Gary Alexander: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

“They had him in the back bedroom — you know the one. He busted out a window and cut the cords that bound him on shards of glass. They had his car — the white Chrysler — parked in the big barn, keys in it, and he got to it before they could stop him. He drove it right out through the barn door and when he wheeled around to head for the road, Ben McCord shot out one of the front tires and Carswell drove it smack into that mountain of cordwood and broke his neck.”

“Jesus—” Benton said.

“And then some.” Hoskins sipped more coffee. “Which ruined phase one of the master plan — buying the place — and badly compromised phase two — framing you for his death.”

“But they tried that anyway.”

“Yeah. They already had your truck back on its tires. They took it out and ran it against the Chrysler to mark it with paint — which they’d figured to do anyway before Moss brought you out to pick it up. But, of course, they didn’t figure on Carswell being dead at the time. They figured — assuming you didn’t accept the offer to buy—”

“Which I damn near did—”

“They figured to do that later in the day with Carswell merely knocked out at the time and then they’d have a ten-year lease, plus you back in the can.”

“But, my God, Charley, they must have known it wouldn’t work!”

“They weren’t sure it wouldn’t, being basically stupid — gold stupid, Tom. But to cinch things for ten years anyway, they sent Ben out to pick his time and knock you off. They gave him a deadline — if you’ll forgive the expression — of eight-thirty.”

“Gold!” Benton said, shaking his head and pondering briefly on the bloody history of the stuff. “How much did Carswell salt the place with?”

“About forty thousand dollars’ worth — that they found. ”

“My God!”

“Right. And then to cover themselves for the Carswell death they called our office and claimed they saw you force him over the edge. But it didn’t take us long to see through that frame.”

“Just long enough,” Benton said, smiling, “to scare me to death.” He leaned back in his chair, comfortable in this house, and mused on the matter of retribution in the form of poetic justice. Carswell’s Chrysler had landed no more than ten feet from where Sheila’s Toyota had been found — and the McCords hadn’t known where that was. Coincidence — or some other force we haven’t yet defined, a question for others to answer.

He watched Bessie come in for another load of dishes and smiled at her, pleased that she blushed as she turned back toward the kitchen. It was only three days since she’d been shot, but except for the turban arrangement on her head you’d never know it. His presence seemed to liven her, as hers did him.

“I don’t understand Carswell,” he said to Hoskins. “I thought I had him figured out — on a kind of metaphysical level, a guilt complex attached to me, and even shared by me, but—” He shrugged.

Hoskins stubbed out his first after-dinner cigarette and lit a second. He glanced at the kitchen door, was satisfied with the sounds he heard from there, and said quietly, “We did some research on him, Tom. He used to run dope in San Francisco in the early sixties. Made a pile and never got nailed. But then one day his wife got blown up in a wired car that was meant for him. It broke him up and drove him out of the business.”

Benton had listened carefully. “So—?” he said.

“It may mean nothing,” Hoskins answered. “But her name was Sheila.”