Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

The night elevator man at her office building was almost asleep behind his desk. He recognized her and smiled sheepishly.

“Can you take me up and wait for me?” Julie asked, as she signed the register book. He shook his head and reached for his keys. “No, I have to be on duty down here. Just buzz the elevator when you’re ready to come down.”

He brought her up... the elevator seemed so noisy when the building was empty... and opened the office door with a master key, then returned to his post. Julie felt deserted. Whistling, she snapped on a central overhead light and walked across the empty floor to Mr. Turner’s unlighted office. The Sloban folder was still on his desk. The moment she reached for it, his telephone rang. Her hand jumped back.

The effect of the second loud ring in the darkened office was no less startling. Who could be calling on Mr. Turner’s private telephone at this hour? On the third ring she collected her wits and picked up the receiver.

“Hello...” she said.

“What? Who... who is this?”

It was Mr. Turner’s voice.

Quickly overcoming her surprise, Julie identified herself. She explained her presence at the office. “Is it all right if I take the folder home to work on it?”

“Yes... yes — certainly. Are you leaving now?”

“Right away, Mr. Turner.” She could picture his intense face and she had never before known such a sense of intimacy and aloneness with this man. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was night. More than anything else, she wanted to prolong the conversation. “Was there anything you wanted, Mr. Turner? Was there anyone—”

“No, of course not.” His laugh was short, forced. “I just dialed the wrong number. I was having a few drinks at a bar and I got mixed up. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Turner.”

She hung tip and stared at the telephone. It occurred to her to wonder if Mrs. Turner had already told her husband she was leaving him, disinheriting him, and the rest of what she had threatened. If so, she could understand very well why he was drinking. But why had he called the office — at this hour? Was someone supposed to be here? Had her own presence frightened that other person away? She could not really believe that he had dialed the wrong number.

Julie picked up the Sloban folder and walked out to the center of the floor. She half expected to find some person lurking behind one of the typists’ desks. Whatever the explanation, her curiosity had to be satisfied. Why should she let him chase her home? She could do her work here, couldn’t she? She sat at her own desk and opened the folder. She could finish posting the dividends in less than an hour...

Slightly more than an hour was required. With a sense of accomplishment she closed the folder and returned it to Mr. Turner’s desk. At her own desk, she picked up her handbag and topcoat. Then she froze.

Like a shriek in the night, the telephone on Mr. Turner’s desk rang... first once, then again and again...

She swung about to look at the frosted glass entrance door. At any moment, she knew, someone would come bursting through that door in answer to the imperative ringing. But no silhouette approached the glass. Stiffly, resisting the magnetism of the unanswered ringing, Julie made her way across the office floor. Looking back, she flicked off the lights, opened the door, then closed it behind her. Standing at the elevator, she heard the telephone ringing still, like a petulant child, calling her... calling someone. Finally, just before the elevator arrived, the ringing stopped.

In the morning, Mary listened to the previous night’s events with wide-eyed astonishment. “You mean he called the office? Yipes, he sure must have been plastered! But, you know, I can’t imagine that man getting so plastered...”

Mr. Turner arrived only minutes late and seemed as self-possessed as ever. He appeared to have forgotten that yesterday existed. After a sharp “Good morning,” he entered his office and closed the door behind him. At about 9:20, the intercom came to life on Julie’s desk.

“Julie,” he said, “will you get Mrs. Turner on the phone for me?”

“Mrs. Turner?” Somehow she was startled to find that he could still be on speaking terms with his wife.

“Yes, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t you hear me?”

What she did hear, just before he broke the connection, was a puzzling undercurrent of sound.

“That’s strange...” she mused, turning to Mary.

“What is?”

Julie nodded toward the closed office. “He’s calling somebody on his private phone. I could hear him dialing...”

“The other woman,” said the blond girl, snapping her fingers. “He wants her to listen while he talks to his wife, don’t you see? Or maybe it’s his lawyer. Maybe they’ll make a tape recording... evidence for the divorce...”