Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

I leaned back with a half smile. “There’s still the matter of my fee. For twelve hours’ work, you owe me fifty bucks. I’ll take it in chips next time I visit your casino.”

“I think,” said Mr. Smith slowly, studying me, “that you might be the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, Pit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. Then I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.

My legs hurt less that way.

Copyright 2006 John Gregory Betancourt

It must have been about a quarter past eleven when the doorbell of Gerald’s house rang. Gerald stopped pouring the brandies and stood without moving for what seemed to me like a long moment. He shouted into the house where Cassie was clattering about, putting the dishes into the dishwasher, “We’ll get it.”

Her voice came back, “Thanks, sweetie.”

Then he looked at me and said, “Would you mind, Pete? See who that is and tell them to bugger off.”

“Right,” I said, clambering off the lounger.

We were on the patio outside of the giant picture window that comprises one wall of Gerald’s lounge and in front of the pool, which is yet another of Gerald’s insane extravagances. Me, Gerald, Paula. And the Claverhouses, Ernest and Maureen, a nervous, wispy couple from across the road. I still didn’t understand why they had been invited, and from the look of them, twitchy all through dinner, neither did they.

Gerald finished off the drink he was constructing and handed it to Paula. “Don’t mind if I use your husband as a footman, do you?”

Paula looked coolly at me and then carelessly rearranged her Versace. “Not at all,” she said, “I’m glad to know someone’s found a use for him.” In a tone that said, I’m joking, but not really. The Claverhouses giggled weakly in unison.

Gerald grinned. “Meow,” he said. I stood up and went to answer the door. I looked back. Gerald was standing there, bottle in hand, staring after me. I walked through the huge lounge and out into the vast hall, with its high ceiling and the curved staircase, and I thought not for the first time what an idiot Gerald was to have bought this pile. He and Cassie rattled round it like peas in a drum. What on earth did he need six bedrooms for? Neither of them had any family worth speaking of, and they never had people to stay. Whenever I asked him, he just shrugged and shuffled his feet like the idiot he was. An idiot with a crippling mortgage. Which is partly why we were here in the first place. Gerald’s mortgage, and Paula’s Versace with all its little brothers and sisters, Cassie’s Dior and her BMW cabriolet, Paula’s Merc and yes, all right, thank you for reminding me, my love of three-legged horses. As I went to the door, I felt as though I were dragging all this after me, this intolerable weight of things, possessions, stuff. Jacob Marley lives.

I opened the door. At first I thought there was no one there, the blackness was so complete, and then the man in the black overcoat and ski mask opened his eyes and smiled.

“Good evening,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“What the hell is this?” I said, talking not so much to him as to the huge revolver he was carrying very casually down by his side where I would be sure to see it.

“This,” he said, “is what is known in the trade as a robbery.”

And now the revolver with its one great eye came up and stared me in the stomach.

“No,” said the man, “don’t put your hands up. Just laugh and step aside so that I can come in.” In case any of Gerald’s neighbors should be idly watching.

I tried a laugh, but I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. In the end, all that came out was a sort of insane cackle, then I stepped out of his way, and now I could see that there were two of them. The second one was slightly smaller and thinner, but he was also wearing the same uniform of black topcoat, roll-neck sweater, and ski mask. They both moved past me. I could, at that moment, have bolted out into the night, calling for help. But I didn’t. I thought of Paula and Cassie and Gerald.

I stepped back into the hall and closed the door. The two men stood and watched me. They seemed in some bizarre way to be absorbing most of the light, so that the hall, with its huge chandelier, seemed somber and drained of brightness.

“You,” said the first man, the bigger one of the two, “You’re Peter Fellowes.”

“Yes,” I said. “How did you guess?”

“The other one, the flabby one, that’s Gerald Hawthorne, right?”

I didn’t argue with the “flabby” part, although Gerald probably would have, and would have got himself into trouble for his pains.

“All right, Peter,” said the man, “this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to go into the lounge, and you’re going to get everyone else in there.”

“We’ve just finished eating,” I said idiotically. “We’re having drinks.” Why on earth did I tell him that?

“I know that,” he said. “We’re not stupid, and don’t interrupt me again when I’m talking or I’ll hurt you.”

I shut up.

“Now,” he said, “turn round and walk very calmly and normally into the lounge.”

My knees felt awkward, as if I had forgotten how to walk properly. I walked into the lounge. Gerald and Paula were still on the patio with the Claverhouses.

“Go and call them in here,” said the man. “Don’t shout or do anything silly like that. Just speak to them normally.”

I went to the french window. Gerald looked up and saw me. Then he looked past me and saw the two men in the lounge. His eyes opened very wide. The Claverhouses looked puzzled but calm.

I said, “Could you come into the lounge, everybody, please?”

Paula, who was facing away from me, heard something unnatural in the overnatural tone I was using. She put down her glass and turned to face me.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“We’re being robbed,” I said. “Or rather, Gerald is, seeing as this is his house. Now, can you please come inside?”

Maureen Claverhouse gave a tiny shriek and put her hand over her mouth. Her husband went very white.

“Some sort of joke, surely,” he said.

“I wish,” I said. “Now can we all come inside, please.”

Gerald stepped aside to allow Paula to come in first. A strange moment to behave like a proper gent, I thought, but Paula seemed to find it completely natural. My wife, I thought. You can take her anywhere.

“Thank you, Gerald,” she said, stepping through the door as gracefully as if she were stepping into a cocktail party. And Gerald followed her, followed by the Claverhouses.

The man with the gun looked at them. “Who are these two?” he said.

“Friends,” said Gerald.

“We’re neighbors, actually,” said Ernest, as though he were quite sensibly trying to put a little distance between Gerald and himself.

“Right,” said the man with the gun. “Everybody sit down. And you,” he pointed it at Gerald, “go and get your wife from the kitchen.” Which meant that he knew where Cassie was. Which told everybody that they’d been watching the house quite thoroughly. Casing it, I suppose they’d say. And more, they knew our names, and they knew that Gerald was the flabby one, which told everybody they knew a lot about us.

Gerald came back with Cassie trailing behind him. She came into the room and saw the two men and her mouth dropped open — prettily, of course, like everything Cassie did, she did it prettily. And she knew it.

“What — what the hell is all this?” she said. To my ears it sounded a little false — as if she were saying the sort of thing people she thought were supposed to say in that situation. But then, I wasn’t doing any better than she was. She went over and stood next to Paula. That was odd, I thought. It was as if she felt safer with my wife than with her husband. And the two of them standing together was the same shock as always. Cassie’s white blondness contrasted spectacularly with Paula’s black hair and olive skin.