Alfred Hitchcock - Alfred Hitchcock Presents - 16 Skeletons From My Closet

But Duquay changed the subject. "Who are you, by the way?"

"None of your damn…"

"You must be Rick Masden."

The faintest of proud smiles flickered over the young man's face. "I guess you listen to the news on radio and television," he said.

"Occasionally," Duquay nodded.

"Okay, I'm Rick Masden. I cut up two people in a bar last week. My girl and her new boy friend. A couple of days later they caught me, but yesterday morning I got away from 'em." He grinned. "Because I found me another knife."

"Do you mind if I have a drink with you?" Duquay asked, reaching for one of the decanters.

But Masden's left hand, leaving his own unfinished drink, banged suddenly and hard on the table. "Never mind the drink!" he almost shouted. "I told you what I wanted, and I want 'em now."

Duquay desisted from the preparation of his drink, but he made no other movement. "Let's talk this over, Masden," he began.

Masden's right hand came off the table a couple of inches, and the knife twisted restlessly in his fingers. "Look, mister," he said slowly, "you either do like I say, or I'll cut you up just like I did the others."

But Duquay didn't flinch. "Sit still, Masden," he said quickly, and his voice had the edge of command in it, so that for the moment at least Masden obeyed. "Before you decide to try to cut me up, you'd better listen to what I have to say."

Masden seemed to sense the danger, the challenge. He sat quite still. Even the knife became immobile. "I'm listening," he said finally.

"Good. Now let's analyze our situation, Mr. Masden. We're sitting on opposite sides of this table, about six feet apart. You have a knife, and I at the moment have no weapon. But it has been running through my mind, Mr. Masden, what I might do if you were to decide to become violent. I certainly would try to defend myself. Do you know how I would go about attempting that? I'll do just this. If you made the slightest motion toward getting up from your chair, I'd up-end this table on you. I'm quite sure I could do it too. You may be a little younger than I am, Masden, but if you'll notice, I'm approximately twice your size. So there we'd have the first phase of our little battle. You'd be on the floor with the table on top of you, or if I weren't so lucky, you'd at least be back against the opposite wall, with the table between us. Do you follow me?"

Fascinated, despite his suspicion and his fury, the young man nodded. "Yeah, I get you," he said.

"Then let's proceed to Step Two. Observe the desk behind me and to my left, Masden. I think you can see what I'm referring to from where you're sitting. I use it for a letter opener, but actually it's a jeweled Turkish dagger. Now it's pretty obvious from here on, isn't it, Masden? The instant I succeeded in upsetting the table on you, I would grab that dagger. Then we'd be approximately even, wouldn't we, Masden?"

The young man stared, then when Duquay paused for a moment, he blinked his eyes several times and licked his lips. But he didn't say anything.

"So much for Step Two," Duquay continued, now with even greater precision of speech. "We might call the completion of Step Two the end of the preparation for battle. Step Three would be the beginning of the battle itself. Now how would we stand there, Masden?"

Again there were the blinking and the licking of the lips, but again also, no comment.

"Let's consider the weapons, Masden. What kind of knife is yours?"

"A sharpened kitchen knife," Masden answered almost unwillingly. "A guy slipped it to me in the jail."

"If you don't mind my saying so," Duquay said with a slight smile, "I think I'd have a slight advantage over you in the matter of weapons. At least I certainly wouldn't trade my Turkish dagger for your kitchen knife."

"Look, Mister…"

But Duquay pressed on. "More important than the weapons, however, are the men involved in this battle. How do you think we compare, Masden? How old are you, by the way?"

"Nineteen."

"I'm thirty-one. Perhaps you have a slight edge there. How much do you weigh?"

"A hundred and twenty."

"I'm sixty pounds heavier, Masden. Score that for me then. Now how well can we handle ourselves? I'll offer my qualifications first. All-Conference quarterback at State ten years ago. Almost as good as a basketball forward. Far above average at tennis, swimming, et cetera. Furthermore, I keep in shape with at least one hour's exercise every day. Haven't gained an ounce since I left college. That ought to prove something, don't you think? Now, how athletic are you, Masden?"

The young man across the table had grown paler and tenser. He licked his lips again. It seemed as if he wanted to answer, but no words came.

"Let me analyze you then as I see you, Masden. You're a case of chronic malnutrition, I would guess. Not because you ever actually starved, but rather because you grew up unsupervised, and so you never ate the right things. You're abnormally thin, you know. Now add to that a few bad habits. You probably started smoking when you were about nine or ten. I've noted the excessively heavy nicotine stains on your fingers. Lord only knows what you smoke now, maybe something stronger than tobacco. And you also drink, I see. I'd bet anything that you drink more than I do. Look at me, Masden, and look at yourself. Tell me who you think is the better physical specimen."

The young man was frowning now. His rather thick eyebrows were drawn almost together, and his eyes stared very hard at his host.

"But we haven't discussed the most important factor of all," Duquay said. "I'm speaking of courage, the willingness to do battle, to take the necessary risks. You were very brave, of course, when you first came into this room. You were brave because you had a knife, and you presumed I was unarmed. But how brave are you now? Not quite as brave as a few minutes ago, I would guess. You could swagger in here and make those threats about cutting me up, but now that there seems to be a good chance of your own flesh being cut up a little, it doesn't sound quite as inviting, does it?"

"You're bluffing!" Rick Masden had finally found his tongue, and the two words came out in a small explosion.

Duquay smiled a bit wider. "You think so?" he asked. "All you have to do to find out is to make one move to leave your chair, Masden."

There was another silence, heavier this time, fuller of hostility and hatred. Masden didn't move.

"One last matter, of course," Duquay continued after a moment, "that I shouldn't overlook. It's the matter of motivation. Though you may not be the bravest man in the world, you do have a good reason to put up a fight. If you kill me, no harm's done, and you get my money, my car, and whatever else you decide to take. On the other hand, if you get killed, you're no worse off than you were before you escaped."

Something resembling hope now lighted in the thin young man's pale eyes. "What have you got to win by fighting me, mister?" he wanted to know. His voice sounded cunning.

"That's a good question," Duquay admitted. "I suppose I could just let you have whatever you wanted, and make the job for the police just a little harder, put off your capture for another day or two, or week or two. And I could hope that having gotten what you wanted you'd leave here peacefully, doing nothing worse than tying me up perhaps. But as it happens, I don't trust you to that extent. You're a vicious punk, and you enjoy doing violence, causing pain, hurting people. You might be satisfied to kick me around a little, but on the other hand — with murder already on your record, I don't imagine you'd hesitate to kill me."

The young man's brows had lowered. His frown darkened. Pure malice was reflected in his eyes.

"And besides, Masden, I just happen to dislike you very much. You're scum, nothing but scum. I wouldn't mind taking the risk of getting hurt, or even of getting killed, for the privilege of being able to take a crack at you."