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

“I better hang around till the mortuary squad gets here. I don’t want to tie up these uniform guys any more.”

“Okay. His place’ll keep. I’ll go around to those houses up on the hill first and see if anybody heard anything last night. When your people come, give a couple of honks and I’ll catch up with you, and we can run over to his place together.”

“Together but separately,” Stamaty agreed.

The tract of land that sloped down to end at the curving fence along Route 5 consisted of three residential lots, all facing away from the highway toward Roseland Court and each “improved” with a house in the three-hundred-thousand-dollar range. Auburn had to negotiate a steep path over rough terrain to reach Roseland Court without making a wide detour.

The first house he came to, nestled among tall old trees, was built in the Spanish style with white stucco walls, a red tile roof, and a central patio facing the street. It was nine thirty-five by his wristwatch when he rang the bell.

From the porch he could see through a window that the garage, which formed one side of the patio, was empty. He rang twice more and was about to give up when the door was opened a few inches on a security chain.

“Who is it?” asked a male voice from the dark entry hall.

“Police officer, sir,” said Auburn, holding up his identification to the crack between door and jamb. “Making a routine investigation. Can I come in?”

“Investigation of what?”

“A man was found dead early this morning near the rear of your property.”

A longish silence ensued. Auburn could smell coffee brewing in the house. “Who was he?”

“We don’t have a positive I.D. yet. Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?”

“How do I know you’re the police?”

Auburn held up his badge again, mounted in a leatherette case along with a photo identification card. “Here’s my I.D.”

“I can’t see,” said the voice. A pale, sinewy hand came through the crack, moved down until it touched the I.D., and went over it swiftly, the index and middle fingers twitching like the antennae of an insect. The hand disappeared, and the door closed and opened again.

“Come in.”

Auburn stepped into the shadowy hall to confront a man in his thirties wearing wraparound sunglasses of an inky blackness. “Come on back to the kitchen.”

Light flooding in through a south window lit up a big kitchen with a tile floor. On the table in the breakfast nook was a half-eaten meal of sausage and prefabricated waffles. The digital clock on the microwave oven said four twenty-two. “Like some coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll get it.” Somewhere in the house a stereo was playing what Auburn took to be a modem opera — a flat, metallic soprano voice shrieking acidly to the accompaniment of orchestral discords. “Do you live here alone?”

“Part of the time. My sister stays here until we start getting on each other’s nerves, and then she disappears for a while.”

Auburn poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat opposite his host, who had gone back to his breakfast. He took out a three-by-five-inch file card, laid it on the kitchen table, and uncapped his pen. “Your name, sir?”

“Conrad Neldrick. What’s yours?”

“Cyrus Auburn. Detective Sergeant.”

“How do you do?” Neldrick put down his fork and reached across the table to shake hands, with a grip like a horse trainer’s. In the strong light Auburn noted two fresh shaving nicks on the side of his neck, of which Neldrick himself was probably unaware, and a blood blister on his left index finger. “What’s this about a dead body?”

“A man was found dead along Route 5 this morning, just this side of the road.”

“Whereabouts? On my property?”

“Not exactly.” Auburn raised his arm to point but let it drop again. “Probably straight back from your neighbor’s house here to the west. It’s hard to be sure from down there.”

“And you say you don’t know who he was?”

“He’s been tentatively identified as a Lee Brendel. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing,” said Neldrick. “What did he die of, do you know yet?”

“A head wound. It looks like a homicide.”

“Could he have been hit by a car?”

“No, there’s a high steel fence along the road there, and he was found lying on this side of it. Were you home last evening?”

“I’m always home. I work here.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I’m a clinical psychologist. I do mostly consulting work by telephone.”

“Did you hear anything unusual last evening or during the night?”

“No.”

“Was your sister here yesterday?”

“No, Beth took off for the West Coast the day after Labor Day.”

“Did you have any visitors yesterday? Business people, salesmen, deliveries — anything like that?”

“Not a soul.”

Auburn got up. “Okay, Mr. Neldrick — or is it doctor?”

“Conrad.”

“Thanks for the coffee. I put the cup in the sink.”

“I heard you.”

“I’ll let myself out. Do you mind if I look around the back of your property for a couple of minutes?”

“Not at all.” Auburn left him in the kitchen. The music swelled in volume as he was closing the front door.