Ричард Деминг: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

The man merely nodded. Weygand led Lydia on toward the elevator.

“I slipped him a ten to keep track of Jim’s activities for me,” he said in explanation. “That’s how I knew about the bourbon he had delivered.”

“I’ll repay all your expenses, she said.

“Don’t be silly. What’s a few more bucks when you’re fifty thousand in the hole? I have enough ready cash.”

They stepped on the elevator and Weygand said, “Seventh.”

When they got off at seven. Weygand led the way down the hall and around a corner to a door numbered 714.

“Well, here you are,” he said.

Over the door there was a transom with its glass painted white. It was open about four inches at the top, enough to show that a light burned in the room. Lydia gave the door a timid knock.

When there was no response, she rapped harder. After several moments of waiting, Weygand stepped forward and pounded several times.

A door across the hall opened and an elderly man peered out, then closed the door again.

Lydia said, “He must be asleep.”

“More likely passed out drunk,” Weygand growled. “I’ll go down and have Baldy bring up a pass key.”

Lydia waited in front of the door while Weygand went down stairs. In a few minutes he reappeared with the clerk.

“This is Mr. Simms, Lydia,” Weygand said. “I’ve explained that you’re Jim’s wife. Mrs. Hartman, Mr. Simms.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the desk man said a little dubiously. “There isn’t going to be any trouble here, is there?”

Lydia said, “I’m just concerned about my husband, Mr. Simms. We haven’t been having any marital discord, if that’s what you mean. I assure you he’ll be glad to see me if you let us in.”

“Well, I guess it’ll be all right,” Simms said reluctantly.

He fitted a pass key in the door, turned it and pushed on the knob. Nothing happened.

“He’s got it bolted,” Simms said. He pounded on the door until several doors along the hall opened and tenants peered out.

“Just a sound sleeper, folks,” Simms announced generally. “Excuse the noise.”

The tenants withdrew and their doors closed. The three in front of 714 listened for some sound within the room, but there was none.

Lydia said worriedly, “He usually snores, particularly when he’s been drinking.”

This made Simms look worried. He tried the pass key again, with no more result than before.

“Is there a fire escape?” Lydia asked.

Shaking his head, Simms pointed to a fire-exit sign up the hall. “Just fire stairs in each hallway. Maybe we can see something through the transom. I’ll get a ladder.”

He went away and was gone some ten minutes before he returned carrying a six-foot stepladder and a small, stubby screwdriver.

As he set the stepladder before the door, he said, “I know I won’t be able to reach the release, because it’s too far down. But I may be able to unscrew the sideplate and get the transom open that way.”

Climbing the ladder, he attempted to peer into the room through the V-shaped crack left by the partially open transom.

“Can’t see anything but a piece of the ceiling,” he announced.

Holding the screwdriver, he thrust his right hand through the very top of the aperture and groped around for a moment. Then he withdrew it and climbed down the ladder.

“The metal plate holding the rod that opens and closes the transom is on the right edge about halfway down,” he said. “My wrist’s too thick to get my hand down that far. You want to try it, lady?”

“All right,” Lydia said in a steady voice.

Taking the screwdriver, she climbed the ladder. Holding the screwdriver in her left hand, she inserted her right in the crack and felt for the metal plate. As Simms had said, it was attached to the edge of the transom about halfway down. Her hand and wrist were small enough to reach it easily. She couldn’t see it, but with her fingers she could feel that it was held by two screws.

Withdrawing her hand, she transferred the screwdriver to it and pushed it through the aperture again. Even though she couldn’t see what she was doing, the screwdriver was short enough so that with its butt end nestled in her palm, she could still touch the screws with her fingertips. Guiding the blade into the slot of the lower screwhead, she unscrewed it, pulled her hand back out and handed the screw down to Simms.

“Better hold the top of the transom with your other hand when you unscrew the second one,” Simms cautioned. “Otherwise it’ll bang down against the door and maybe break the glass.”

Lydia put her hand through the crack again, located the upper screw by feel and seated the blade of the screwdriver. Before unscrewing it, she grasped the top of the transom with her left hand. When the screw came all the way out, the transom was suddenly released from its rigid position. Handing down both the screw and crewdriver, Lydia cautiously let the transom move forward and swing down, climbing higher as the did and thrusting her arm farther into the room until the transom finally hung vertically downward against the door below it.

Only then did she peer through the oblong frame at the motionless figure lying on the bed. She stared at it silently for a long time.

“Is he all right?” Weygand asked.

The question roused Lydia to action. Kicking off her shoes and letting them fall to the floor, she climbed clear to the top of the ladder, steadied herself by grasping the upper part of the transom frame with both hands and slid her legs inside.

As she lowered herself to a seated position. Weygand said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going in to open the door,” the said calmly.

Reversing herself to roll over on her stomach and transfer her grip to the bottom all, she slid backward into the room and dropped to the floor. Quickly she crossed to the bed and bent over the still figure there.

Outside in the hall Jules Weygand tired of waiting for the door to open and climbed the ladder to peer in. His face appeared just as she turned away from the bed and began to move woodenly toward the door.

“What is it?” he asked worriedly when he saw her numb expression. He couldn’t clearly see the figure on the bed because her body partially blocked the view.

Without answer she went to the door, drew back the bolt and pulled the door open. Weygand came down off the ladder, set it to one side and followed the bald-headed Simms into the room. Lydia quietly stepped out in the hall and put her shoes back on. Then the leaned against the door jamb and closed her eyes.

Inside the room the two men stared down at the figure on the bed. It was that of a man about thirty-five, good-looking in a weak sort of way, but beginning to go to fat. He wore nothing but socks and trousers, his shoes lying in one corner and the rest of his clothing wadded on top of a chair. An empty pint bottle lay next to him on the bed and another lay on the floor beside the bed. His hands were crossed on his stomach just below a thin, horizontal slit of a wound on the left side of his chest, as though he had been reaching tor the wound when he died, and hadn’t quite had the strength to raise his hands that high.

Simms tentatively touched the dead man’s cheek, then hurriedly withdrew his hand. “Cold,” he said. “Must have been dead for a while.”

“And I told her drunks never commit suicide,” Jules Weygand said softly.

Simms gave him a sharp look. “Suicide? Where’s the knife?”

Lydia’s eyes popped open. Weygand’s expression turned startled. After glancing about the room, he fell on hands and knees to peer under the bed. When he rose, he stared at the clerk strangely.

“The door was bolted from inside,” he said.