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

The Hitchhiker by Alexandra Hill

When a devastating blizzard is approaching, highways are safe for neither man nor beast. Unfortunately for all parties concerned, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between them.

We had no feeling of apprehension, David and I, as we slowed to pick up the hitchhiker on that lonely North Dakota road. Even if we had had a presentiment of evil we would have stopped for him just the same, for the last weather report from our radio, before it ceased to function, was ominous. A severe blizzard moving east from the Rockies had hit the western part of the state and was headed, although deliberately at the moment, our way. Anybody caught on foot on that barren prairie would have no chance whatever of survival.

The boy climbed in and demanded, “Where you going?”

“Winnipeg,” David answered.

He sat back, offering no comment as to whether that was satisfactory to him.

David waited expectantly for a moment, then asked, “And you?”

There was a slight pause. “Winnipeg.” And silence was resumed.

I turned a little in the seat to look at him. He was crushed back into the corner behind David, blue and cold, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his tight-fitting leather jacket in order to bug in what warmth he had left in him. Random snowflakes clung to his too sleek, too artfully cut hair. He was slight in build, his small-boned face marked by a long, stubborn jaw line and small, restless, light blue eyes. It was an unwholesome face, and set in a look of exhaustion past bearing.

“Was that your car we passed in the ditch ten miles back?” I asked him.

He shot me a surprisingly vicious look that told me it was none of my business, and then gave a grunt which I took to be affirmative.

David asked incredulously, “Are you going to leave it there while you go to Winnipeg?”

“Sure!” the boy exclaimed angrily. “It’s got a broken axle.”

We were silent then. I was fairly sure that the car did not have a broken axle. On spotting it in the ditch David had stopped to see whether someone needed help. And when he found no one there, had looked over the car to ascertain whether there had been an accident. The key was hanging from the ignition, and he had turned it and stepped on the starter. The motor did not respond. And the gas gauge registered empty.

I was about to ask the boy whether he knew that he had forgotten to take his key, in fact had got as far as “Did—” when David spoke quickly, interrupting me. “There’s a blanket on the ledge behind you. You might put it over your knees.”

I was puzzled that David had stopped me from saying what it must have been obvious I was about to say. I looked at him in surprise, bur nothing seemed to be amiss. Except — yes, there was a slight movement in his jaw muscle that told me that he was biting hard on his back teeth — a sure sign of annoyance, or of anger.

We rode along silently, and made no effort to pursue what would doubtless prove to be an unprofitable conversation with our guest. And presently, on hearing a subdued snort, I looked back and saw that he had fallen into a sleep of fatigue, his mouth hanging open, his chin rolling on his chest.

There was nothing to see but the desolate, endless plains, a very occasional bleak farmhouse, and the brooding sky. The snow did not appear to be coming any faster, and it looked as though we would get through to Winnipeg before the storm caught us.

No one was on the road but ourselves.

Though it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, the leaden sky closed in a little more, and David turned on the headlights. The sudden beam revealed a railroad cross-arm, quite near, and David braked a little, looked right and left, and picked up again. But the crossing was in disrepair, and we banged and bucked across the tracks with a considerable jolt.

The young man lurched out of his sleep shouting, “What’s the matter with you! Can’t you drive? I’d kill a man for less than that.”

Without turning my head I felt David stiffen, and my own pulse began to pound. When you’ve been married for a number of years, things need less and less to be put into words; I centered in to what was, and probably had been for quite some time, in his mind.

The morning paper, delivered with our coffee at the hotel, had carried screaming headlines about the particularly brutal murder of a service station attendant. The garage boy had identified the single gunman from pictures, so that the police knew who it was they were looking for. The man had fled in a stolen car, with a considerable amount of stolen money, and had not, so far, been apprehended. The article had ended, “The bandit is about twenty-two, has light hair, blue eyes, and is dressed in grey trousers and a black leather jacket.”

I said to myself in dismay, “But that was in South Dakota. We’re in North Dakota.” With a chill on my spine I realized that we too had been in South Dakota in the morning. Moreover the car in the ditch had carried a South Dakota license plate. Anybody in a car could have covered the distance with ease.

“Sorry,” David said easily, even though a little late. And then, “But that sounds a rather severe penalty for giving a boy a jolt.”

The young man said nothing, and subsided into resentful silence. After a while his head drooped, and he was asleep again.

I looked back three times to be sure his sleep was real before I turned to David, put my hand on his knee, and gave him a look of inquiry. He leaned over to look at the young man in the rear-view mirror, then pursed his lips in gesture of “Sh!”, nodded his head and squeezed my hand.

That was all I wanted to know. He was aware of everything and he had a plan.

I sat back and sighed. The poor young man! He didn’t know what he was in for. Though David is a round-faced, mild-appearing middle-aged man, a little too soft and too corpulent to have muscles to match those the youth could display, and though his hair is greying and his eyes are gentle, and though he may look altogether like a benevolent school-master, he has other and sterner qualities which are not so readily apparent.

As we drove along in silence I tried to turn my diamond ring under my glove, so that the stone would not make a bulge. It was impossible.

Then I began to notice that every time we passed one of the infrequent, isolated farmhouses, David slowed the ear almost imperceptibly and looked toward it thoughtfully. After each scrutiny he gradually picked up speed again.

When it was almost too dark to see, another farmhouse loomed out of the dusk on our left and David slowed, observed it critically, and turned quickly to enter the yard.

The wary young man woke immediately, lurched forward, and leaned between us over the back of our seat. “What’s the idea? Why you stopping?”

David halted the car a little away from the house, turned off the motor, and swung ’round to face him.

“Boy,” he said, “it strikes me you are a bit jumpy. I don’t know whether your car has a radio, or whether you listened to it, but there is a blizzard brewing west of here. If it is coming fast, we take shelter; if not, we go on to Winnipeg. I’m going in here to find out what the weather reports are.” He opened the door and stepped out.

The boy still sat forward, suspicious, poised lightly for instant motion. He blurted, “You got a radio. Whyn’t you listen to that?”

With a gesture of exasperated severity David leaned in and turned on the radio knob. We waited for a moment, the boy listening intently. Nothing happened.

“Does that make it clear?” David asked sharply.

“Yeah.” And a look of cunning satisfaction came into his eyes. I suppose he thought that if we didn’t know about the weather, we were ignorant of other news as well.

“And if you don’t like the way I conduct things,” David was going on, “you can step out of my car and be on your way.”

He didn’t move.

I watched David as he went to the door and knocked, his hat in his hand. A matronly farm wife appeared. The young man put down his window in order to hear.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but our car radio doesn’t work. Do you have a report on the state of the blizzard? We’re hoping to get to Winnipeg.”

Since the changing weather is a matter of life and death in a North Dakota winter, the woman did what anybody there would do. She unhooked the storm door and swung it open, invited David in, and said she would turn on the radio to get the last report.

My heart beat wildly at the thought that David would leave me in the car alone with this creature. Then my glance dropped to the ignition, and I saw that there was no key. I would not permit myself to turn toward the young man, but I had a prickly sensation at the back of my neck that made me suspect that his hard little blue eyes were focused on the same spot. Not a word passed between the two of us until David emerged, thanking the farmer’s wife.

When he was at the bottom of the porch steps she called after him, “Have you had your dinner yet? There won’t be anything fit to eat between here and Winnipeg.”

David hesitated. “Well, no, we haven’t. But if we roll right along we’ll be in Winnipeg before too late.”

The woman shook her head. “Nine o’clock, if the storm doesn’t veer suddenly and catch you. In this country we never go anywhere in blizzard weather without a full gas tank and a full stomach. Bring your family in, and I’ll give you a ham sandwich and a glass of milk to tide you over.” She looked toward the car and beckoned, smiling. “Come in,” she called. “The storm is not moving fast. I’ll make you some coffee.”

David turned to me questioningly.

I remembered that we had been looking, admittedly with a minimum of expectancy, for a place to get a snack at the time we picked up our passenger. I knew that David was hungry.

I called back, “Thank you,” and opened my door.

“Come along,” I said to the boy. “A little food will do us all good.”

He hesitated, obviously tortured between suspicion and a gnawing stomach.

“Come on,” I repeated. “And put your window up to keep the car warm while we’re inside.”

He sat for a moment more. Then he put up the window and came.

As we were almost at the steps the farmer himself came around the corner of the house. He was a heavy man, grey-haired and past middle age. He wore a parka, high, thick boots, and a fur cap with the ear flaps turned down.

“Lars,” his wife said, still holding open the screen door, “these people are going on to Winnipeg, and I’ve invited them in for a sandwich.”

The farmer stepped forward, slipped off his right glove and stretched out his hand. “Hansen,” he said heartily. “We’re pleased to have you.” Then to his wife, “Go along, Clara, and start the coffee. I’ll take care of them.” She went.

“We’re the O’Neills,” David said. “You’re more than kind.”

“We get to talk to so few strangers in these parts, it’s a pleasure. They go by at seventy miles an hour and all we see of them is their tail lights. I’ve finished feeding the cows and my chores are done, so I can enjoy you. Come in, come in.

As we went up the steps Mr. Hansen put his arm over the boy s shoulder. “Well, young O’Neill, he said, “I’ve got two sons about your age.”

David and I were walking just behind them, and I put out my hand, about to correct Mr. Hansen, but David quickly took my arm and shook his head.

Mr. Hansen was going on cordially, “One son’s in the air force and the other’s in college. Fine boys, but neither one of them is going to make a farmer. You’re not planning to be a farmer yourself, are you?”

“No.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Mr. Hansen ushered us in, asked the boy and me to be seated and said, “There’s some magazines on that table if you want them.

The boy silently took a proffered magazine and sat with it unopened on his knee.

“And now, Mr. O’Neill,” Mr. Hansen went on, “you please come over here. You’re a city man, and I want to get your opinion on all this extra wheat we’re growing in North Dakota. And then I want to tell you how honest and independent farmers feel about what’s happening to us.” And he seated David in one of two facing over-stuffed chairs placed very close to the big front window, and eased himself into the other.

The boy was restless and wary. He got up and moved about the room, noticing everything, and then sat down on the edge of a chair near the front door.

My chair was close to the hall door, opposite the men, and I listened to their conversation while I kept the boy in the corner of my eye.

After fifteen minutes or so the boy began to fidget. He got up, rotated a world globe on the table, looked at the two men who were absorbed in conversation, went back to his chair and sat again. I too thought that the woman was taking a great deal of time.

When the conversation paused for a moment I said to Mr. Hansen, “Perhaps I could help Mrs. Hansen in the kitchen?”

“Yes, yes,” he boomed, looking up. “She’d be glad to have you. Through the door behind you. You’ll see the kitchen on the right.”

So I rose and went into the small, and from there into the kitchen. I realized that everything could be heard between the two rooms, but nothing at all could be seen.

“This is nice of you,” Mrs. Hansen said. “I’ll put you right to work. Would you slice a little more ham? This is the knife.”

But the handed me no knife, and the sandwiches were already prepared, stacked on a huge platter on the sink. Milk was in the glasses, coffee was percolating on the electric stove, and Mrs. Hansen was taking dishes out of the cup-board and putting them back again with a clatter.

“When you’ve finished with that maybe you’d get cream for the coffee out of the refrigerator. I’m nearly ready.

She was shaking her head at me while she talked, pointing a dabbing forefinger into the living room and then at the telephone that was hanging on the kitchen wall.

Ah! So David had called the police.

I nodded, understanding, and helped her make kitchen noises, and asked her where they got vegetables and fruits in the long winters when the ground was frozen.

Then presently Mr. Hansen’s big voice was made bigger to reach the kitchen. “What’s taking you so long out there, Clara? This boy’s famished.” And in a slightly lower tone, “Calm down, son. It’ll be along.”

“Coming,” Mrs. Hansen called. “It’s ready.” She threw out her hands. Nothing for it but to take it in.

We put the glasses on a tray and I went in with them. Mrs. Hansen followed with the sandwiches and a stack of small plates. The men accepted their food, and with only a pause for a “Thank you” went on with their conversation. Mrs. Hansen and I sat near the kitchen door, tried to include the boy in our talk, but with no success. He gulped four sandwiches before we had done with our first.

Suddenly he said, “Let’s go.” It was an explosive, violent sound, and we all looked at him, startled.

“Oh my, no,” Mrs. Hansen said pleasantly, and she put her half-eaten sandwich on her plate, got up and started toward the kitchen. “I’ve got fresh coffee for you.”

I went to help her, and we took as long with that as we dared.

When we returned to the living room the draperies had been drawn shut. Mrs. Hansen said in surprise, “Lars, why did you pull the curtains?”

Her husband looked at them, and back at her. “I didn’t shut them, Clara. I didn’t notice they were shut.” And he got up and pulled the cord and opened them again.

He said, half apologetically, “You’ve no idea how lonesome it is out here. My wife likes to see the lights of the cars go by in the evenings. Even if people never stop, she knows they are there.”

With the agility of a cat the boy sprang to the window and gave the cord a violent yank. “I shut the curtains,” he said nastily, “and I want them shut.” He sauntered back, sat oner more, and picked up his coffee.

Mr. Hansen, unbelieving, gaped at the boy. “All right, boy,” he said evenly. “We aim to make our guests happy. ” Then he turned to let his eyes ark for some explanation from David.

David examined his hands and tried to extend the time a little more. “What was I saying? Oh, yes— How often do you get into Winnipeg, Mr. Hansen?”

I noticed that the curtains were still swaying from the violence of their motion, and that the hem of one of them had adhered to the coarse frieze of the upholstery of David’s chair, leaving a small triangle of window exposed.

“Winnipeg?” Mr. Hansen repeated vaguely. “Not often.”

Then abruptly the vagueness was gone, and he looked appraisingly at David. “By the way, Mr. O’Neill, I haven’t asked you what your profession is?” There was an edge of coldness, even of suspicion in his voice.

David hesitated, and I held my breath. To reply just now would do none of us any good.

“Come along,” Mr. Hansen insisted, and hostility was only barely below the surface. “What do you two fine city fellows do for a living?”

“Why, Mr. Hansen—”

But he didn’t have to say it, for the boy was on his feet.

“Let’s go,” he said in a hard voice. “Now.”

Thinking it might lull the boy’s suspicions if one of us seemed to be on his side I said, “It is getting late, David. Don’t you think we had better be on our way?”

But as I looked at him I saw through the gap in the curtains a car’s headlights turn into the driveway and then blink off. David was looking at me, and must have seen my eyes widen and have noted the direction of their gaze. He glanced down, and then cautiously sideways, directly at the gap in the curtain.

“David!”

He looked up quickly. The boy was standing before him, a steady gun in his hand.

“What is this!” Mr. Hansen shouted, and started to get to his feet.

“Sit down, pop,” the boy said, and moved the gun.

“Yes, Hansen, sit down,” David repeated mildly. And as Mr. Hansen did so the gun moved smoothly until it was a scant foot from David’s face again.

“Give me your car keys,” the boy said tightly, his lips pulled hard and straight.

And quietly David said, “All right. But you would have been safer entering Canada with us.”

“I know that. But I’m not about to wait for you.” For a second he looked startled at what David had said and what he himself had answered, and then a look of murderous hatred crossed his face. “O. K., smart guy, just give me the keys — or else.” I thought how easy the “or else” would be, except that we were four and he was one.

David leaned over toward the window, his right arm on the arm of the chair, and reached with his left hand into his pants pocket. As he brought out the car keys he swung his window-side elbow over the top of the chair, and took the curtain with it.

That was all they needed out there. The shot spun the gun from the boy’s hand and sent it into a far corner. There was one noisy, frightening moment of shattering glass. Then as the boy started after the gun, David trust out his leg and tripped him, and in a split second was on top of him.

I am absolutely sure that Mr. Hansen had not quite made up his mind who it was that should be subdued, for he waited for a distinct moment before he moved. Then he joined the heap on the floor, and threw his body across the thrashing legs of the boy.

He was a very tough young man.

But nobody had the gun! I slid swiftly from my chair.

“I’ll get it,” said a quiet voice, and a huge man in highway patrol uniform came through the hall door behind me, crossed over to the gun and picked it up.

Mrs. Hansen, at the same moment, went to the front door and opened it, and a second patrol officer came in, his gun still in his hand. “Evening, Mrs. Hansen,” he said.

They handcuffed the boy as David and Mr. Hansen got to their feet.

“Is it the guy we thought it was?” asked the officer who had come through the back door.

“Yes, it is,” said the other. Then he turned to David.

“You re O’Neill, the one that called?”

“Yes.”

“Was it you pulled the curtain back?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. That did it. Up to then, all I could see was a bunch of legs and the face of the lady across the room.”

Mr. Hansen had not so much as nodded to the officers. His eyes were glued in loathing on the young man’s face. “Who is this person?” he demanded.

“A murderer, Mr. Hansen,” one of the officers said. “Wanted in South Dakota.

“That murder?” Mr. Hansen slowly turned to face the officer.

“Yes.”

Then he transferred his gaze to David. “He never was your son?”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t have a chance to explain.”

Mr. Hansen rejected this with an angry pass of his hand.

Mrs. Hansen said, “You were in the barn, Lars. We had to call the police quickly.”

His brows shot up in incredulity. “You knew?” he demanded. “This was your idea?”

“Yes, it was. Mr. O’Neill wanted to drive on and let the police overtake them. But that way there would certainly have been shooting.”

Mr. Hansen almost shouted, “I suppose there wasn’t any shooting here! Why didn’t you let me handle this, Clara?”

She shook her head. “No. This way was better.”

Mr. Hansen said, “By the way, O’Neill, what is your profession?”

David looked up wearily. “Me? I’m a judge, Hansen, a judge in juvenile court!”

One of the troopers said, “Let’s go.” They both nodded to us, and led the boy out. He continued to struggle hopelessly.

David sank into a chair, his hands over his face, and from behind his hands his voice came out muffled, clouded.

“I chose your house because It wasn’t until we got here that I was sure I could tell the difference between the telephone wires and the electric service wires leading in from the poles on the road. I was positive that you had a telephone. How can I ever apologize for bringing such a thing into your home? You’ve been put out — terrified — endangered. You’ve got a broken window and there’s a blizzard coming. And a hole in the wall where the bullet hit.”

Mr. Hansen put a weathered hand on David’s shoulder. He said softly, “Don’t apologize. I can nail a canvas over the window for tonight. It’s like this, Mr. O’Neill. Clara and I, we’re human too.”