The Best American Noir of the Century

Skip and Maggie went for a drive in the new car the next morning. In the afternoon Maggie asked her father if she could go fishing in the stream. He had to tell her that she couldn’t, and he explained the reason.

“Well, never mind, there are a lot of other things to do.” Maggie enjoyed going for walks, reading, and doing little jobs in the house.

Skip was surprised one evening when Maggie arrived home in her Toyota carrying three fish. He was afraid she had been fishing in the stream, against his instructions.

“Where did you get those?”

“I met the boy who lives there. We were both buying petrol, and he introduced himself—he said he’d seen my photograph in your house. Then we had coffee together—”

“The Frosby boy?”

“Yes. He’s very nice. Perhaps it’s only the father who’s not nice. Well, Pete said, ‘Come and fish with me this afternoon,’ so I did.”

“I don’t — please, Maggie, I don’t want you to mix with the Frosbys.”

Maggie was surprised, but said nothing.

The next day, Maggie said she wanted to go to the village to buy some shoes. She was away for nearly three hours. With a great effort, Skip didn’t question her.

Then on Saturday morning, Maggie said there was a dance in the nearest town, and she was going.

“I can guess who you’re going with,” Skip said angrily.

“I’m going alone, I promise you. Girls don’t need a boy to take them to dances now.”

Skip realized that he couldn’t order her not to go to a dance. But he knew the Frosby boy would be there. And he knew what was going to happen. His daughter was falling in love with Pete Frosby.

Maggie got home very late that night, after Skip had gone to bed. At breakfast, she looked fresh and happy.

“I expect the Frosby boy was at the dance?” said Skip.

“I don’t know what you’ve got against him, Father.”

“I don’t want you to fall in love with an uneducated country boy. I sent you to a good school.”

“Pete had three years at Harvard University.” Maggie stood up. “I’m almost eighteen, Father. I don’t want to be told who I can and can’t see.”

Skip shouted at her: “They’re not our kind of people!”

Maggie left the room.

During the next week Skip was in a terrible state. In his business life he had always been able to force people to do what he wanted — but he couldn’t think of a way to do that with his daughter.

The following Saturday evening, Maggie said she was going to a party. It was at the house of a boy called Wilmers, who she had met at the dance. By Sunday morning, Maggie hadn’t come home. Skip telephoned the Wilmerses’ house.

A boy’s voice said that Maggie had left the party early.

“Was she alone?”

“No, she was with Pete Frosby. She left her car here.”

Skip felt the blood rush to his face. His hand was shaking as he picked up the telephone to call the Frosby house. Old Frosby answered. He said Maggie was not there. And his son was out at the moment.

“What do you mean? He was there and he went out?”

“Mr. Skipperton, my son has his own ways, his own room, his own key — his own life. I’m not going to —”

Skip put the telephone down.

Maggie was not home by Sunday evening or Monday morning. Skip didn’t want to inform the police. On Tuesday there was a letter from Maggie, written from Boston. It said that she and Pete had run away to be married.

…You may think this is sudden, but we do love each other, and we know what we’re doing. I didn’t really want to go back to school. Please don’t try to find me—you’ll hear from me next week. I was sorry to leave my nice new car.

Love always,

maggie

For two days Skip didn’t go out of the house, and he ate almost nothing. He felt three-quarters dead. Andy was very worried about him. When he needed to go to the village to buy some food, he asked Skip to go with him.

While Andy did the shopping, Skip sat in the car, looking at nothing. But then a figure coming down the street caught his eye. Old Frosby! He hoped Frosby wouldn’t see him in the car, but Frosby did. He didn’t pause, but he smiled his unpleasant little smile. Skip realized how much he hated Frosby. His blood boiled with anger, and he felt much better: he was himself again. Frosby must be punished! He began to make a plan.

That evening, Skip suggested to Andy that he should go away for the weekend and enjoy himself. “You’ve earned a holiday!” he said, and gave him three hundred dollars.

Andy left on Saturday evening, in the car. Skip then telephoned old Frosby, and said it was time they became friends. Frosby was surprised, but he agreed to come on Sunday morning at about eleven for a talk. He arrived in the Cadillac, alone.

Skip acted quickly. He had his heavy gun ready, and as soon as Frosby was inside the door he hit him on the head several times with the end of the gun until Frosby was dead. He then took off his clothes and tied an old cloth around the body. He burned Frosby’s clothes in the fireplace, and hid his watch and rings in a drawer.