Роберт Артур - Alfred Hitchcock’s A Hangman’s Dozen

“It smells so fresh and clean,” she whispered. “It makes me forget all about last night — that horrible nightmare—” Her eyes clouded, but Dick’s admiring gaze brought her good spirits back. “But there, I’m not going to talk about it any more. Let’s eat. I’m starved!”

They ate. Bert told humorous stories of his travels in Europe, neglecting to mention that he had been in Europe because of an embezzlement in the U.S.A. Marion was witty, and her stories about the townspeople were also malicious. Dick sat close beside Jinny and held her hand whenever he could, leaning close to her and whispering in her ear from time to time that she was lovely. Jinny flushed, and her eyes laughed, and she looked more than ever like a child on the happiest day of her life.

The sun sank behind the pines. Shadows grew longer. A chill seeped into the air.

“Why don’t you two take a walk?” Marion asked. “Bert and I will clean up.”

Dick was on his feet at once, helping Jinny.

“Come along,” he said gaily. “We’ll explore.”

Laughing, Jinny allowed herself to be drawn along. Dick slipped her small hand into his large hand.

“Glorious day,” he said with a wide gesture. “Enjoying it?”

“Oh, yes. Except that — looking at the sea — made me think of Alice.”

“I know.” Dick looked solemn. “She loved the sea — too much. Couldn’t keep her out of the water.”

“Did you love her very much, Dick?” Jinny asked.

“Very much indeed,” Dick said, nodding. “They were the happiest three weeks of my life. Then — she was taken from me.”

“She loved you, too,” Jinny told him. “You should have seen her face when she told me she was going to marry you. It was transformed. She couldn’t imagine what you saw in her. She was so plain.”

“Plain?” Dick was indignant. “I never thought of her as plain. To me she was lovely, lovely...”

“I always thought she was rather dull,” Jinny said ingenuously. “All she could do was swim. She couldn’t talk well and she didn’t like books or music or—”

“Please, Jinny!” Dick’s voice was suddenly brusque. “You forget that we were in love. It upsets me to talk about her. I still — miss her terribly, terribly...”

“Of course,” Jinny said, with swift contrition. “I’m sorry, Dick. Oh, look — isn’t that a house ahead of us?”

“An abandoned house!” Dick exclaimed. “Maybe it’s haunted!”

The house they had come upon, buried in the woods, was huge and a dismal brown in color. Part of the roof had fallen in. The wide veranda was sagging. Most of the windows were broken. An air of dark desolation hung over it, brooding.

Jinny drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like it,” she said. “Let’s go back, Dick.”

But Dick had hold of her hand and was pulling her toward the old ruin with masculine enthusiasm.

“Let’s look inside,” he coaxed. “Say hello to the ghost. No telling what we’ll find.”

Jinny tried to hold back, but willy nilly she came along with him, half running.

“Dick, it — scares me. It’s so dark — and gloomy. It’s like my nightmare last night—”

“Aw, that was only a dream. Now don’t be a child, Jinny. Come on, let’s see what’s inside.”

Reluctantly Jinny followed him onto the veranda, which swayed and creaked beneath them. Together they peeked through the doorless doorway. Inside was darkness, a smell of moldy plaster and termite-infested wood, the tiny chittering of rats, curious creaks and rustlings.

Jinny shivered. “Please, Dick! I feel — so scared. I know it’s irrational, but please let’s go back.”

“That would be the worst thing you could do, giving in to your fears. Come on inside.”

Dick pulled, and Jinny went in with him.

Inside the gloom was worse. But they could see the holes in the plaster, the leprous stains on the walls, the broken stairway leading to the next floor — and the rope that hung from an old hook in the ceiling.

It was an old rope, a frayed rope, but it seemed to twist and curl gently, as if alive, as if hungry, as if waiting. And it ended in a noose.

“My dream!” Jinny cried in terror. “It’s happening. This old house — this room — the rope. Dick!” She tugged to free herself. “Let’s run!”

Dick held her tightly.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “This is how to cure yourself. Go over, touch the rope, prove to yourself it’s just an old rope someone left hanging there.”

“No, oh no! See how it — twists.”

“Sure. It’s drafty. The windows are all busted in this place.”

And Jinny found herself almost lifted across the creaking floor, to stand below the dangling noose that waited like an open mouth.

“Jinny,” Dick said softly, gently. “Here’s an old stool. Stand on it — put the noose around your neck. Then take it off again. Do that, and you’ll never have nightmares again. You’ll be too brave for them. I promise you.”

“No, I can’t.” Jinny shuddered and then with a sudden do-or-die effort wrestled free of Dick’s arms. “I can’t.”

“You must, Jinny.” This time it was Marion who spoke. Somehow, Marion and Bert had materialized in the doorway, like two shadows coming out of the woodwork. Soon they stood close behind Jinny, touching her, hemming her in. She stood there, trembling violently, like a wild thing caught in a trap.

“This is for your own good, child.” Marion’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “It will help you get over the nightmare habit. The doctor suggested it. Dick, put the stool in place. Bert, lift her up.”

In a moment the three of them had Jinny on the old stool, the noose around her neck, the rope harsh against her tender throat. Pressed close about her like ugly, waiting shadows, they held her so she could not move — could only tremble uncontrollably.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said, looking down at them, her eyes enormous in her small white face. “You want me out of the way. So you’re going to kill me. And you killed Alice, too. I can see it in your faces.”

“Yes, you tiresome child,” Marion answered. “I put a sedative in her coffee before she went for a swim. But we’re not going to kill you, child. You’re going to kill yourself. You’re moody, inclined to suicide. Last night you had a nightmare. Today you went wandering, found this old house, found the rope, tied it to an old hook in the ceiling, and you acted out your dream. You killed yourself. We should have watched you, but you slipped away from us, and in a fit of melancholy you killed yourself.

“Dick, take away the stool. Bert, lower her gently. This must look natural. Let her grab the rope to support herself — her hands should be abraded — and grabbing the rope would be the instinctive thing to do. She’ll tire soon enough.”

Dick took away the stool. Bert lowered Jinny and then let go of her. Jinny hung there, her small hands clutching at the rope in an attempt to support her weight, but the hemp cut deeper and deeper into her throat. Slowly, her body turned about, throwing crazy shadows on the wall as a final shaft of sunlight broke into the room and as her breath choked in her throat.

“All right, put the stool back.”

But it was not a Farrington who spoke. It was Mr. Downey, who stood in the doorway with a shotgun in his hand. Beside him was Sheriff Lamb, a large, silent man who seldom spoke, but whose expression now conveyed displeasure.

“Put it back, I said!”

Little Mr. Downey’s voice sounded like a trap snapping shut. Bert put the stool back beneath Jinny’s feet. Jinny stood very straight and with steady fingers loosened the noose. Then she stepped down.

“For a frightened moment,” she said, “I almost thought you weren’t coming, Mr. Downey.” She no longer sounded like a child.