Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

Secret Recipe by CHARLES MERGENDAHL

"You're sure?" Simon said into the phone. "Nothing you want me to pick up on the way home?"

"No, everything's fine, dear. Polly's gone off with little Susie Steele, and I've planned a very exotic dinner — just like you suggested."

"Well, it is important," Simon said.

"Of course it is, dear." Sheila's voice sounded calm, almost too calm, and for a moment he felt serious doubts.

He shook them off. "Well," he said, "we'll be there in a few minutes."

"I'll be waiting."

"And Mr. Brevoort likes his martinis very dry."

"I'll place the vermouth bottle quite near the gin, then snatch it right away again." She laughed, almost gaily.

He said good-bye and hung up, then sat there a moment, still hearing the gay laughter. "Not tonight," he prayed. "Please, God, not tonight."

His secretary appeared in the office doorway. Her liquid eyes looked at his nervous hands, his teeth biting down on a lower lip. "It's five o'clock, Simon."

"Oh… Thanks, Ida."

"Mrs. Brevoort arrived just a minute ago. I told Mr. Brevoort you'd pick them both up on your way out."

"Yes, that's fine."

Ida hesitated, then moved into the office and closed the door behind her. "Simon?"

"Yes?"

"You think it's wise?"

"What else can I do?" He waved his hands helplessly. "The promotion comes up next Tuesday, and you know Brevoort — he likes to visit a man's home before making any real decision about him. So I've got to have them to dinner, and there's just no way out at all."

"Poor Simon." Ida sat on the edge of the desk and caressed the little brown hairs at the back of his neck. "I keep remembering," she said softly, "those six months when your wife was away."

"Yeah." He laughed ironically. "Away."

"She might go away again," said Ida.

"She will," he said.

Silence for a moment, while Ida's fingers stroked his neck. Then suddenly she bent and kissed him, her familiar lips moving roughly against his own. "Poor Simon," and then matter-of-factly, "well, it's five after five." She slipped off the desk and straightened her blouse. She said, "Don't worry, it'll work out," and left the office.

"It'll work out," Simon said. He rose, wiped off Ida's lipstick, and began clearing his desk. Beyond the door one of the stenographers giggled, and he sat again and put his hands over his ears. "Not tonight. Please, Sheila, don't do anything wrong tonight." He pulled upright and straightened his tie. He took a deep breath, put on his hat, smiled reassuringly at Ida as he passed her, and strode down the hallway toward the office of Mr. Walter Brevoort, President.

The October leaves fell like huge brown snowflakes as he drove through the early evening streets toward his home in Brentwood. Behind him in the rear seat, the Brevoorts sat apart from each other, staring out opposite windows. Mr. Brevoort was squat and bald with a fringe of white hair above his ears. His wife was plump and jolly.

Mrs. Brevoort said, "You have a daughter, don't you, Simon?"

"Yes. Polly, twelve, and she's quite a beautiful child." He laughed, apologizing for his own pride. But Polly was beautiful all the same. Blonde and slender and he loved her terribly. In a domineering way, perhaps; possessively, perhaps. "She's beautiful," he said again.

"Must get it from her mother." Mr. Brevoort chuckled at his own joke, and Simon said that yes, Sheila was attractive, too, and remembered that he had actually thought so once — before she'd been sent away to the sanitarium and returned with her "odd" ways that he'd tried to tolerate and now despised. "She might go away," Ida had said, and "She will," he had said. And she would, too, because that was the way he had planned it. Push her and push her. Exaggerate her idiosyncrasies to Doctor Birnam. Turn Polly against her. Drive her to the breaking point. Make her into a blabbering idiot. But not tonight. "Not tonight," he said aloud.

"What's that, Simon?" Mr. Brevoort asked.

"Nothing. Nothing." And he drove on through the dropping leaves, to the neat white house on the corner beneath the trees.

"Lovely," said Mrs. Brevoort as he helped her out.

He said, "We love our little house," and practically held his breath all the way up the walk, and did not breathe easily again until Sheila opened the door to greet them, and he saw that everything was going to be all right. She was dressed smartly in black, her dark brown hair done up neatly, her words slow and gracious, so that nothing gave her away at all — except perhaps the unusual brightness in her dark eyes, the twisted little smile on her lips when she raised them for his greeting kiss.

Mrs. Brevoort said, "What a livable room!" and Mr. Brevoort slumped his squat body into an upholstered chair and said, "Tell a lot about a man from his home life. A man's life gets upset at home, it's bound to show up in his work."

"Yes, sir," Simon said.

"Bound to."

"Yes, sir."

"Like to meet your daughter, Simon."

"Later," Simon said. "She's off with some friends just now." He looked at Sheila, who was serving the cocktails. "Where'd Polly go, dear?"

"The early movie," Sheila said. "She'll be back by seven."

"Then we can meet her," said Mrs. Brevoort.

"She's her father's daughter," said Sheila, and went into the kitchen.

Simon looked after her, frowning.

"Charming," said Mrs. Brevoort.

"Lovely wife," said her husband. "Don't know how you lived without her all those months she was visiting her family."

Simon mumbled something about its having been a difficult time for everyone, downed his own martini, murmured an apology, and went into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Sheila was bent over the stove, stirring the casserole before slipping it into the oven. "Everything all right?" he asked carefully.

"Perfect. Except you're planning to send me back to the sanitarium and take Polly away from me and keep carrying on with that Ida girl."

"Sheila…"

"Otherwise everything's fine."

"Not tonight, Sheila."

"Last night and last week and last month. But not tonight."

"If you'd try to understand — "

"Oh, I do, Simon. I understand perfectly. I'm to play a little game that will help you get a promotion at the office. After that you'll get rid of me and keep Polly for yourself."

"Look, Sheila — "

"And maybe you will get rid of me, but you won't get Polly."

"All right," he said. "Not now. Not now!"

She turned and smiled a little. Her eyes had become very bright, he thought, like that night months ago, just before the men had come in their white coats. He felt suddenly cold and said, "Anything I can do?"

"Take out the garbage if you like."

"After dinner."

"Now, before it smells up the kitchen."

He stepped on the pedal and drew the pail from the white container. The disposal bag was full, sealed tight.

"Don't open it," she said. "It'll make you sick."

He shrugged, carried the pail out the back door, dumped the bag into the garbage can, then returned to the kitchen.

"Anything else?" he said.

"Just remember what I told you."

"I'm warning you, Sheila — " But he stopped then. He could not threaten her now. He should not have threatened her last night either. She was insanely jealous, and he had to handle her very delicately until after the Brevoorts had gone.

He went back to the living room and poured everyone a second martini. The phone rang. It was Mrs. Steele. She wanted to know if Susie were visiting Polly, and if so, to send her right home to dinner. He told her that Polly and Susie had gone to the five o'clock movie, and Mrs. Steele said that was funny because Susie hadn't come home to ask her permission.

"Just a minute." He put down the receiver and called to Sheila. "You're sure Polly went to the movies?"

"Of course I'm sure." Sheila came out of the kitchen and stood there watching him.

"But Mrs. Steele said that was funny — "

"It isn't funny. I don't see what's funny about it." Her eyes were peculiarly bright again. He mumbled something to Mrs. Steele, then hung up and rejoined the Brevoorts. They were talking about a new television series that was a perfect howl, and he agreed, but could not seem to concentrate. He looked out the window and saw that dark had come rather suddenly tonight. He thought that Polly should not be out in the dark. He looked at Sheila, who was talking animatedly to Mrs. Brevoort. He thought her eyes should not be quite so bright, her lips not quite so moist and red. She should not be laughing quite so much.

"Simon."

He started.

"Phil Silvers — "

"Yes, a riot."

"You're not paying attention," Sheila chided.

"I'm sorry. I was thinking about what Mrs. Steele said. I was wondering where Polly's really gone."

"I told you, Simon, I know where she's gone."

Her laughter again, as from another room, another world, before she rose and announced that dinner was ready.

Simon sat at the head of the rectangular table with Mrs. Brevoort on his left and Mr. Brevoort on his right. Sheila lit the candles, then went into the kitchen and brought out the casserole in a large copper chafing dish. She lit the little burner in the wrought-iron frame and set the chafing dish over it. "It won't really cook this way," she explained, "but it looks nice, and it does keep it hot."

Simon looked out the window again. Dry leaves brushed against the glass. He clenched his hand under the table. He thought Sheila was talking too much. It was deep dark outside. He heard Mrs. Brevoort give a little exclamation of delight as her plate was served. He heard Mr. Brevoort say, "Curry… Anything curried… Love it, love it…" Then his own plate was set before him and he looked down at it, steaming there in the candlelight.

Mrs. Brevoort had taken a tentative taste. She said, "Mmm," and "Delicious, but what in the world is it?"

"A secret recipe," Sheila said, "though I have to admit I've never tried it before."

"A triumph," said Mr. Brevoort.

"Simon?" Sheila said.

"Oh, yes… Yes." He tasted the casserole. It was heavily seasoned, disguising another odd flavor he could not distinguish. "Not bad," he said. He glanced up and noticed that Sheila's plate was empty. "Aren't you having any?"

"I'm not hungry."

"But you never miss dinner."

"I know. But tonight I'm just not hungry."

That laughter again, the red moist lips, the bright gleaming eyes. Outside a slight wind began rustling the trees, and a child shrieked something in the darkness. He felt cold again. He wished Polly were home. He wished tonight were over and the promotion were all set so that he did not have to pretend with Sheila any longer. He could get her committed — for good — and he could sell this house he hated and take Polly with him and go to Ida.

"You're not eating, Simon."

"Yes, it's good. Very good." But he was not hungry. He had never liked strange foods, and had only insisted on this exotic dish because of the Brevoorts. He took another tentative mouthful, noticed a long blonde hair on his fork, and drew it off surreptitiously, thinking idly that it was one of Polly's of course, because Sheila's hair was a darkish brown. He was vaguely aware of the trees shaking in the rising wind. Mr. Brevoort said, "Yes, I will have seconds, please," and Mrs. Brevoort said, "You've simply got to give me the recipe. Onions and mushrooms and peppers and curry… And I presume the meat was sauteed, but what is it?" Sheila laughed secretly and he took another bite, and it was then that he found the fingernail. It was small and sharp and curved. It had caught between his teeth, and when he first examined it under the flickering light of the candle, he was not quite sure what it was. Then, when he did understand, it was only with a strange sense of detachment, until he looked up again and found Sheila smiling at him.

"Something the matter, dear?"

"No. Just something I — "

"Don't worry, dear. I know where Polly is."

"I know… I know." He placed the fingernail carefully on the side of his plate. He stared at it vacantly. "You will not get Polly," Sheila had said. "I know where she is… It's a secret recipe… And take out the garbage, but don't open the bag or you'll be sick…" Her eyes were too bright. She laughed too much, and deep down she'd always disliked his affection for Polly, and she'd never refused to eat dinner before. She had brown hair and her fingernails were long and red, and had not been cut for days. The wind sighed through the trees. And it was funny, Mrs. Steele had said. And why didn't Polly come home, and why had he been so terribly cold all evening, and why was he dizzy now, his hand trembling beyond control, his body beginning to shake, too, in a horrible spasm that would not stop?

"Chicken?" said Mrs. Brevoort.

"No, not chicken."

"Veal?" said Mr. Brevoort.

"No."

"Lamb?"

"No."

"Pork?"

"No." Sheila was still smiling. "Do you want to guess, Simon? Or did you peek? I bet you peeked when you were taking out the garbage. Simon… Simon?"

Simon screamed. He rose and screamed again and then again. He rushed to the door and screamed into the windy night. "Polly!.. Polly!" He ran back through the house and out the kitchen door, down the steps to the garbage can. He raised the lid, put out a hand, then snatched it back again and let the lid drop with a clatter. He was violently ill, leaning shuddering against the porch while the leaves whirled up around him. "Oh, God," he sobbed, "Oh, my God, my God!" He staggered back up the steps and into the living room. The Brevoorts were leaving, hurriedly, talking of getting a taxi. He hardly saw them. He was still screaming. The door closed and Sheila turned to him and said, "Now see what you've done, Simon? They don't think we have a happy home at all."

He kept on screaming. "You're crazy… Really crazy… And this time you're going away for good," and "Oh, my God, oh, my God," as he stumbled to the phone and dialed Doctor Birnam with trembling hands. His words were nearly incoherent. "I never realized… Something terrible… Bring the ambulance… Bring a strait jacket… Oh, my God!" while he laid his head against the receiver and shuddered and sobbed hysterically and could not stop.

"Terrible," Doctor Birnam said, after the white-coated men had taken the protesting figure through the doorway. "Simply terrible."

"But why?" sobbing uncontrollably. "Why… Why?"

The doctor shrugged. "These things are hard to explain. If you'd only seen it coming — but you couldn't possibly have guessed."

"And tonight, too — of all times — of all times when tonight was so important."

"I just don't — know." The doctor put out a reassuring hand, then moved slowly toward the door. "Of course, we'll do everything we can. A strait jacket for a while, and then treatment — I just don't know." He opened the front door and said, "Well now, how's my favorite little girl?"

"I'm fine," Polly said as she stepped inside. The doctor left and Polly said, "Susie's going to get the dickens for going to the movies without telling her mother." She looked around and said, "Where's Daddy?"

"Gone away."

"For a long time?"

"I'm afraid so."

"He said you were going away. But I'm glad it's him instead of you."

"Are you, darling?" She dried her tears. "Are you?"

Polly nodded, and said, "I'm famished."

"So am I."

They sat at the table and she served them both a large portion of the casserole, still hot over the little burner.

"It's good," Polly said. "What is it?"

"Guess."

"Chicken?"

"No, not chicken."

"Veal?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"A secret recipe," she said, and smiled fondly, faintly at her daughter.