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

The oak tree had been cut into sections and dragged aside. I turned down the lane and stopped in front of the blue Pontiac. Charlie was trying to scrape the ice and snow off the windshield and windows.

He was surprised to see me.

“Morning, Mr. Sessions,” he said cheerfully. He went on with his scraping.

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you, Charlie?”

“Oh no. I thought I’d catch you when I went back to pick up Elaine. I think we can get out of here today.”

The front door of the old barn was about ten yards away. I saw tracks in the snow from the car to the barn, but I assumed Charlie had gone in to look around. I walked around the car, trying to see in the windows.

Casually I asked, “Frank Gratto isn’t really your uncle, is he, Charlie?”

“No,” he admitted. “He’s a guy I do things for sometimes.”

“Jobs like picking up this car in Montreal?”

He nodded.

“Where’d you pick it up? In a body shop?”

He stopped and looked at me. “So what if I did?”

“It must have been in a body shop, Charlie,” I said lightly. “You ever notice that the upholstery on the doors is different from the seats?”

“So what if it is?” He wasn’t cheerful now. “And what’s with the questions anyway?”

I turned to face him. “And why would a young couple driving south from Montreal to Long Island turn off the highway and stop in front of this old barn?”

Charlie looked around uneasily. The sky was overcast and promised more snow. The barn was to his left, the ruins of the oak tree to his right, my truck blocked the way to the main road. He realized he was afoot and with noplace to go.

“I’ll tell you what I think, Charlie,” I went on. “Somebody working with Frank Gratto hid something in this car. Something illegal. And when they were ready to send it across the border, Uncle Frank sent you to drive it down.”

I waved my cane at the old barn. “I think you were supposed to meet someone here, Charlie. Were you going to switch cars or unload this one? Too bad the weather turned sour on you.”

He didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t look at me. I changed the subject. “That Elaine is such a nice girl. Is she in on the deal?”

That surprised him; he shook his head. “Nah. She’s just my girlfriend. She works in a gift shop.”

I knew Charlie had used the telephone in the shelter. Part of my theory was that he had been asking for instructions.

“What did Uncle Frank tell you to do when the storm is over?”

He shrugged. “The deal’s off. Take the car back.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen,” said a man’s voice behind me.

I shouldn’t have let him sneak up on me. He must have seen my truck, left his car on the main road, and walked down. He wouldn’t have made any noise in the snow.

I turned; he was standing a few feet away. In his early forties, dark, muscular, wearing cold weather gear and a red hunting cap that looked very out of place.

“Stand easy, Pop.” His right hand was in his pocket. I had no doubt as to what he was holding.

To Charlie the man said, “All right, kid, so we were real late that day. Lousy weather. Time we got here you were gone, and we didn’t know how to move that friggin’ tree.”

“Sure, okay, that’s all right,” Charlie said nervously.

The man took his hand out of his pocket, holding a black automatic that looked like a .38. He pointed it at me.

“Now, here’s what we do. Kid, you move Pop’s truck out of the way and give me the keys to the car here. Then you go down the road and hitch a ride someplace outa here.”

To me he said, “Pop, you forget you ever saw...”

Some forty years ago in this part of the forest a young white pine seedling grew proud and straight. It grew taller each year, giving shelter to animals, sanctuary to birds, shade to the barn. Then a week ago the forest was ravaged by a catastrophic ice storm. The pine withstood the assault for days and finally — now — a mighty limb split away with a loud report.

The man was startled; he turned to look as the limb crashed to the ground a few yards away. There was time enough to reverse my cane, take one step, and bring it down on his wrist. The gun fell into the snow at my feet.

The man gasped and clutched his arm. “You old bastard!”

“Watch your mouth, creep,” someone said. “What’s going to happen is you’re going to jail.”

Two men had appeared from the door of the barn. They both looked like lawmen, and they both held pistols.

“Never mind, Mr. Sessions,” one man said, “we’ll take over. I’m Ben Wilkins, U.S. Customs. We know who you are.”

The other man said, “Harold Page, BCI. Thanks for your help.”

I leaned against the Pontiac and took several deep breaths as the agent named Page put handcuffs on Red Cap, the man I had hit. To Charlie he said, “You’re under arrest, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said in a weak voice. He looked confused. Until now I had been just a nosy old man who worked in the shelter. Then all at once I had neutralized a muscle man and plainclothes cops were calling me by name.