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

“I can wait, Mrs. Moody. I’m in no hurry.”

They looked at each other for a while; then Ruth whirled and ran towards the bedroom.

In half an hour, they were in a taxi, and the man with the sunburn was giving the name of a modest downtown hotel to the driver. Ruth slumped in the other corner of the cab, not looking at him, her arms folded tightly against her chest to conceal the trembling of her body. The man was inclined to silence, too, eyes fixed thoughtfully out of the side window. But when the cab pulled up to the undistinguished entrance to the hotel, his face brightened.

At the door of Room 408, the man said, “You just relax, Mrs. Moody. You’ll like my friend. He’s a gentleman.”

The gentleman was wearing a brocaded houserobe, and smoking a Turkish cigarette. He had made himself at home in Room 408, but the room had an air of sudden arrivals and quick exits. He was seated on the lumpy sofa, using an oblong coffee table as an impromptu desk. There were papers scattered in front of him and he was scrawling something on the top sheet, his tongue poking out of his mouth exploring his upper lip.

He looked up when Ruth and the sunburned man entered, his pale, youngish face suddenly cordial. He finished what he was writing, put down the pen, and invited them inside.

“You must be Ruth Moody,” he said pleasantly. “Come sit on the sofa. It’s the only comfortable thing in the place.” He looked at the other man. “Why don’t you fix Mrs. Moody a drink?”

“Sure. What would you like, Mrs. Moody?”

“Could I have some coffee?”

“Certainly,” the gentleman said; he nodded to the sunburned man to get it. The man went to a table still cluttered with the remains of a hotel breakfast.

“Now then, Mrs. Moody.” The gentleman leaned back and folded his hands over one knee. “Did my friend tell you very much about our plan?”

“No.”

“That’s just as well. Let me outline it for you.”

He put out his cigarette.

“It’s very simple,” he continued airily, watching the other man place the coffee before her. “We happen to know that you’re a kleptomaniac, Mrs. Moody. Now, now. Don’t get upset over it. Both my friend and I are aware that doesn’t make you a criminal. We respect your illness. Don’t we?”

The sunburned man nodded.

“So,” the gentleman said, “we’d like to make you a little offer. We hope you won’t refuse, because if you do—”

“I told her, Harry.”

“Good. Then I needn’t go into that part. But the important thing I want you to remember, Mrs. Moody, is that no matter what happens, you’re safe. Do you understand that? You can’t be arrested for what we want you to do.”

She gasped. “Arrested?”

“Yes. You see, legally, you’re not liable for your little thefts. Surely, you’ve found that out already. You steal because you have to; no other reason. If you’re caught — well, you merely return what’s been stolen, and that’s that.”

“I don’t understand this.” Her voice was going shrill, and she fought to control it.

“Please. Let me explain. We know that you’ve been picked up three times.”

She sipped the luke-warm coffee, her arm trembling as she raised the cup.

“This means that you’re already a recognized klepto, Mrs. Moody. The stores and the police know all about you. If you were caught stealing something else — something, shall I say, a little more valuable than spools of thread...”

Her eyes widened, and the other man chuckled.

“I think you see our point now, Mrs. Moody. Now let me explain our plan in detail.”

He picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table.

“Here is exactly what you have to do. At twelve-fifteen tomorrow afternoon, you’re to enter a shop called Travells, on Forty-seventh Street. You may not know the place; it’s a rather soignée jewelers, not exactly Tiffany’s perhaps, but well-recognized in its own right. You are to approach a certain counter, which I will diagram for you, and engage the attention of the salesman. You will ask to see a certain tray — I’ll designate that, too — and then, a moment or so after you are examining that tray, there will be a disturbance in the store.”

The short man laughed, with much enjoyment.

The gentleman went on: “It’s ten to one the salesman will leave you alone with the tray since the disturbance will occur nearby. In any event, his attention will be drawn away from the business in hand long enough for you to take the pin without his noticing. In either case, you’ll merely pick up the diamond sparkler on the upper right hand corner and walk out the door. Simple as that.”

Ruth Moody’s skin went damp and cold.

“You needn’t run, you understand. Merely walk out the door. As you come outside, you will see a man with a yellow cannister, collecting funds for Children’s Welfare. You just drop the diamond pin in the opening on top of the cannister, and walk to the corner. There will be a taxi waiting there; it’s a hack stand. You will get in, and give him your home address.” He leaned back and smiled. “And that’s all there is to it.”