Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1960
Dear Readers,
The current census shows an increase in bubble-gum-chewing and the writing of fiction. Psychiatrists tell us this is most encouraging and salubrious, indicating a release of tensions “in these troubled times.” Always eager to be decidedly therapeutic, my fine publication is therefore sponsoring a short story contest that is open to everyone — the incarcerated and those not as yet apprehended. Elsewhere in this issue are the rules and the rewards. Interestingly enough, the prizes without exception are monetary in nature. For those winners, however, who are opposed to money on principle, there will be durable, embossed plastic metals.
As you know, Halloween is almost upon us. This is a holiday dangerously close to my heart. When that form of life known as children come trooping to my door in sundry disguises, demanding “trick or treat,” I am ready for them, barricaded and ready. You see, I am, aware that children prefer conflict of sorts to bouquets of lollipops and scatterings of chicken corn candy.
And, of course, politics has been with us right through the summer. Early in May, I turned my television set off; and when the oratory still came through the walls, I called the police.
One Pound of Death
by Donald Honig
It’s wholesome and American for a criminal to want to rise in the world, to want to get on to bigger, but not better things. And so we have our hero, Carl Luca, about to make the most of an important illegality.
Carl wondered if the valise looked as suspicious to other people as it did to him. Beside him on the back seat of the cab, it looked positively lethal. When he had taken it from his friends (along with his instructions) a little while ago and hailed the cab and got in and told the driver to take him to the airport, he was certain the driver could tell that the valise held a can containing a pound of heroin. That was one of the hazards of carrying something like that — its grimness seeped into you and made you look suspicious.
Carl told himself as they sped along the highway toward the airport that his fears were ridiculous, of course, that no one had X-ray vision. The driver’s whistling nonchalance, eased him somewhat.
Arriving at the terminal, Carl got out — valise in hand. From gratitude (for what he didn’t quite know) he was going to give the cabbie an inordinately large tip, but suddenly became afraid it would draw attention to him — one of the cardinal rules was not to draw attention to one’s self — and so tipped only a quarter.
Entering the terminal, he straightened his shoulders and determined to walk as casually as he could, despite what seemed like a thousand pound weight in his hand. He went to the flight desk and inquired concerning the time of departure of his plane and then checked in his luggage — the single valise. Checking the valise was the most difficult act of all, but he felt he had no alternative. For him to insist upon clinging to it, would be certain to arouse suspicion. (He had been thinking about all these things since they had told him two days ago he was being entrusted with this mission.) So he watched the valise go riding away on the belt, through the little archway. When it was out of sight he was almost relieved, as if he were no longer responsible for it. Then he went to the waiting room and lighted a cigarette.
All he had ever done for the organization, heretofore, had been to collect money from their various bookmakers. So why they had chosen him for this dangerous assignment, he did not know. Maybe because it was not as dangerous as he thought. To their way of thinking it was probably simple. All he had to do was ride on the plane and then when he landed in Chicago give the valise to men who would be waiting for him, and then turn around and catch the next plane back. It was all so very simple, except, of course, if he happened to get caught. But there was no way for that to happen, he felt. This was a simple, uncomplicated plan.
Perhaps he was finally getting his chance. He had been in the organization for almost ten years now, and had always been deep in the lower echelons. But he had always been loyal and competent — he was sure the higher-ups were aware of this — and perhaps this assignment was in the form of a promotion, a first chance to do bigger things. After years and years of running errands and fulfilling menial jobs, perhaps he was finally getting his chance.
These thoughts were like a dream, a dream that included all the trappings: the expensive suits, the big cars, the showy women, the nods of respect from his associates. The desire to make good on his mission suddenly became a passion.
Sitting there smoking, thinking these things, Carl almost leaped out of his seat at the sight of a dozen policemen swarming through the terminal. He would have ignored caution and run out of there, but — partly because he was too terrified to move and partly because he knew, in a moment of clear, logical reasoning, they couldn’t all possibly be looking for him — he remained where he was. Then, out of curiosity, he rose and pushed aside the waiting room door and sauntered out into the terminal. The policemen were standing around the desk, in their midst two distinguished old men.
“What’s all that about?” Carl asked a stewardess who was just passing.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s the Prime Minister.”
Then Carl remembered. The foreign dignitary was touring the country. He recalled having read in the morning paper that the man was going on to Chicago after having pled in Washington for assistance for his strife-torn country. He was evidently going on the same plane as Carl.
Carl breathed with relief, then congratulated himself for not panicking and running away. He would have to report this to his employers, let them know how he had handled himself in what had appeared to be a bad situation.
Feeling smug with self-confidence, he mingled with the police, a wry humor amusing him. It would be a good one to tell when he got back, how he had virtually had a police escort right to the plane. He looked at his watch and then checked it-against one of the wall clocks. They would be boarding the plane shortly. He began to feel the nervous excitement that follows the relaxation of tension.
Then it was time. The Prime Minister had gone first. The other passengers stood back and watched the police escort him across the field to the plane. The little truck had been emptied of its baggage and was coming back. Carl watched it with some satisfaction. In a few minutes he would be boarding the plane. The Prime Minister was going up the ramp now. At the door he paused and posed for photographers, a small, grave, austere man.
“I don’t know why we’ve got to stand around waiting for him,” someone behind Carl grumbled.
Then the Prime Minister disappeared into the plane and the police were coming back — with them several well-dressed men who had been there to shake the dignitary’s hand. The other passengers were permitted to board then and they walked across the field toward the plane. Carl felt again that wry amusement as the police filed back past him. If they only knew what was concealed in his luggage. It would probably be worth the attention accorded to six Prime Ministers.
He went up the portable stairway and found his seat and sat down and buckled himself in. He had a window seat and from it a view of the Administration Building and the spectators’ ramp. The Prime Minister was sitting up towards the front and Carl could not see him.
After about fifteen minutes, when all the passengers had been seated, Carl glanced at his watch and noted that it was past take-off time. He began to feel an uneasiness which his new feeling of importance could not quite put to rest. He cursed the Prime Minister, certain that the delay had something to do with that personage.