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

I realized that I was holding the tank high over me. It wasn’t just Della’s head I brought the tank down on, it was the whole stinking world’s. She went down slow, with a whoosh, her nightgown ballooning out like a falling circus tent.

I stared stupidly at the dent in the tank, then shut the thing off and carefully put it down on the floor. I hadn’t hit Della to get her money, but now that she was helpless, it was the first thing I thought of.

The money was there, a hundred and twenty bucks worth, and the feel of it in my hand made a new man of me. I was going to keep that money — and I wasn’t going to take a beating. I looked down at Della and had an inspiration — I’d be able to use that vacuum cleaner after all.

They say that at a time like that a man has superhuman strength — I believe that, for I dragged Della out the back way and propped her up behind the wheel of her dinky little car. After starting the motor, I jammed the vacuum cleaner hose over the tail pipe and pushed the other end through the window; then I rolled the window up. I stuffed rags in the crack and checked the gas gauge. The car was so tiny it wouldn’t take long. Della hadn’t moved, so I closed the garage door and legged it back to Benny’s.

Big Lou was waiting, tough and ready, but when he saw the pile of bills I shoved into his hand his mouth dropped open. “There’s a hundred bucks here, Milo,” he said after he had counted it. “You only owe me fifty.”

I waved my hand carelessly. “The rest is a backlog,” I said, “I wish to establish good credit with you, Lou.” I also had other reasons; if the cops should pick me up and find that kind of dough on me, they’d know something was screwy. I looked up at the clock. “If you’ll hold it a few minutes, Lou, I’ll have my picks for the day.”

I knew I had to work fast. Besides selecting my horses, I would have to rush home and type out a suicide note before somebody found Della. I started around the bar to get Benny’s scratch sheet.

“Hey, fellow,” the skinny guy said, “I’ve still got your teeth. Where’s my ten?”

In my affluence I had forgotten him. “You crook!” I yelled, charging him, “you gyp artist, you handed me a ringer. That cleaner wouldn’t pick up nothing.”

“I know,” the guy said blandly. He pulled out a short string with a felt plug on the end. “When I get into a house,” he said, dangling the plug in front of me, “I ask the woman for her old vacuum cleaner so we can compare the two. To make sure my new cleaner looks good, I shove one of these in the hose of the old cleaner when she ain’t looking.”

“A trick of the trade,” Benny said admiringly, “pretty neat.”

I stared at the guy. “You mean that hose had a plug in it?”

The guy nodded. “You grabbed it and ran before I could explain. No harm done,” the guy said, “all you have to do is to grab the end of this string and—”

Big Lou heard the siren first and bolted out the back door. I stood rooted at the bar as it screamed closer, then moaned to a stop at the curb. A couple of bright, young cops bounced out of the front of the police car, then Della lumbered out of the back. She had a kimona over her nightgown — and with her head wrapped in a turkish towel, she looked like a fortune teller. Her splayed bedroom slippers splashed water out of the puddles as she crossed to the front door.

I dropped my head into my arms on the bar. “She ain’t dead,” I sobbed, “thank God — thank God, I got police protection.”

Murder in Miniature by Nora Caplan

The world of make-believe is a fascinating one, to adults as well as to children, hence the popularity of puppets, films, and theatre. There are those who think the spectators identify with the characters, acting out their own aggressions.

* * *

Ann waited eagerly for her husband’s response, but he said nothing for a long while. He remained standing, his face speculative as he looked down at the large doll house in the basement closet. It was pure Victorian... a three-storied wooden structure painted dark green with a mansard roof centered by a cupola and white gingerbread scrollwork ornamenting the front porch. Finally he commented, “I thought you said Holly wanted a microscope for her birthday.”

“Oh, Phil.” Both annoyance and amusement were in her voice. “A microscope for an eight-year-old girl? This is what she needs. Have you ever seen anything like it?” Ann’s delight was obvious as she pointed out the rooms, furnished to the last detail in authentic period pieces. “And when I saw the dolls... look, there’s even a maid.” She sighed, “Well, I couldn’t resist it.”

Phil shrugged. “Maybe she’ll like it. You know more about that than I do. I just don’t want her to be disappointed, that’s all. She’s never cared much about dolls before, has she?”