Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 13, Mid-December 1992

The Case by Charles Ardai

The five o’clock news offered several headline stories. None of them was about an airplane explosion above the runway at JFK. This made Leland Somers, who was watching the news from a hotel room in Chicago, nervous.

If the plane had blown up, as it had been supposed to, the blazing wreckage would have been featured at the top of the hour. Instead, the lead story had been something about prime lending rates and the Federal Reserve. News teams love fiery footage, Leland knew, and do everything short of setting their own explosions to get it. There was no way they could pass up a story as big as this. Unless there wasn’t any story.

No news was bad news.

Leland rode the elevator down to the hotel’s underground parking garage, then took his Volvo to the freeway. The nearest diner was a mile away, and when he reached it, it turned out not to have a phone. So Leland drove on. Five minutes later he pulled in at a Texaco station with a phone booth in the back. He dug a handful of change out of his pocket and sent the attendant away to pump a tankful of gas. Leland laid his quarters and dimes out on the metal ledge next to the phone and started making calls.

Yes, the information desk said, flight 717A took off safely from O’Hare. Delayed by forty minutes, but that was to be expected with the weather. The flight should have arrived in New York City at four thirty. Would Leland like for her to check?

Leland hung up, then dialed New York.

Yes, flight 717A had arrived safely. Forty-five minutes behind schedule, but—

Leland hung up, dialed Los Angeles.

No, the luggage checked on flight 717A had made it all the way to New York — except for those pieces that had been taken off at the stopover in Chicago. Why? Was Leland missing a bag?

Leland hung up, swept the remaining change into his palm, and dropped it in his pocket. Was Leland missing a bag? He certainly was, but he could hardly ask for it.

What did it contain, sir?

Oh, this and that: some shorts, some, souvenirs, five feet of firecotton wadding, a sensitively calibrated igniter, and enough C-32 plastic explosive to scatter pieces of your plane from Hoboken to Beijing.

Oh, that bag. Yes, we found it. We’re holding it for you at the courtesy desk.

Leland paid for the gas and a change of oil he hadn’t needed or wanted or requested. Three minutes of doubling the speed limit brought him back to his hotel room. He switched on the news again.

Another coup attempt in the Philippines, housing starts on the decline, a shootout between rival gangs outside a downtown packing plant — no airplane explosion, no panels of airline toadies insisting that flying is still the safest way to travel, not even a small item about a suspicious package at JFK being intercepted, opened, defused, and investigated. That would have explained the failure, at least.

Leland tried to figure out what could have gone wrong. Maybe a malfunction in the activation mechanism, he thought. It was attuned to rapid drops in altitude near the ground: the first such drop — the stopover landing in Chicago — primed the explosive, while the second — the landing at JFK — ignited it. Or should have. This was all controlled by a tiny microprocessor, and Leland was the first to admit that microprocessors were as unreliable as they were indispensable. Leland had tested the system, of course, but that didn’t rule out the possibility of a last-minute breakdown. Wires might have jiggled loose. Yes, that made the most sense.

But even this did not explain why the bomb hadn’t been found after the flight had landed at JFK. Airline security would have opened any unclaimed bags by now—

Of course, Leland realized. They had found it. They simply hadn’t released this information to the public. Nor would they. You can’t cover up an explosion, but a bomb that did not go off is another story. Leland could imagine the higher-ups telling the security team to keep quiet: chalk it up to good luck, men, and shut up. We don’t want to frighten away ticket buyers.

Or, hell, maybe the bag had gotten lost, had ended up on a plane to Miami or Jacksonville or Guam. And the bomb had malfunctioned. Or maybe the mechanism had worked and there was something wrong with the explosive itself—

Never mind, Leland told himself. What difference does it make why you failed? The point is that you did. The point is that flight 717A ended up in one piece instead of a million bits of scrap.

Leland knew he had two choices. He could go to Murami Al-Fasad and tell him what had happened, either the truth or a more self-flattering lie; Leland could ask for another chance to earn his fee, he could offer a freebie on top of that, he could even return the hundred thousand dollars Al-Fasad had deposited under his name in a Zurich bank account. Or he could run across the border into Ontario and hide out in the safehouse Thor Szkolar had set up with situations exactly like this in mind.

Leland weighed the alternatives carefully. Though some members of the Jihad were legendary for their brutality, Al-Fasad himself was a civilized man. He had been educated in the West, after all, and surely he would listen to reason — surely he would not forget Leland’s past record of success after success — surely, Leland thought, he would be sympathetic.

Al-Fasad was only a telephone call away. Leland stared at the phone by the bed for a good ten minutes.

Then he started to pack.

Raymond Conally stood by the baggage conveyor and watched as a tide of baggage flowed before him. Suitcases and bags of all descriptions rolled by on a great oval track. Unseen hands fed new bags in from the other side of a curtain of clear plastic strips that hung in front of a hole in the far wall. Tired travelers who spied their luggage climbed all over the conveyor belt and each other to get to it. Some bags were snatched right away; others went around and around, their owners evidently having forgotten them entirely. Raymond watched the same bulging golf bag circle into view five times before he stopped counting.

He should never have checked the case, he decided. It was too valuable; it was too important that the case arrive safely. But Raymond Conally was a man easily cowed, and when three stewardesses had insisted that his metal briefcase would not fit either in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of him, he had agreed, against his better judgment, to check it. This is what he got for taking a small charter flight. They always gave you a 757, with seats barely large enough for a child — Raymond was not a thin man — and no room at all for your carry-ons.

It didn’t help, either, that Raymond was, by nature, a trusting soul. The fact was that, so far, no airline had ever lost his luggage. The danger was certainly there, especially with a flight that continued on, as this one did, but Raymond somehow didn’t feel it would touch him. Losing one’s luggage was something that happened to comedians on their way to the Tonight Show, or to one’s tour-addicted uncles and aunts, not to a businessman on a business trip who couldn’t afford to lose a briefcase packed with choice black pearls.

Raymond crossed his sweaty fingers and waited. Would it come? What would he do if it didn’t?

It took three more cycles of the conveyor belt, during which time Raymond paced, his hands clasped tightly against each other, his stomach shriveling each time a new bag was added that wasn’t his. But eventually, miraculously, when Raymond had begun to feel that surely no more bags remained to be unloaded, it came. The weathered, boxy, grey case appeared behind the plastic strips, then burst through — right in front of the overstuffed golf bag coming around once more. Yes, here were his pearls, safely in his hands again. As the case rolled around the curve, Raymond pulled it off the belt.

It wasn’t very heavy, but Raymond was tired and that made it feel heavier than he remembered. No matter. He’d have it home soon enough, then he’d carry it to his office, and then it would be out of his hands once and for all.

Raymond shifted his suit bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder, hefted the metal case bravely, and made his way through the crowd to O’Hare’s nearest exit.

Some time after Raymond left, another weathered, boxy metal case emerged from behind the plastic strips and made its neglected way along the conveyor. It looked almost identical to the case Raymond had carried away, the only notable difference being that this one had a small tag hanging off the handle with Raymond Conally’s name and business address spelled out on it in block letters.

The case circled a couple of dozen times and, when nobody claimed it, was returned (along with the golf bag and several other articles of luggage) to the roomy underbelly of flight 717A to New York.

Leland settled into the passenger seat of Szkolar’s car and fastened the shoulder strap over his chest. Candy wrappers and sections of an old newspaper littered the footwell under the glove compartment. Leland kicked them to one side and tried to make himself comfortable. The seatbelt pinched at his waist and pressed his shoulder holster into his side. He shifted a little to find a better position.

Szkolar, meanwhile, pulled the car into traffic.

“It’s a lucky thing you called when you did. Five minutes later and I’d have been gone. I’m making a pickup.”

Leland nodded. “I’m just one lucky son of a bitch.”

“You are.” Szkolar talked without shifting his eyes from the road. His huge hands held the steering wheel in an expert grip, and within minutes he had outpaced every other car on the road.

“Yeah, lucky as hell. Lucky there’s one guy in this city who won’t pop me and then deliver my corpse to Murami to see what kind of reward he’ll offer.”

“Who’s that?”

“You, who do you think?”

“Are you so sure I won’t?”

“Don’t joke about that,” Leland said.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Fine.”

“A man hires me to blow up a plane for him, he pays me a lot of money, and I do nothing. Okay?

“Because as far as he knows, I did nothing. He doesn’t know I planted a bomb that didn’t work. All he knows is that the plane didn’t blow up and that the four men he wanted to blow up with it are alive and well. I’m a dead man.”

“What I don’t understand is, why didn’t you just use a timer?”

“A timer?” Leland threw up his hands. “For God’s sake. How could I have used a timer? Who knows when these planes will land? There was a forty-five minute delay. Could I have predicted that? It might have been a twenty minute delay. The plane could have been on time. It could have been two hours late. It could even have been ahead of schedule, and then I’d have blown it up after everyone had gotten off. There’s no way I could have used a timer.”

“Okay, calm down,” Szkolar said. “So what was it that you did use?”

“I told you, a C-32 Bock-Martin.”

“Yeah, you told me a C-32 Bock-Martin. You want to tell me what that is?”

“I’ll make it real simple,” Leland said. He darted a glance in the rear view mirror. As far as he could tell, they weren’t being followed. Yet. “C-32 is the explosive. That you know, right? It’s the same stuff you use on safes. Bock-Martin is the detonator. The detonator responds to drops in altitude. You put it on a plane. The plane goes up, you’re fine. Turbulence — no problem. But the plane comes down for its final descent and — boom. It ignites the C-32.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Leland said.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“That bomb’s out there somewhere. You realize that, don’t you?”

Leland shook his head. “I’m sure the cops have it and are dusting it for prints as we speak.”

“Maybe,” Szkolar said. “Maybe not.”

The case did feel heavier than he remembered.

Was it just that he was tired? Or could someone have tampered with it? Raymond lifted it up to take a closer look, but just at that moment the last person in line in front of him got into a cab and it was his turn.

A skycap flagged down a taxi that had just discharged a family of four at the boarding area. Raymond got in and gave the driver his address.

“You just get back,” the cabbie asked, “or are you visiting?”

“No,” Raymond said, “I live here.” This would have been the right answer even if it hadn’t been true — Raymond knew the cabbie was trying to see if he could take him for a ride, running up the meter by driving in circles. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Good for you,” the cabbie said, not sounding particularly pleased about it.

Raymond lifted the case to his lap, laid it down flat on his knees, and rested his hands on it. It didn’t look tampered with — on the outside. He would have liked to look inside, but he didn’t have the key. Perhaps it was just as well. He was carrying some of the merchandise loose, and the back seat of a speeding cab would have been the wrong place to open a case full of loose pearls.

Looking at the case more closely, Raymond noticed for the first time that his name tag was missing from the handle. He responded the way a soldier on the front might to finding a pair of bullet holes in his helmet: he felt a chill, as though he had just received a warning from a higher power. He remembered how long he’d had to wait at the baggage conveyor. No, in the end he hadn’t lost the case, but he had come closer than he had realized. The baggage handlers had (accidentally?) torn off the only identification anywhere on the case. If Raymond hadn’t picked it off the conveyor, the case would have been gone for good.

He felt fortunate and chastened.

And here he’d been worrying about whether the case had been tampered with. If it had been, he told himself, it would be lighter, not heavier. No, everything was exactly as it should have been. He patted the case affectionately as the cab raced, bumped, and swayed through the streets of Chicago.

“Suppose someone picked up your bag at the stopover,” Szkolar said.

“Why would someone do that?” Leland asked.

“You want to know how often I’ve done it?”

“And you’ve done it because...”

“It’s an easy score. No one stops you at an airport. You can walk off with any bag you want. Some people,” Szkolar said in a tone rich with scorn, “even do it as an honest mistake.”

There was silence in the car as they sped toward the Dolbinder Marina.

“So you’re saying the bomb could still be active, somewhere in the city.”

“I’m saying it’s possible.”

“And if it is, it could go off at any rapid descent. If someone dropped the damn thing down a flight of stairs—”

“Mm-hm.”

Leland relaxed in his seat. “Man, I hope you’re right.”

“You hope I’m right?”

“Sure. That would mean that the evidence is far away from the airport, not in the hands of the cops, and about to blow itself up.”

“Yes,” Szkolar said, “but it’s going to blow some innocent people up along with it.”

“Better them than me,” Leland said.

Szkolar didn’t say anything.

The doorman, whose name was also Ray; helped Raymond out of the cab and to the elevator. He carried Raymond’s suit bag. Raymond carried the case.

The forty story climb to Raymond’s floor took only a few seconds, and when the elevator stopped, Raymond suffered the uncomfortable lurch he felt every time he rode it. It was the feeling of his inner organs continuing upwards for a second after he and the elevator car had come to a halt. The only feeling that was worse was the feeling of being pressed to the floor of the elevator after a forty story descent to the lobby. Still, Raymond thought, a fast elevator was better than a slow one.

He carried the case and his suit bag into his apartment, spent half an hour hanging his suits up, showering, and changing, and then picked up the case and left again. Raymond would have liked to fall into bed, to sleep out the kinks in his knees and shoulders, but Becker was probably already wondering what had happened to him. It wasn’t late enough in the afternoon that Raymond could justify putting off his trip to the office until the next morning. So he woke himself up with a quick glass of soda water, locked the door behind him, and called the elevator.

The indicator indicated that both cars were on the first floor. While he waited, Raymond put the case down and rested it against his leg.

He still thought it felt heavy.

No matter.

After a few seconds, one elevator started to move; then the other started chasing the first in a race for Raymond. Raymond picked up the case and approached the doors.

The first elevator slid open. A little boy ran out and down the hall. He was an eight-year-old given to idiotic pranks and loud midnight tantrums that had occasionally made Raymond consider moving to another floor. Raymond looked inside the elevator to see if the boy’s mother was there, but she wasn’t. Typical, letting the little monster run around on his own.

He stepped into the elevator. But just as he did, the second car arrived. Raymond heard its door shoot open invitingly. For an instant, while his car’s door remained open, he considered switching cars to the one untainted by the little boy’s presence... but there was no real reason for him to do so, and he didn’t. Raymond chided himself for being so uncharitable. He put the case down and loosened his tie.

The door closed.

The elevator started moving down.

Raymond steeled himself for the sudden assault of gravity he knew was coming.

But after dropping for a second, the elevator slowed to a halt at the thirty-eighth floor.

The door opened.

A mother with two kids in tow and a third nestled heavily in the crook of her elbow steered her brood onto the elevator. With a momentarily free hand she pressed the button for the lobby.

The elevator doors closed.

Raymond looked at his watch.

The motor three floors above their heads hummed into operation, and again the car started its descent.

One of the kids — a girl with big eyes and a red, runny nose — walked over to the case and stared at it. She’s going to touch it, Raymond told himself. She’s going to ask me what’s in it. So he shifted the case to between his legs and clamped it tightly with his ankles. The girl ran back to her mother’s side. One of her sisters started coughing, and hearing this, the baby started to cry.

The panel above the door ticked off the floors as they dropped past them: thirty-seven, thirty-six—

Then, abruptly, the elevator came to a halt again. The door opened.

There was no one there.

After a moment, Raymond jabbed the “Close Door” button.

The door closed. The elevator started.

Then stopped, at thirty-five.

Then at thirty-four.

And at thirty-three.

“Mommy,” the red-nosed girl whined, “what’s happening?”

“Someone who was in here before us must have pushed all the buttons,” the mother explained.

“Why?” The girl’s voice set Raymond’s teeth on edge.

“Someone thought it was a fun game, I guess,” the mother said.

“But why?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

Meanwhile, they had stopped at thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine, and twenty-eight.

Someone, Raymond said to himself. That little brat — another floor isn’t good enough. I need to move to another building. He cursed himself silently: I knew I should have taken the other elevator.

Raymond tapped the case with the side of his foot as the elevator slowly inched its way to the ground floor.

Leland had the door open before Szkolar even killed the engine. He was out and darting glances around the parking lot while Szkolar was still pulling the key from the ignition.

“Don’t be so impatient.” Szkolar went around to the trunk, opened it, and started rummaging through its contents.

“I’m not impatient,” Leland said. “I’m scared.”

Szkolar pulled a satchel and a flare gun from the trunk. “Big boy like you shouldn’t be scared.” He slammed the trunk shut.

“You don’t know what the Jihad does to big boys like me.”

“I can guess.”

“If you can guess, why aren’t you moving faster?”

“Listen,” Szkolar said. “I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay at my place. Don’t abuse my hospitality.”

“All I’m saying is, could we please get there a little faster?”

“You give me three million dollars, we can leave right away. Otherwise, I’m going to make my pickup the way I planned. Understand?”

Leland nodded. He walked with Szkolar to the end of the pier, where a grimy blue boat with Thor’s Hammer stenciled on the side was tied up. Szkolar threw the satchel and the flare gun onto the deck, then pulled himself up on an iron rung welded to the side. Leland climbed up after him.

“What is it that we’re picking up, anyway?” Leland asked.

“We aren’t picking anything up. I am picking something up, and what I am picking up is none of your business, my friend. With everything hanging over you right now, the last thing you need is to be implicated in a robbery, too.”

“What did you—”

“Just shut up and unpack the bag,” Szkolar said. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Thor’s Hammer pulled out into the open bay, churning up the water behind it.

Raymond carried the case to his office by foot, wishing all the way that it didn’t look so conspicuous. A metal valise in a city more accustomed to sleek leather attaché cases was sure to catch the eye of every street hustler and mugger he passed. In fact, Raymond did see a few eyes turn his way; each time this happened, he put on the most determined expression he could and switched the case to his other hand.

Can they guess what’s inside? he wondered. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he rushed along empty midafternoon streets and past shadowed doorways. Even if they can’t, Raymond told himself, they can probably figure out that it’s something valuable.

He held the case close to his side, in a grip so tight that his fingers started to ache. As his building came into sight, he started to walk faster, and when he was only ten yards away, he threw his embarrassment aside and broke into a full-fledged run. Raymond had the sudden impression that there was someone behind him. Part of his mind knew that this was just foolish paranoia, but the rest of his mind didn’t; he ran, gulping down ragged breaths, until he had passed through the revolving door and into the lobby.

He put the case down and looked back the way he had come. There had been no one behind him. There was no one anywhere on the street. Good. Shame started to creep into his mind, but he forced it back. So I ran, he said to himself as he straightened his hair and his tie. So I’m a coward. So what? No one saw me. And there could have been someone following me. You can never be too careful. He reached down to pick up the case.

It wasn’t there.

Then something hard and heavy connected with the back of Raymond’s head, and just before he lost consciousness, he felt, mixed in with feelings of terror and rage, a strong sense of vindication.

Raymond came to behind one of the Oriental folding screens that decorated the lobby — where, he realized, the thug who hit him must have been hiding when he entered. He felt the large, soft spot on the back of his head and winced.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet and spent a few minutes trying to focus on his watch face. It seemed that he had been unconscious for almost three hours. Not exactly the rest he had wanted. But what could he do?

He made his way to the elevator, and while he waited for it to arrive, he prepared himself for the scene he was about to face. He’d be fired, for sure. He had just lost more than two million dollars’ worth of pearls. There was no way around it, no excuse that could make up for it.

Raymond walked slowly to the door of Becker International, Ltd., and punched the doorbell only after a moment of agonized hesitation. When he walked in, Becker was there, meaty hands on his ample hips, hot in an argument with Orin Myer, his vice president. They both turned to look at Raymond as he staggered in.

“I’m sorry,” Raymond mumbled. He walked to the couch by the receptionist’s desk and fell onto it, holding his head in his hands.

Becker came over to him, loomed above him. “Ray,” he said, “you realize that this is unacceptable.”

Ray nodded.

“It can never happen again.”

Again? “No, sir, of course not...”

“We got a call from airport security in New York. They found your case when no one claimed it. Fortunately, it had our address on it. I sent Kyle Baker to pick it up.”

“I... I—”

Becker put a hand up. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want an apology. I don’t even want an explanation. Just understand that this is your one and only warning.” Becker turned and walked into his office.

Orin squatted next to Raymond. “You don’t know how lucky you are. We were afraid the merchandise had been stolen. If you had let someone steal the line, I don’t know what Becker would have done.”

“But someone did—”

Orin had already gotten up and was on his way out of the room. Raymond didn’t bother finishing his sentence.

The receptionist leaned over her station and looked down at Raymond. His hair was matted with dried blood and his suit looked as if it had been dragged along a dusty floor.

“What the hell happened to you?” she said.

Raymond shrugged.

Leland stood at the railing, the loaded flare gun in his hand. The sun had almost completely set; a thin red sliver of light still shone between the bottom of the bridge and the water.

The boat slowed and then stopped, rising and falling with the waves. Szkolar came to Iceland’s side and squinted up toward the bridge. Lights along the pedestrian walkway at the bridge’s edge showed that the bridge was empty.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait,” Szkolar said. He looked at the faint green figures on his watch. “It shouldn’t be long. My man heisted the stuff this afternoon.”

“Can’t you tell me what it is now?”

“Pearls. Japanese black pearls.”

“That’s worth three million dollars?”

“You’d better believe it.”

A horn honked three times from the bridge. Then a car door slammed.

“That’s him,” Szkolar said. “Shoot the flare.”

Leland aimed the gun straight up and fired. A silent flare tore upwards, exploding in the night sky. Szkolar scanned the railing of the bridge until first a pair of hands, then a face, appeared.

“There he is,” Szkolar said, pointing. He motioned Leland back from the railing. “He’s going to throw the case down to us on a rope.”

The man on the bridge lifted the case up to and over the edge of the bridge. A rope was tied to its handle. Leland stared at it. Recognition was slow to creep into his face.

“Funny,” he said, “that looks like...” Then he blanched.

“Looks like what?” Szkolar said.

Leland wasn’t listening. He had his hands cupped at his mouth and he was shouting, “No! Don’t drop it! Don’t drop it!”

But the case was already falling.