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

BOMBA 14 by Jack Ritchie — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Agency.

THE FORGIVING GHOST by C. B. Gilford — © 1961 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE CHILDREN OF NOAH by Richard Matheson — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Company.

AN ATTRACTIVE FAMILY by Robert Arthur — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

LET THE SUCKER BEWARE by Charles Einstein — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Lurton Blassingame.

FAIR GAME by John Cortez — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE CURIOUS FACTS PRECEDING MY EXECUTION by Richard Stark — © 1960 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

YOUR WITNESS by Helen Nielsen — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

BLACKOUT by Richard Deming — © 1961 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE OCTOBER GAME by Ray Bradbury — Copyright 1948 by Short Stories, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Company.

STOP CALLING ME “MISTER” by Jonathan Craig — Copyright 1956 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE LAST ESCAPE by Jay Street — © 1960 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Theron Raines.

NOT A LAUGHING MATTER by Evan Hunter — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

MOST AGREEABLY POISONED by Fletcher Flora — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE BEST-FRIEND MURDER by Donald E. Westlake — Copyright 1959 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

As you know, I have long been a student of the criminal method; and I have been told recently, by certain well-informed persons, that the crime rate in this country is beyond belief.

On the face of it, this is an inexact statement and one which might force me to seek other employment. However, I can assure you that the crime rate may be much greater than the local and national law enforcement agencies believe. The reason for this sad state of affairs, you see, is due to the fact that no one can properly enter the perfect crime into the body of the statistical quotient.

It is because the perfect crime goes unsung that I have decided to write this little essay for your enlightenment and edification. I have great respect for crime and the people involved with it, and such being the case, I deplore the careless crime. It has no finesse, no sense of balance, no feeling of accomplishment.

If one is to undertake a “job,” it is well to remember that it should be done well. I remember reading that the first recorded crime was the murder of a young man by his brother. The brother did a poor job of it, his act was soon known to one and all, and he received his just deserts. Therefore, one should consider all possibilities. Over the years, in my line of endeavor, I have had the pleasure of viewing many criminal types: embezzlers, pickpockets, assassins, and oh! so many more. These gentlemen — and gentlewomen — have led me into a unique way of life. I have made their crimes pay... for me... but I have always cherished in my bosom the wish to emulate them in their chosen profession.

At last, I can report that I have done so; I have committed a perfect crime. Without fear of contradiction, one can state that one wishes to be the best in one’s field — and in that profession which operates outside the laws of our society, the perfect crime is the ultimate. The perfect crime is the royal flush, the hole in one, the home run in the ninth with bases loaded.

I planned for many years, worked ceaselessly to perfect myself, to establish a reputation without blemish, all this bearing on that one act, that one great moment. At last I achieved my goal, at last I...

At this point in my little essay it was my intention to illustrate through personal experience how very difficult it is for one to commit such an act — the hardships and dangers one must face when one sets foot on this most difficult of roads — but, unfortunate to relate, my attorney informs me that any such illustration on my part would be tantamount to a confession. The local district attorney is a great follower of my modest writings.

I fear, therefore, that I must halt further discussion on this subject; but since we have come so far together, I hope you will do me the pleasure of continuing through the following pages. I can assure you a shudderingly good time.

Alfred Hitchcock

Lightning only strikes once — so I was informed years and years ago by a lightning-rod salesman. That matches aren’t to be played with — if memory serves me correctly — was something told me by my mother when I was a child, and shortly after I had playfully attempted to burn to the ground the very satisfactory house in which we were then living. To this store of man’s wisdom, our story makes its contribution: bombs may prove a shattering experience. And they have also been known to disrupt associations of long standing.

The big square package was alone in an island of space near the baggage windows. It was number fourteen in the last six years and we were supposed to see that it didn’t kill anybody.

Pete and I studied the faces of the crowd behind the ropes. That was part of our job — to see if maybe somebody was licking his lips a little wetter than anybody else.

Pete chewed on his cigar. “I see the same eager types every time we’re waiting for an idiot to jump out of a twentieth story window. Bet half the city knows about this by now.”

The ropes kept the curious ones forty yards away from the box. I thought it should have been more than forty, but I wasn’t running that part of the show.

A detail of men finished laying the twelve-by-two planks on the concrete steps and the bomb disposal truck drove up the improvised ramp and into the terminal’s big lobby. It was an unwieldy vehicle, a thing of steel mesh and wickerwork with high sides that would divert the force of an explosion upwards where it would do the least harm.

The truck stopped within fifteen feet of the box before O’Brien and Hastings climbed out of the cab.

Pete stepped on his cigar. “The main event,” he said and walked over to them. I hesitated a few moments and then followed, keeping the truck between me and the box.

O’Brien grinned. “They’re setting up cameras. I’ll have to remember my right profile’s my fortune.”

Pete helped him strap on the front harness. “I admire these hero boys. They’re devil-may-care all right. And cute too.”

O’Brien stepped closer to the box.