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

Then why, she wondered, did she have this feeling of wanting to speak to Sergeant Ruderman again, to tell him...

“Julie...”

It was Mary. She had slipped into the very seat the detective had just vacated.

“Well, don’t look so surprised,” she said, pouting. “I saw him meet you outside the building, so I waited. You know I can’t resist the latest gossip. What did he tell you? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. He asked me again about the Turners and I still didn’t tell him.”

“Good!”

Julie stared at her. “Good? Why do you say that?”

“Because what’s the point of making extra trouble for poor Mr. Turner?” She leaned forward confidentially. “Now, what about that detective? Did he ask you for a date?”

Julie’s change in coloration answered her.

“I knew it... even by the way he looked at you in the office this morning. Much to my surprise, I envied you that look, gal. And the next time I try to tell you I’m not interested in that sentimental gush, and the next time I say that only money counts, and it makes no difference if your boyfriend is married... well, if I ever say those things again after all that’s happened, please don’t believe me, will you...”

Julie put her hand over Mary’s. “I never believed you. One thing I almost believed, though, was that you and Mr. Turner... that you—”

“Mr. Turner? Are you serious?”

Julie shrugged. “It would have explained so many things. But I know it’s not true. Still, something—” She frowned as she stared beyond Mary at the empty telephone booths. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “Mary, suppose he wasn’t calling his lawyer, or some other woman?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Turner. Remember this morning, when I said he was calling somebody on his other telephone? Well, suppose he was ringing his wife’s number? I’d get a busy signal if I tried to call it at the same time, wouldn’t I?”

Mary was unsure. Julie walked to the counter and asked for change for a dollar bill, then entered one of the booths. “I have to find out if it works,” she said. “Who are you going to call?” Mary wanted to know.

“I’ll call Mr. Turner’s house on this phone and let it ring,” Julie explained. “Then I’ll call the same number from the other booth and see if I get a busy signal.”

She started to put a dime in the slot, then pulled her hand away.

“No, I can’t call his house. He might answer. Or the police might still be there. Is anyone at your place, Mary?”

Her friend winced. “The whole family.”

“They’re at my house, too. We need a phone that won’t answer. How about the office?”

Mary frowned. “That’s true... but I think the switchboard automatically shifts a second call to another line. So that wouldn’t be a good test. Why don’t you call one of the private phones? Mr. Turner’s phone doesn’t go through the switchboard...”

Julie had already dropped the dime in the slot. She dialed carefully. They could hear the buzz-click as the telephone rang at the other end. Suddenly Julie gasped. With a stunned expression, she slowly hung up the receiver.

“What’s the matter?” Mary stepped into the booth. “Why did you hang up? I thought you were going to let it ring and then try calling the number on the others—”

Julie was shaking her head. “No, Mr. Turner already made the test... last night. That was why he called the office. Now I can understand why he was so shocked when I answered...”

“Then he did it? He murdered her? You mean, she was probably dead before he even came to work this morning?”

Julie shuddered. “It’s unbelievable... that it could happen with people in your own office, people you see every day. Do you know what gives me the creeps, Mary? It’s knowing that I saw everything. I was part of everything that happened. I was a witness to every part of it... but I didn’t realize it at the time.”

She reached into her handbag for the detective’s card.

“He said I had a misdirected sense of loyalty. Sergeant Ruderman, I mean. I guess he was right.” Julie dialed the number from the card. “Hello,” she said into the mouthpiece, “is this the police station? Has Sergeant Ruderman arrived? He has? Yes, I’d like to speak to him...”

The Rich Get Rich by Ed Lacy

Some years back, there was a popular song in which one of the lines ran... “Oh, the rich get rich and the poor get...” you can take it from there, if memory serves you.

* * *

This mild-looking, little, middle-aged man wearing expensive — but not flashy — clothes, came up to the detective squad room, said, “My name is Brooks. One night I... eh... had a few too many, I’m afraid. The point is, on my way home I was robbed, my wallet taken.”

“Okay, take a seat, Mr. Brooks,”