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

The questions troubled her again. How does it happen? Why does such a thing begin? Why do I steal? Could a doctor — one of those doctors — help her? She shuddered. She had been a perfectly normal child. Her family had money, some money, anyway. They had lived in a fine two-story house overlooking San Francisco bay. And she had been bright in school, a top-of-the-class student. Nobody brought home a longer row of A’s on their report card, not even the two cool, distant young ladies who were Ruth’s older sisters. Also, she was popular.

But she had stolen, even then. Her first crime — Fanny Ritter’s pencil box, a beautiful thing of blue binding and secret compartments. She had made the mistake of displaying her new possession at home, and then they knew. Everybody knew. She was a thief!

Ruth Moody, now twenty-eight, sobbed in her living room for the troubles of a thirteen-year-old girl.

No, Ruth decided at last, as she had decided before. It couldn’t be something in the past. Her past was good and innocent.

But the question remained unanswered: Why did she steal? Why did she take the spools of thread from the department store on Washington Avenue? The cheap pearl buttons from the notions counter? Why did she leave the dress shop on Fourth Avenue with an unpurchased evening bag?

They had understood. All of them. They had called Ralph. They realized she was not a shoplifter, really, but a woman with a problem. Everything was handled very simply. Ralph paid for the merchandise taken, a proper bill of sale was tendered. Her name and her description recorded in the files for handy reference if ever it happened again...

At eleven o’clock, a ringing sound roused her. She had fallen asleep and first looked towards the telephone, then realized it was the doorbell.

The man in the doorway took off his hat when she appeared, but that was his only courteous gesture. He stepped inside without invitation, closing the door behind him. He was short and his face had the hot, quick-burned look of sunlamp treatments. His thick hair was glossy, and his clothes had too many sharp corners.

“You Ruth Moody?” he said.

“Yes.” She was more annoyed than frightened.

He smiled, uncovering tobacco-stained teeth. “I got a little business to talk over, Mrs. Moody.” He nodded toward the living room. “Can we go inside?”

“What sort of business? If you’re selling something—”

“I’m buying, Mrs. Moody.” He chuckled. “All right if I sit down?” He was already sitting down, on the sofa, lifting his trousers at the knees to preserve the knife-edge crease. “I think you better listen,” he said carefully. “It’s about your husband.”

Her hand clutched at her houserobe, and she took a seat across the width of the room.

“What do you mean?”

“I know something about your husband,” he said. “And I know a lot more about you. Put them together — they can spell trouble.” He laid his hat down on the cushion beside him.

“Mrs. Moody,” he continued, “how would you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“What?” Ruth asked, puzzled.

“You heard right. I got a little proposition for you. If you go along, you’ll get a thousand bucks in the mail. If you don’t — well, your husband might have a hard time making ends meet. You get what I mean?”

“No!”

“Let me put it this way. If you were a man’s boss, and you found out that the man’s wife was a shoplifter—”

Ruth’s hands flew to her mouth.

“There. You see what I mean? It makes a difference, don’t it? I mean, these days a man’s family is important in his work. Gotta think of the firm’s reputation, and all that. You see what I mean, don’t you?”

“How did you know?” Ruth said miserably. “Who told you that?”

“Don’t ask me that, Mrs. Moody. Let’s just say I got sources. But don’t get upset. It’s a sickness, you know, like pneumonia, or hay fever. You can’t help yourself—”

Ruth looked at the man hard. Then she said: “How much do you want?”

He waved his hand. “I don’t want your nickels and dimes, Mrs. Moody. Didn’t I tell you? I’m here to buy.”

“Buy what?”

“Your services. All you got to do is play along with us, and you can have a thousand bucks. Take my word for it, you got nothing to lose.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ruth said.

“I can’t spell it out for you. But I got a friend, see? He’ll tell you the details. All you gotta do now is put on your hat and coat and come with me. My friend’ll outline the whole deal. It’s real easy, believe me. You won’t regret it for a minute—”

She stood up. “I’m not going with you!”

“Suit yourself.” He seemed genuinely unconcerned. “We’re not desperate for your help, Mrs. Moody. But we thought we’d give you a break.” He sighed, got up, and took his hat off the sofa. “But if you don’t want to play along—”

“You don’t really mean this.”

He smiled, reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a small business card. He read a penciled notation.

“Otto Mavius and Company, 420 Fifth Avenue. That’s where your husband works, right?”

“But I’m not dressed!” she said frantically. “I can’t come with you now!”