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

“I’m not,” Hooper told him. “I don’t want somebody finding you with a bullet in you and wondering how you got it. No, I’m going to take care of you in a different way, punk.”

“Give me a break, Sam,” Madigan pleaded.

“Sure, I’ll give you a break,” Hooper said coldly. He reached down and picked up the fallen shotgun by its barrel. Using it as a club, he smashed the stock against Madigan’s skull. The younger man fell over unconscious.

“There’s your break,” Hooper snarled. “A break in the head.”

He put the shotgun down and rolled Madigan over, pulling the money-filled knapsack from his back and removing the unconscious man’s coat to take off the shoulder holster he wore. When it was off, Hooper took the other .38 from the pocket and worked the heavy Mackinaw back onto Madigan’s limp form. Then he grabbed the collar of the coat and began to pull Madigan through the drifted snow, the skis and poles dragging behind him.

Stopping near the edge, Hooper surveyed the slope carefully. It fell in a gentle curving grade that angled off to the right and seemed to wind gradually down-mountain as far as he could see. That was the ski trail Madigan had meant to follow down to the lodge, he decided. But off to the left there was no gentle curve, no slope at all; there was only a steep incline that stretched about thirty feet to a sheer drop down into a deep gorge.

That looks okay, Hooper thought dispassionately. He dragged the unconscious man farther along the edge until he had him right above the incline leading to the drop. There he laid Madigan out on his side, skis straight, poles still attached to his wrists with, thongs.

“So long, double-crosser,” he said softly, and with the toe of his overshoe started Madigan down the slope.

Madigan’s unconscious form slid downward, the drag of his skis slowing but not stopping, him. He moved jerkily, his body weaving and leaving an odd trail in the snow. Seconds later he went over the edge and dropped from sight.

Hooper waited perhaps two minutes but he never did hear Madigan hit bottom. Either it’s pretty damned deep, he decided, or else there’s a lot of snow at the bottom. Either way it didn’t really matter. If the fall didn’t finish Madigan, he’d freeze to death before he woke up.

Hooper went back and got the, shotgun and Madigan’s shoulder holster and the packful of money, and trudged back toward the cabin. It was getting colder now and the light was beginning to fade. The evening air seemed even thinner than it had been earlier and Hooper had to stop twice to rest and catch his breath. When he finally reached the cabin, he saw on the thermometer that the temperature had dropped to two degrees below zero. He hurried on inside.

The cabin was as cold as the outdoors. Hooper was shivering as he put the guns and knapsack on the table and pulled off his gloves. His fingers were numb with cold. He blew into his cupped palms a few times and rubbed his hands briskly. Got to get a fire going, he thought. Got to warm this place up.

He lifted the lid of the stove and saw that it was dry inside. Picking up the kerosene can, he found it empty. He went over to the tap running in from the fuel tank outside and put the lip of the can under it. He turned the tap — and nothing came out.

Hooper stared at the dry nozzle, the empty can, the cold stove. No fuel, he thought dumbly. Then the panic began to rise in him. No fuel—!

Outside, the temperature was down another degree and dropping steadily.

Walkup to Death by Andrew Benedict

It is always wise to check one’s means of egress as well as ingress when visiting strangers, otherwise a casual social visit may become a permanent change of residence.

* * *

“There are worse crimes than murder,” said the small man in the grey suit. “And there are worse punishments than the electric chair.”

I don’t know why people tell me stories but they do — in bars, on trains, in restaurants. This little man seemed withdrawn rather than outgoing, hardly the kind who starts conversations with strangers. His gray moustache hid a weak mouth and his eyes were slightly myopic behind thick glasses. He was standing at the bar and I hadn’t said a word, to anybody. All I’d done was order another beer, when the panel discussion on the television had turned to capital punishment, and somebody had said that capital punishment was unworthy of our civilization.

“Civilization?” the little man questioned, as the bartender drew my beer. “What is it, anyway? It’s a carefully cultivated myth. We are just savages living in upholstered caves. Give any man sufficient provocation and the barbarian will emerge.”

He took a sip of his Scotch-on-the-rocks.