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

"I certainly don't!" Doris said. "I've had all I want of that dreadful place today!"

"Pour out the drinks," I said. "I'll be back in a minute."

I went across the hall to Wilkins' door. I intended fiddling with the lock, using the key to my own apartment. But I was pleasantly surprised to find the door open. I looked at the sofa where they'd found Wilkins' body. But my eyes didn't linger there a second. They went right on past to the end table beyond, where my candy box lay in the midst of its discarded wrappings, its lid fallen off the table onto the floor.

I grinned, picturing vividly what had happened when those imprisoned bees, innocently released by Wilkins as he opened his mail, had come boiling out of the box. It couldn't have taken long after he panicked and began shooing and striking at them as he almost surely did, because when you're allergic to bee-venom the way Wilkins was, one good dose of multiple bee-stings will collapse your circulatory system and stop your breathing so quick you wouldn't believe it.

I found them in the kitchen.

Wilkins had a row of African violets blooming in pots on the kitchen window sill, and the bees were buzzing drowsily against the screen over the open window behind the violets, anxious to get out into the warm August air again.

Nobody will ever figure this one out, I told myself. I allowed myself a wise smile as I opened the screen behind the violets and watched the little yellow murderers stream gladly through to freedom.

I went back to Doris and my martini. I took her into my lap as we drank. I thought how nice it would be to have her all to myself again. What a doll! I looked at her fondly. So maybe she was inclined to take up with other men when I was away. Out of sheer boredom only. Just to dilute her loneliness. Nothing else.

Suddenly it occurred to me that there was one good way to put a stop to that: quit this crummy selling routine that kept me on the road half the time.

I put down my empty martini glass and turned her face to me and kissed her. I kissed her good. I said, "Baby, I've decided to quit my job."

"You what?" She was thunderstruck.

"Yeah. I want to be home more, Doris. With you. I get so lonesome on the road."

"I get lonesome, too, Jim," she murmured contritely into my shoulder.

"Sure you do, honey. And you know what? I've thought of a job that would let me stay right here with you all the time."

She raised her head. "What?"

"Writing detective stories. Like poor old Wilkins across the hall. I think I'd like to try my hand at that." I kissed her again. "I have an idea I might be pretty good at murder."

Her arms tightened around me. "Darling, I'd love having you home with me," she said, "but you've never written a story in your life!"

"You've got to start sometime," I said.

So this is the first one.

Did you like it?

There's more to being a butler than the ability to stand stiffly erect. One must also be able to look down one's nose, while keeping one's ears open and one's mouth shut. Understandably, butlers are a vanishing race.

"Please, Malone," the beautiful brunette said, in a passionate tone. "You've got to help me!"

John J. Malone flicked his cigar inaccurately toward the ashtray on his desk and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the woman was still there, seated across the desk. He sighed. "What do you want me to help you do?" he said. The choice of words, he reflected, was just a little unfortunate, but it really didn't matter. He knew he would have to take the job, whatever it was. So long as it wasn't anything definitely illegal. And he wasn't sure that would stop him, either, he reflected. The bank balance was at its lowest ebb in years. Mentally, Malone ticked off a list of people he owed money to: the telephone company, the electric company, Maggie, Joe the Angel, Ken, Judge Touralchuck (an unfortunate poker game)…

It seemed endless.

"It's my husband," the woman said. "The police think I murdered him."

Malone sighed again. "Why?" he said. "For that matter, who's your husband? And who are you?" He thought of adding: "And why did you have to pick me, of all people?" but decided against it. He needed the money, he reminded himself. And the woman, was beautiful.

Malone felt a resurgence of gallantry in his breast. He flicked cigar ash off his vest and waited quietly.

"Oh," the woman said. There was a little silence. "I'm Marjorie Dohr," she said.

Malone blinked, and said nothing at all.

The woman spelled her last name. "My husband's James Dohr. I mean… he was James Dohr. Before he — " Her lips tightened. Then she put her head down on Malone's desk and began to sob.

"Please," Malone said, patting the head ineffectually. "Please. Stop. I — "

After a few seconds she looked up, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and murmured: "I'm sorry. But it was all so sudden… James was — dead, and then there were the police, and I — "

"Ah," Malone said. "Tell me about the police."

Mrs. Dohr dabbed at her eyes again. "You — will help me?" she asked.

"I'll try," Malone said. "Did you kill your husband?"

Mrs. Dohr stared. "Of course not," she said. "I told you — "

"I just wanted to make sure," Malone said defensively. "But the police think you did."

She nodded. "That's right," she said. "You see, James didn't feel well, so he stayed home. I went to the movies. And when I got back, he was — he was lying there, right in the living room, with that knife in his back, and I–I was going to call the police."

"But you didn't?" Malone asked gently.

"No," she said. "They came in — just a few seconds after I got home. And they accused me of murdering James. For his — money."

"Money?" Malone said hopefully.

"That's right," Mrs. Dohr said. "When old Gerald Deane died, he left James five thousand dollars. And the police thought I killed James for that."

"Very silly of them," Malone murmured. "Your husband was related to Gerald Deane?" He remembered the aircraft magnate. Five thousand dollars seemed a small sum to leave to a relative, even a distant one, if your estate was the size of Deane's, but people did funny things.

"Oh, no," Mrs. Dohr said. "They weren't related at all, not at all."

"Ah," Malone said. "Just good friends."

Mrs. Dohr shook her head. "Not exactly," she said. "You see — maybe I should have explained before. My husband is — was — a butler. He worked for old Mr. Deane, and then he worked for his son Ronald. He was working for Ronald until he — until he died."

"A butler," Malone said.

"That's right," she said. "Malone — you will help me, won't you? You don't think I killed my husband, do you? Please say you'll help me!"

Malone sighed. "I'll help you," he said obediently. "And I don't think you killed your husband. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you didn't," he added in a burst of confidence.

"You mean — you can prove I didn't kill James?" Mrs. Dohr said. "Then who did?"

Malone coughed gently and took a puff on his cigar. "Before we answer that," he said, in what he hoped was a confident tone, "we'll have to have a few more facts."

An hour later, armed with facts about James Dohr, Gerald Deane, his surviving wife Phyllis and his son and daughter-in-law, Ronald and Wendy, Malone set off for Joe the Angel's Bar. It would be, he told himself, a nice place to collect his thoughts and make up his mind on his first move.

But the atmosphere wasn't quite as friendly as he remembered it from other days. Joe was brooding about Malone's bar bill, and he made it fairly obvious. Malone had a few drinks for old times' sake, but his heart wasn't really in it. And, beyond deciding that his first place of inquiry would be the Deane household, he did no thinking worth mentioning.