Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

The Man Who Got Away With It by LAWRENCE TREAT

When he riffled through the batch of insurance claims that his secretary had left on his desk, he stopped at the big one — $100,000. He stared at the figures for maybe half a minute, thinking that with that amount somebody was rich. Then, still musing, he glanced at the name of the beneficiary, and he started. Mrs. Marvin Seeley.

Fran.

He swung around in his chair and stared at his reflection in the glass door of the bookcase. He saw a big, graying man, heavy in the face, with a short, broad nose and a neat mustache. There was no link between this individual — Hugh Bannerman, head of the claims department — and a bank teller wanted for embezzlement and murder. After twenty-five years, how could there be? And yet -

To see her again, to take the gamble and face her. Did he dare? His spine tingled, and his blood hummed through his veins with excitement.

She'd been a slender flame of a girl, young and lovely, with a dowry that made her even more desirable. But you need money to get money, and so he wooed her on bank funds. In their secret, lovers' world, he was Blinky and she was Winky, and she was as good as hooked. He figured that after they were married, after he confessed what he'd done for love of her, she'd replace every cent.

The scheme was fool-proof, for banks don't prosecute when you make restitution, and he had a whole year before the auditors could catch up with him. And his plans would have worked, too, if her brother, Mike, hadn't stuck his nose in. Mike was assistant cashier, and Mike had always had it in for him.

Bannerman scowled, remembering the evening Mike had accused him. Pretending a forthright honesty, when he was really out for blood.

"Twenty thousand dollars," Mike said. "I thought I'd better tell you here, in front of Fran, before I report it to the bank. In case you have an explanation."

Bannerman felt the gun in his pocket. He carried it in those days, just in case, and it gave him the courage to brazen this out.

"What's twenty thousand to you and Fran? You have it. You can get me out of this. For friendship, for love — "

Fran let out a little cry. "How can you!" she exclaimed. And Mike said contemptuously, "Why, you cheap fraud!"

That was when he took out the gun and leveled it at Mike. "Say that again," he remarked quietly. "If you have the nerve."

Fran screamed, "No — don't!" She tried to grab the gun, and that gave him an added excuse to fire. What right did Mike have to go on living, when he'd pulled a trick like that?

The bank teller disappeared immediately after the shooting, and he left no trace. With a little luck and a little police bungling, a smart man doesn't get caught. Plastic surgery, a careful change of voice and gesture, and the personality of Hugh Bannerman had emerged.

Smiling, he divided the stack of papers in front of him into two piles, one on each side of the desk. He was still uncertain as he left the Seeley file in the center. Then he rang for his secretary.

"You can give these to Perkins," he said, pointing. "The rest are for Davis."

"And that one?"

He stared at the Seeley claim, and his words seemed to come from other lips. "A hundred thousand is a lot of money," he said. "I think I'll handle that one myself."

He nodded casually, reached for the phone and called her. Just one more claim to close out, just one more routine appointment, in which to persuade a beneficiary to leave her money with the company, at interest.

He heard the buzz of the phone, and her answering voice. He recognized it at once, the queer little lilt of excitement in it, as if she expected something wonderful to happen at any moment. No, her voice hadn't changed. But his had with much practice, of course.

He made the appointment for the next morning, ten o'clock at her house.

He had no fears. In the past five years, since he had had this job, he'd occasionally run into former friends. They hadn't recognized him; they suspected nothing when he brought the conversation around to Fran. They told him her married name, and they discussed the long-ago story of the bank teller who had shot and killed her brother, and was probably dead.

Bannerman's work brought him in contact with the police, too. He'd been in and out of precinct houses and had even sat down with a police inspector. So he knew his identity was safe.

He thought about her on and off, all day. When he saw her, he'd say, "We have friends in common. They've told me a lot about you. I feel as if I knew you."

He'd be polite. He'd say, "You're a brave woman, Mrs. Seeley, to have built up a new life after that early tragedy." Then he'd smile and add thoughtfully, "Because you must always wonder whether, if you hadn't been foolish enough to grab the gun, your brother would have been shot."

That would be a nice touch, to plant the doubt in her conscience again, to make her feel guilty. And it would be added protection for himself, too. He began looking forward to the appointment. It was destiny; it was adventure. He was only forty-seven, with good years ahead of him. Anything could happen.

He slept well that night. He didn't dream, and he awoke sound and fit. He had his usual drugstore breakfast, drove to the office and parked in the company lot. He went over his mail, sorted it and dictated a few routine letters. Then he went downstairs and drove to the suburbs for his first appointment. With Mrs. Marvin Seeley.

He judged the house to be worth about fifty thousand dollars. It was in good taste, as Fran's was bound to be. The doors of the three-car garage were open, and he could see a convertible in it. Wealthy, he told himself, but not flaunting it. Probably one servant, and maybe a part-time maid. Fran might open the door herself. But he was prepared for that, too.

He'd see a plump, middle-aged widow, and she'd see a Stranger, Hugh Bannerman, from the insurance company.

He rang the bell, and waited eagerly. He heard a quick, light step, and the door swung open. As if in a dream, he saw that she was young and lovely and unchanged. Her blue eyes still sparkled with the marvel of the world, her blonde hair still shone and she had the same young, slim litheness. For a fleeting moment he was stunned, unable to believe in the miracle of her youth.

"Winky!" he exclaimed.

She looked at him in astonishment. Then, mocking him, enjoying the joke, she glanced behind her and said in that familiar voice, "Mother, there's somebody here who wants Winky. Who would that be?"

With a gasp, he lurched back. His foot missed the step and his ankle twisted and folded up underneath him. He felt a stab of pain as he went sprawling headlong.

He was unconscious for only a few seconds, but he kept his eyes closed, thinking hard, telling himself the blunder wasn't fatal, he'd get out of it somehow.

He heard footsteps come from the house, and someone stooped down beside him, but he didn't look at Fran Seeley yet. In an inspired flash, he decided to claim the girl had misunderstood him. Then he'd leave, and let Perkins come tomorrow and settle the insurance.

Winky — Seeley — the sounds were close enough. And he could certainly handle a couple of women who were upset and flustered over an accident. He'd done it often enough, in the course of his work.

Confidently, proud of his quick wits and supremely sure of himself, he opened his eyes.

Fran was older. She was a bit heavier and her face, soft and still beautiful in maturity, was compassionate, as if she had suffered deeply. Her eyes glowed with the tenderness of her sympathy, and she was evidently concerned with nothing but his pain. Which, as far as he was concerned, was all to the good. The mishap was working out in his favor.

"I'm afraid I gave my ankle a bad wrench," he said shakily.

"I'm terribly sorry. Do you think you could stand up? If you lean on us, Ethel and I can help you inside."

"I'll try," he said.

He raised himself awkwardly and rested his weight on the shoulders of the two women. Panting with the effort, he hobbled into the house and sank heavily into the deep cushions of a couch near the fireplace, where the light was subdued. His ankle gave him another twinge, and the warm, sumptuous room seemed to waver in front of his eyes.

"I hate to bother you," he said. "But if you'll call a doctor, he'll strap up my ankle and I'll be able to take care of myself."

"What you need right now," Fran said energetically, "is a drink of whisky. You're white as a sheet." She turned, showing her clear, molded profile. "Would you get the decanter, Ethel? And a glass from the kitchen?"

"Of course, Mother."

The girl left, and Fran leaned forward. She appeared to be undergoing a struggle, and she studied him in rapt concentration.

He jerked away, sharply aware that this was the first time anyone had had a reason to study him so closely. Never before had his disguise been put to the test.

"I hope," he said lightly, pretending amusement, "that your daughter doesn't get mixed up on the drinks the way she did on the name."

Fran didn't answer. If only he could get up, run, push her out of the way, escape. Anything except sit here and wait, exposed to her intense scrutiny.

He put his hand to his face, to screen it. He massaged his cheek briskly, and dropped his hand flat. He shouldn't have done it that way. Not with his old gesture, so familiar to her.

"That drink," he said, with growing panic. "I need it. What's taking so long?"

Then, finally, she spoke. "Blinky," she said, slowly and with distaste.