” I touched his shoulder. “Listen to me. They were wrong. You can keep him with you at the shelter.” From close by outside I heard the snap and crash of another tree falling. From the door Ted said, “We best be going, Hank.”

Caleb straightened up, the little dog in his arms. “Do I have your word on that, Henry?”

“You do. Now, let’s go before the river takes out your road here.”

“All right then.” Caleb put on an old overcoat and wrapped Chester in a wool sweater. He handed me the little cart and harness. To Ted, standing by the door, he said, “We’re ready, sir.” To me he said, “We thank you, Henry.”

When we got back, I had a message to call Sergeant Early in Ray Brook. I had to wait for the phone. There was only one line, and people in the shelter were using it to contact relatives on the outside, but I finally got him.

“You still got that ’94 Pontiac out there in the boonies? The one the city boy was driving?”

“Yes, Vern, it’s still here.”

“Keep your eyes on it.” He paused. “I can’t tell you much, buddy, but Customs and BCI picked up on the description and the plate of that car. I don’t know why they’re interested, but they are. I told them it was over there in Fountain and you had seen it, all right?”

“Sure. It won’t go anywhere; it’s blocked by a big tree.”

“Don’t do anything to get the guy suspicious. We’ll get back to you.” And he hung up.

As I walked down the hall to the kitchen, the ceiling light came on. I didn’t realize what had happened until I heard people cheering all over the building. We had fight! The electric company had restored service to this part of town.

We were still prisoners of the storm, but part of our sentence had been lifted.

By noon the next day I had been entrusted with four more envelopes addressed to a Reverend Daniel Fisher in Orlando. I was suspicious. I recalled the mail scams I’d heard of — you have won a fabulous prize, an uncle you never heard of left you some priceless real estate, all you have to do is send us your life savings.

What did I know about the people who had written the letters? They were all elderly, the ideal targets for a mail fraud, all members of Saint Agnes Church in town. Not much to go on, but my friend Ted was also a member of Saint Agnes.

“You happen to get a letter from a Reverend Fisher down in Florida?” I asked Ted over coffee.

“Yeah. Felt sorry for that old missionary he wrote about. Dying of cancer like that. I was going to send a few bucks, but I got busy.”

I tried to be casual. “Something about needing an operation, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Big medical bills. The old man was booked into Sloan-Kettering for an operation but needed payment in advance. Plus airfare.”

“Reverend Fisher’s church is in Orlando, right?”

“He said it was a small church. Just getting started. Not in the official register yet.”

I didn’t say anything. Of course it wouldn’t be fisted.

Dolls. The box Elaine was so careful of contained a dozen or so new dolls. I happened to walk through the dining room as she was showing them to a circle of delighted children and parents. The dolls were cute little figures of animals and people, soft plush bodies and endearing expressions.