Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense by Linda Landrigan Page A
Authors: Linda Landrigan
Tags: Mystery, Anthologies
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out of a professional need to study his own product, to be sure that it at least did not deteriorate and, if possible, to see how it could be improved.
Tonight, after finishing the show, he had had dinner at the Athens Room and then had come home, where he now was, to watch the show. He was alone in the apartment, of course; he never permitted anyone else to be in the place while he was watching one of his shows. He had come home, changed into slacks and sport shirt and slippers, made himself a drink, flicked on the television set, and settled himself in the chair with the specially-built right arm. The arm of this chair was a miniature desk, with two small drawers in the side and a flat wooden workspace on top, where he rested his notebook.
Across the room, the eight oâclock commercials had flickered across the television screen, and then the opening credits of The Don Denton Variety Show had come on. He had watched and listened in approval as his name was mentioned by the announcer and appeared on the screen three times each, and then the fanfare had blared forth, the camera had been trained on the empty curtain-faced stage, and through a part in the curtain had come the tiny image of himself, in response to a thunderous burst of applause from the tape recorder in the control booth.
He had frowned. Too much applause? He didnât want the technical augmentation of the audience reaction to become too obvious. He had made a note of it.
The image of himself on the television screen had smiled and spoken and cracked a joke. Sitting in his chair at home, Don Denton had nodded approvingly. Then the image had introduced a girl singer, and Denton had turned over the pad to doodle awhile on its back. And thenâ
Then that memory came back, too, and he understood at last how he had been hurt. For the apartment door, off to his right, had suddenly opened, he remembered that now, and he â¦
H E TURNED ANNOYED. The show was on, damn it, he was not to be disturbed. They all knew that, knew better than to come here between eight and nine on a Wednesday night.
The only light came from the hall, behind the intruder, so that heâor sheâwas silhouetted, features blacked out. It was January outside, and the intruder was encased in a bulky overcoat, so Denton couldnât even tell whether it was a man or a woman.
Denton half-rose from the chair, frowning in anger. âWhat the hell do youâ?â
Then there was a yellow-white flash from the center of the silhouetted figure, and the beginning of a thunderclap, and silence.
Until he heard the girl again, singing too loud.
H E WAS SHOT! Someoneâ who? âhad come in here and shot him!
He sat slumped in the chair, trying to figure out where in his body the bullet might be and the extent of the damage. His legs ached, with a throbbing numbness. There was a clammy weight in his stomach, pressing him down, nauseating him. But the bullet wasnât there, nor in his legs. Higher, it was higher, higher â¦
There! Inside the chest, high on the right side, a burning core, a tiny center of heat and pain radiating out to the rest of his body. There it was, still within him, and he knew it was a bad wound, a terribly bad wound â¦
A crowd applauded, and he was startled. He focused his eyes again, saw himself again on the television screen, stepping back and to the side as the comic came outââItâs a funny thing about these new cars â¦ââand just to the right of the television set was the telephone on its stand.
He had to get help. The bullet was still in his chest, it was a terribly bad wound, he had to get help. He had to stand; he had to walk across the room to the telephone; he had to call for help.
He moved his right arm, and the arm seemed far away, the hand a million miles away, pushing through thick water. He tried to lean forward, and the pain buffeted him, slapping him back. He gripped the chair arms with hands
Tonight, after finishing the show, he had had dinner at the Athens Room and then had come home, where he now was, to watch the show. He was alone in the apartment, of course; he never permitted anyone else to be in the place while he was watching one of his shows. He had come home, changed into slacks and sport shirt and slippers, made himself a drink, flicked on the television set, and settled himself in the chair with the specially-built right arm. The arm of this chair was a miniature desk, with two small drawers in the side and a flat wooden workspace on top, where he rested his notebook.
Across the room, the eight oâclock commercials had flickered across the television screen, and then the opening credits of The Don Denton Variety Show had come on. He had watched and listened in approval as his name was mentioned by the announcer and appeared on the screen three times each, and then the fanfare had blared forth, the camera had been trained on the empty curtain-faced stage, and through a part in the curtain had come the tiny image of himself, in response to a thunderous burst of applause from the tape recorder in the control booth.
He had frowned. Too much applause? He didnât want the technical augmentation of the audience reaction to become too obvious. He had made a note of it.
The image of himself on the television screen had smiled and spoken and cracked a joke. Sitting in his chair at home, Don Denton had nodded approvingly. Then the image had introduced a girl singer, and Denton had turned over the pad to doodle awhile on its back. And thenâ
Then that memory came back, too, and he understood at last how he had been hurt. For the apartment door, off to his right, had suddenly opened, he remembered that now, and he â¦
H E TURNED ANNOYED. The show was on, damn it, he was not to be disturbed. They all knew that, knew better than to come here between eight and nine on a Wednesday night.
The only light came from the hall, behind the intruder, so that heâor sheâwas silhouetted, features blacked out. It was January outside, and the intruder was encased in a bulky overcoat, so Denton couldnât even tell whether it was a man or a woman.
Denton half-rose from the chair, frowning in anger. âWhat the hell do youâ?â
Then there was a yellow-white flash from the center of the silhouetted figure, and the beginning of a thunderclap, and silence.
Until he heard the girl again, singing too loud.
H E WAS SHOT! Someoneâ who? âhad come in here and shot him!
He sat slumped in the chair, trying to figure out where in his body the bullet might be and the extent of the damage. His legs ached, with a throbbing numbness. There was a clammy weight in his stomach, pressing him down, nauseating him. But the bullet wasnât there, nor in his legs. Higher, it was higher, higher â¦
There! Inside the chest, high on the right side, a burning core, a tiny center of heat and pain radiating out to the rest of his body. There it was, still within him, and he knew it was a bad wound, a terribly bad wound â¦
A crowd applauded, and he was startled. He focused his eyes again, saw himself again on the television screen, stepping back and to the side as the comic came outââItâs a funny thing about these new cars â¦ââand just to the right of the television set was the telephone on its stand.
He had to get help. The bullet was still in his chest, it was a terribly bad wound, he had to get help. He had to stand; he had to walk across the room to the telephone; he had to call for help.
He moved his right arm, and the arm seemed far away, the hand a million miles away, pushing through thick water. He tried to lean forward, and the pain buffeted him, slapping him back. He gripped the chair arms with hands
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