Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

“It could have been an accident. She might have found him later. She might have been in love with him and couldn’t... if she...” Her eyes grew wet. “No. It’s wrong. I can lie to myself only for so long.” A door slammed behind us and we both turned to look up at Jake, coming to join us. Frances turned back to me. “If Sophie found that clue, she knew what it referred to, and it wasn’t the shed cellar. That’s ridiculous. She’d have known the only thing which would have fit was salt cellar. It would have been the first thing that came to her mind. There’ll never be any doubt for me...” She moved a step away as Jake walked over to us. “...that my sister sent Dan Church into that shed... to die.”

Two weeks later and I was back in the house. Under the floorboards the furnace was gurgling again. The candles had just flickered on and in the front room Jake was asleep on the sofa, Sammy curled close to his side. I walked in and looked down at the remaining elephant tusks on the floor. I knelt down and touched one of them; it felt warm, like some part of the animal was still there. Lyman Carter had killed it nearly eighty years ago. Incredible.

Most of the ivory was already gone, trucked off to a company that bought estate ivory for legitimate use. Pens made from ivory were popular now; I’d read that on the Internet.

As for the animals of the trophy room, most of them were gone, too, sent off to several children’s museums. The snow leopard was out in the kitchen awaiting its new owner, some fellow who was putting together an Endangered Species of the World exhibit. All proceeds from sales were being rolled back into the conservation group Lyman Carter had helped start, and for which Frances had worked.

“Frances,” I muttered, shaking my head. How had I ever thought that she... I looked over at Jake, snoring in his sleep, then walked back across the room, grabbed my copy of the Green Hills of Africa off the floor, and settled down on the sofa to finish reading it.

The Trouble with Ruth by Henry Slesar

A Mystery Classic

Henry Slesar 1927-2002

Henry Slesar has been associated with AHMM since the magazine’s inception, and over the years we have published more than one hundred stories by him (some written under pseudonyms). He also wrote for the television series Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Edge of Night. In honor of his memory, we are reprinting the first story he wrote for us; it appeared in the second issue of AHMM. He passed away on April 2, 2002.

* * *

The sound of the apartment door closing behind Ralph had an abruptness that struck Ruth like a blow.

The wall was growing between them; they both hated it and could do nothing about it. They’d been married almost ten years, and by unspoken agreement had never slept or said goodbye on an argument. But their lips were cold as Ralph had kissed her goodbye.

Ruth sighed and went into the living room. There was an opened pack of cigarettes on the television set. She lit one. It tasted black and horrible; she stamped it out. She went into the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and sat down to wait. She knew just what to expect. In half an hour, her husband would arrive at his office. Five minutes later, he would be on the telephone tactlessly informing her mother about yesterday’s episode, the third in three weeks. Her mother’s voice would be marvelously steady as she replied to him, but by the time she dialed Ruth’s number the sobs would begin in her throat and the first words she uttered would emerge choked and grieving.

At a quarter of ten, the telephone rang.

Ruth picked it up, almost smiling at the accuracy of her prognostication. “Hello?”

It was her mother, of course, and the thin voice was gulping out words of sorrow and commiseration.

“Mama, please!” Ruth shut her eyes. “You’ll just have to get used to the idea. I steal, Mom. I can’t help myself. Try to understand that—”

There was talk about doctors, and trips out of the country; things that Ruth said she and her husband could not afford.

“I know it’s a sickness,” she said. “I know it’s not nice. It’s better to be a murderer or an alcoholic nowadays. You get more sympathy...”

Her mother was crying.

“Please, Mama. You’re not helping. You’re not helping me this way at all.”

When she found a silence long enough to say goodbye and hang up, Ruth returned to the living room, and put her head against the arm of the sofa.