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

“Yeah, Amy. The only reason she married Smallwood was for that insurance money. She figured when he got it he’d move out of that miserable shack on the alley and into a decent place, and spend some of it. But not Smallwood. He was tight as a drum. Too bad for Amy. She was a good-looking woman, too. Still young. While Smallwood was away she was having affairs with half the men in the neighborhood. And the police think one of those affairs could have gone sour. The man could have gone into the shack that hot, humid day and had a fight with Amy and killed her with an axe. If he was a married man, maybe she wanted blackmail and he lost his head. Amy died first, the medicos said. And then Smallwood walked in, surprised the killer and got it too. I like that theory best myself. Sure, the money was missing from the strongbox. But the killer took it to hide his real motive. He did the job with an axe Smallwood always left near the door. An axe that’s never been found. If the killer had planned to rob the strongbox, he’d have brought a weapon of his own, instead of using Smallwood’s axe... the weapon of an enraged man.”

“The way you put it,” I said, “it’s reasonable enough. But what are you getting at?”

Greb straightened and stubbed his cigar out. “Simply this. One way or another, Sally will never be able to lead a normal life until the killer is behind bars. There’ll always be people like me asking questions. She’ll never be able to forget.”

“That makes sense.”

“So, let’s try to smoke the killer out.”

I didn’t like Greb’s plan one bit and said so. But Greb is a persuasive man. I guess that’s one reason he’s such a good police reporter. He talked me into agreeing to let him go ahead with his plan, provided Sally agreed to it too. He argued that Sally would never be safe, or at peace, as long as the killer remained at large; that if I didn’t go along with him, I’d be derelict in my responsibility as a foster parent.

I told Sally about the plan after supper that night. Sally and my wife and I ringed the dining room table.

“Sally,” I began, “you remember that reporter, Mister Greb?”

“The nice little man?”

“That’s right. He wants to write a story about you in the newspaper.”

“What kind of a story?”

“Well, you know we don’t like to talk about this. But it’s about the murders. It will be two years next Friday that it happened. And Greb wants to write a story reminding people that the murders are just two years old, and are still unsolved. Newspapers do that sort of thing on the anniversaries of unsolved crimes, you know.”

“I understand.”

“In his story, Sally, he’s going to mention that he interviewed you today. He won’t say he talked to you in jail, of course. He’s going to say that you dream about the murders.”

“But I don’t,” Sally replied matter-of-factly. “I told Mister Greb that too. I never dream about the murders.”

“I know. But he’s going to say you do anyway. And he’s going to say that in your dreams, the face of the man who walked out of the shack with the axe is getting clearer...”

My wife slammed the table. “Now Pat, that’s absolutely the most insane thing I ever heard.”

“Wait a minute...”

“Why, it’s not only a lie, it’s dangerous. It’s positively an invitation for whoever killed the Smallwoods to try to kill Sally...”

“Exactly. That’s the idea. And there’ll be so many policemen around Sally every minute that if he makes a move we’ll get him.”

“I won’t allow that.”

I looked at Sally. “Sally, it’s up to you. If you’re afraid, we won’t do it.”

“I’m not afraid,” Sally announced, her blue eyes clear and unwavering. “Not at all. You tell Mister Greb to go ahead and write anything he wants to write. Things are kind of dull anyway. It will be fun having policemen around.”

Another heat wave blistered the city in late August. And then it rained. For three days steady. And after that it was hot again, only moister than ever, with puddles in the gutter and drops of water on windows.

As I walked home from the Recreation Center I stopped for a word with two plainclothes detectives. They were in a car parked down the street from my, apartment building.

“How’s it going?”

“Nothing,” the man behind the wheel said. “Like always.”

“It’s been a month, Pat,” the other man said apologetically. “The Lieutenant told us to pull off the detail as soon as you got upstairs.”

“Well, thanks anyhow,” I said. I walked to the building and went inside. Greb waited in the apartment with Sally.

“Your wife’s at the store,” Greb said moodily. He sat in my easy chair smoking a cigar. Sally reclined on the sofa watching a set of teen-aged dancers on the television screen.

“The cops downstairs said they’re pulling the detail off today,” I reported.

“The Lieutenant was up here earlier. He told me.”

“It was a good try.”

“Sure.” Greb got up and walked to the window, peering out. “I was positive this would get a rise out of the killer. Two murders. With an axe. It’s something he’ll never be able to forget. And if he thought Sally were going to identify him...”