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

She couldn’t say anything. She looked towards the door, and then the window, aimlessly. She picked up the coffee cup but the liquid was cold and tasteless.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t do such a thing.”

“As I said before,” the gentleman said smoothly, “you’re safe — you have absolutely nothing to lose, Mrs. Moody. If you’re stopped before you reach the exit, simply give yourself up. When Travells learns of your — idiosyncrasy, no harm will come to you. You know that. It’ll be just another — medical incident. And that’s all.”

“I couldn’t! I wouldn’t have the nerve.”

The gentleman smiled again. “Nerve, Mrs. Moody? Now, really!”

He looked at the short man.

“Where did you say Mr. Moody worked?”

Grinning, the sunburned man reached into his coat.

Ruth said, “All right. Tell me exactly what I have to do.”

The facade of Travells was fastidiously designed, but unpretentious. One gem per window seemed to be the limit, but each needed no expert’s eye or jeweler’s loupe to proclaim its value. Ruth Moody, wearing her best dress, her good coat, and her newest hat, walked through the front entrance and felt like the thief she was going to be.

She recognized the store layout quickly from the comprehensive sketch the gentleman had shown her the day before. Some fifteen to twenty counters, each under the stewardship of a genteel salesman in a dark suit and silvery gray tie; a ceiling that rivaled a cathedral’s, with a reverent hush to match. About a dozen people were paying their respects to the gems in various showcases.

Ruth went to the counter that had been described to her. The salesman bowed slightly as he asked if he might be of service.

God help me, Ruth whispered to herself. “This tray,” she said softly, supporting her nervous body with both hands against the counter. “The one on the second shelf. May I see it, please?”

“Certainly, Madam!” He reacted as if her taste were remarkable. He unlocked the rear of the case, and produced a velvety tray that flashed brilliant, blinding stars in her eyes.

“Some of the loveliest stones in our collection,” the man said enthusiastically. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

“I’m not sure.” Her eyes went to the spectacular sparkler on the top row. What’s going to happen now? she asked herself.

The answer came almost immediately. Not ten feet from where she stood, a gentleman in a topcoat with a velvet collar, and a homburg with a pearl-gray band, suddenly cried out some word that might have been “Heavens!” But his cry was lost in the unnerving sound — terrifying, in this place — of smashing glass. She saw the salesman’s face whiten by shades when the noise came.

The gentleman in the homburg had been carrying an umbrella, with a heavy metal handle. He had swung it about, far too carelessly, and the motion had smashed the glass.

“Excuse me—!”

The salesman paused a split-instant as if to take up the tray, then he rushed to the scene. Ruth heard the commotion and it was five precious seconds after he had gone that she recalled what she had to do. Her hand darted out and closed around the huge diamond pin in the upper right-hand corner of the tray. She slipped the gem into her coat pocket and began the long walk to the exit.

It was only some fifteen yards, but she was exhausted by the time the door swung behind her. The street was bright with sunshine, and the people were walking briskly by. There was laughter, and the click of heels, and many normal, everyday noises to give her renewed confidence. But she was frightened. When she saw the familiar sunburned face, and heard the jingle of coins in a cannister, she was actually grateful.

“Help the Children’s Fund, lady?” He grinned at her.

“Yes,” Ruth said dreamily. “Yes, of course.” She deposited her contribution.

“There’s a cab on the corner,” the man said quietly, shaking the can. “Go home, Mrs. Moody.”

“Yes,” Ruth said.

As he turned to go, in the other direction, she saw an elderly lady drop a quarter in the cannister, and the sunburned face beamed with gratitude.

She got into the taxi but couldn’t remember her own address until they were halfway up the street.

When Ralph Moody returned home that night, he found his wife in tears.

“Honey! What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Ralph—”

His face darkened. “It happened again? Is that it?”

She moved her head, miserably.

“What was it this time?” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “What did you take?”

“Travells,” she sobbed.

“What?”

“Travells. The jeweler’s—”

“No, Ruth, Not jewelry—”

“You don’t understand. I didn’t take it. I stole it, Ralph. Don’t you see? I stole something—”

After a while, when his anger subsided, gentle persuasion drew the whole story from her.

“I was so frightened,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do.” She clutched his sleeve. “Ralph, I’m going to do what you and mother suggest. I’m going to see a doctor.”