Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 16 Skeletons From My Closet

The Man At The Table by C. B. GILFORD

Byron Duquay sat alone at the octagonal, green-topped table. At his right side was a small stand on which were stacked poker chips, red and white and blue. At his left side was a tea cart loaded with Scotch, Bourbon, a siphon bottle, a dozen clean glasses, and a large container full of ice cubes.

As he sat there alone, Byron Duquay toyed with a deck of cards. His slim, well-manicured fingers riffled the deck, cut it, then played through a little game that seemed to be a weird combination of solitaire and fortune-telling. Duquay's handsome, lean, ascetic face did not change expression as the cards turned up. There was no other sound in the room, or for that matter in the whole vast apartment, except the flick-flick of the cards as they passed through Duquay's hands.

No sound, that is, until the small metallic one of the door's opening. The door was around the corner, out of Duquay's vision, so he called out in a friendly voice, "Come on in, whoever it is."

He was expecting a fellow cardplayer. But the man who came into Duquay's view in half a minute had obviously not come there to play cards. He was a small man, several inches under six feet, and extremely thin. He wore stained gray trousers, a rumpled white shirt with rolled up sleeves and open at the neck, and his hair, rather long and sand-colored, was tangled and awry. His small, narrow face was twisted, and there was desperation in his pale eyes. In his right hand was a sizeable knife.

Byron Duquay didn't try to get up from the table. But he stopped his little card game. "What do you want?" he asked.

The stranger didn't answer the question. Instead, after glancing suspiciously about the room, he asked one of his own. "Are we alone here?"

Perhaps unwisely, Duquay nodded.

"Okay," the strange young man said. "Don't give me any trouble, and you won't get hurt."

"What do you want?" Duquay asked again. But this time his voice was slightly steadier, calmer, and the question less automatic.

But still the young man didn't answer. He looked around the room again, perhaps trying to decide if there was anything here that he did want. On this inspection of the room he saw the bottles at Duquay's elbow, and his eyes lighted.

"I could use a drink," he said.

"Sit down," Duquay said, "and I'll pour you one."

But he waited till his visitor was seated. The young man, possibly for caution's sake, chose the place exactly opposite Duquay and thus also the farthest away from him. He kept his right hand on top of the table. The blade, perhaps six inches long, gleamed against the green baize surface like a diamond against a background of black velvet.

"What do you drink, Bourbon or Scotch?"

Almost taken aback by the fact there was a choice, the young man hesitated. "Bourbon," he said finally. "A big one, with ice cubes."

There was another silence while Duquay served up the drink as requested. Then he pushed it across the table. The young man accepted it with his free left hand, took a long sip, made a slight grimace.

"I want some money," he said afterwards, "and your car keys, and I want to know where your car is parked. I also want some clothes."

Duquay made no immediate movement to supply any of these. "This doesn't sound like an ordinary stick-up," he said.

"So it ain't an ordinary stick-up." The young man took another long taste of the whiskey. "Gome on, you heard what I said."

But Duquay changed the subject. "Who are you, by the way?"

"None of your damn…"

"You must be Rick Masden."

The faintest of proud smiles flickered over the young man's face. "I guess you listen to the news on radio and television," he said.

"Occasionally," Duquay nodded.

"Okay, I'm Rick Masden. I cut up two people in a bar last week. My girl and her new boy friend. A couple of days later they caught me, but yesterday morning I got away from 'em." He grinned. "Because I found me another knife."

"Do you mind if I have a drink with you?" Duquay asked, reaching for one of the decanters.

But Masden's left hand, leaving his own unfinished drink, banged suddenly and hard on the table. "Never mind the drink!" he almost shouted. "I told you what I wanted, and I want 'em now."

Duquay desisted from the preparation of his drink, but he made no other movement. "Let's talk this over, Masden," he began.

Masden's right hand came off the table a couple of inches, and the knife twisted restlessly in his fingers. "Look, mister," he said slowly, "you either do like I say, or I'll cut you up just like I did the others."

But Duquay didn't flinch. "Sit still, Masden," he said quickly, and his voice had the edge of command in it, so that for the moment at least Masden obeyed. "Before you decide to try to cut me up, you'd better listen to what I have to say."

Masden seemed to sense the danger, the challenge. He sat quite still. Even the knife became immobile. "I'm listening," he said finally.

"Good. Now let's analyze our situation, Mr. Masden. We're sitting on opposite sides of this table, about six feet apart. You have a knife, and I at the moment have no weapon. But it has been running through my mind, Mr. Masden, what I might do if you were to decide to become violent. I certainly would try to defend myself. Do you know how I would go about attempting that? I'll do just this. If you made the slightest motion toward getting up from your chair, I'd up-end this table on you. I'm quite sure I could do it too. You may be a little younger than I am, Masden, but if you'll notice, I'm approximately twice your size. So there we'd have the first phase of our little battle. You'd be on the floor with the table on top of you, or if I weren't so lucky, you'd at least be back against the opposite wall, with the table between us. Do you follow me?"

Fascinated, despite his suspicion and his fury, the young man nodded. "Yeah, I get you," he said.

"Then let's proceed to Step Two. Observe the desk behind me and to my left, Masden. I think you can see what I'm referring to from where you're sitting. I use it for a letter opener, but actually it's a jeweled Turkish dagger. Now it's pretty obvious from here on, isn't it, Masden? The instant I succeeded in upsetting the table on you, I would grab that dagger. Then we'd be approximately even, wouldn't we, Masden?"

The young man stared, then when Duquay paused for a moment, he blinked his eyes several times and licked his lips. But he didn't say anything.

"So much for Step Two," Duquay continued, now with even greater precision of speech. "We might call the completion of Step Two the end of the preparation for battle. Step Three would be the beginning of the battle itself. Now how would we stand there, Masden?"

Again there were the blinking and the licking of the lips, but again also, no comment.

"Let's consider the weapons, Masden. What kind of knife is yours?"

"A sharpened kitchen knife," Masden answered almost unwillingly. "A guy slipped it to me in the jail."

"If you don't mind my saying so," Duquay said with a slight smile, "I think I'd have a slight advantage over you in the matter of weapons. At least I certainly wouldn't trade my Turkish dagger for your kitchen knife."

"Look, Mister…"

But Duquay pressed on. "More important than the weapons, however, are the men involved in this battle. How do you think we compare, Masden? How old are you, by the way?"

"Nineteen."

"I'm thirty-one. Perhaps you have a slight edge there. How much do you weigh?"

"A hundred and twenty."

"I'm sixty pounds heavier, Masden. Score that for me then. Now how well can we handle ourselves? I'll offer my qualifications first. All-Conference quarterback at State ten years ago. Almost as good as a basketball forward. Far above average at tennis, swimming, et cetera. Furthermore, I keep in shape with at least one hour's exercise every day. Haven't gained an ounce since I left college. That ought to prove something, don't you think? Now, how athletic are you, Masden?"

The young man across the table had grown paler and tenser. He licked his lips again. It seemed as if he wanted to answer, but no words came.

"Let me analyze you then as I see you, Masden. You're a case of chronic malnutrition, I would guess. Not because you ever actually starved, but rather because you grew up unsupervised, and so you never ate the right things. You're abnormally thin, you know. Now add to that a few bad habits. You probably started smoking when you were about nine or ten. I've noted the excessively heavy nicotine stains on your fingers. Lord only knows what you smoke now, maybe something stronger than tobacco. And you also drink, I see. I'd bet anything that you drink more than I do. Look at me, Masden, and look at yourself. Tell me who you think is the better physical specimen."

The young man was frowning now. His rather thick eyebrows were drawn almost together, and his eyes stared very hard at his host.

"But we haven't discussed the most important factor of all," Duquay said. "I'm speaking of courage, the willingness to do battle, to take the necessary risks. You were very brave, of course, when you first came into this room. You were brave because you had a knife, and you presumed I was unarmed. But how brave are you now? Not quite as brave as a few minutes ago, I would guess. You could swagger in here and make those threats about cutting me up, but now that there seems to be a good chance of your own flesh being cut up a little, it doesn't sound quite as inviting, does it?"

"You're bluffing!" Rick Masden had finally found his tongue, and the two words came out in a small explosion.

Duquay smiled a bit wider. "You think so?" he asked. "All you have to do to find out is to make one move to leave your chair, Masden."

There was another silence, heavier this time, fuller of hostility and hatred. Masden didn't move.

"One last matter, of course," Duquay continued after a moment, "that I shouldn't overlook. It's the matter of motivation. Though you may not be the bravest man in the world, you do have a good reason to put up a fight. If you kill me, no harm's done, and you get my money, my car, and whatever else you decide to take. On the other hand, if you get killed, you're no worse off than you were before you escaped."

Something resembling hope now lighted in the thin young man's pale eyes. "What have you got to win by fighting me, mister?" he wanted to know. His voice sounded cunning.

"That's a good question," Duquay admitted. "I suppose I could just let you have whatever you wanted, and make the job for the police just a little harder, put off your capture for another day or two, or week or two. And I could hope that having gotten what you wanted you'd leave here peacefully, doing nothing worse than tying me up perhaps. But as it happens, I don't trust you to that extent. You're a vicious punk, and you enjoy doing violence, causing pain, hurting people. You might be satisfied to kick me around a little, but on the other hand — with murder already on your record, I don't imagine you'd hesitate to kill me."

The young man's brows had lowered. His frown darkened. Pure malice was reflected in his eyes.

"And besides, Masden, I just happen to dislike you very much. You're scum, nothing but scum. I wouldn't mind taking the risk of getting hurt, or even of getting killed, for the privilege of being able to take a crack at you."

Rick Masden, although he really didn't make a movement, nevertheless squirmed in his chair, and his right hand seemed to twitch. "So you and I are going to have a knife fight, huh, mister?" he asked.

"We certainly are if you get up from that chair."

Masden took a long drink from his glass, draining it finally, and grimacing at the burn of the liquor. He scowled at Duquay, then blustered:

"Okay, you start it, dad. Go ahead, start something."

"I didn't say I was going to start anything," Duquay answered. "I've only been telling you what I intended to do if you started anything."

Now the silence was deep and lengthy. The two men faced each other, each with both hands visible on the table. In Masden's right hand was the kitchen knife. Both of Duquay's hands were empty. But Masden's gaze flicked over to the desk, saw the dagger there, came quickly back again. Seconds and minutes ticked away.

Then Masden said, "Why don't you give me what I want? A few bucks, a suit of clothes, and your car keys. You got insurance. Then neither one of us gets hurt. Why don't you?"

"Certainly not."

Masden chewed his lips now, thoughtfully. "Then what happens, dad? We just sit here? You said if I make a move you're going to upset the table and grab that knife. Then the fight starts. We either fight or sit here, huh? I gotta get moving…"

Quite suddenly then a new light flashed in the fugitive's gray eyes. He started to stand up, then changed his mind, but his body quivered now under the restraint of the other's threat.

"I get it, I get it now," Masden said between clenched teeth. "You're expecting some guys here to play cards, and you're trying to keep me here till they come."

Duquay remained calm. "I'm doing a pretty good job of it, don't you think, Masden?" he asked. "Yes, I'm expecting them in a few minutes."

"But you're not going to get away with it."

"You can still make a choice. You leave your chair, I upset the table and go for my dagger. You can still try your luck that way."

"I'd be nuts to just wait here…" The thin body trembled irresolutely.

"There's one more alternative, of course, Masden."

"What do you mean?" Hope was in the fugitive's voice now.

"Well, if we fight, I'll be taking a risk too. I'm not anxious to take that risk just for its own sake. So I might be willing to make a trade. My safety for your escape. Your empty-handed escape, I might add."

Rick Masden wasn't as confident or as truculent as he had been previously. "I'm listening to you, dad," he said.

"Well, it's like this. I feel in danger as long as you're holding that knife. You jump up suddenly, how do I know whether you intend to attack me or run away. So whatever you intend, if you do jump up, I have to defend myself. Then the battle's joined, whether we intended it that way or not. See what I mean?"

Masden nodded. "I think so."

"The key to the whole situation then is in your knife. You want to escape from here. I don't want to have to fight you if I don't have to help you and co-operate with you. But as long as you have that knife in your hand, you can't move in any direction without starting a fight. So the only way out I can see is for you to toss your knife to the center of the table."

"What!"

"That's right. Then neither of us will be armed."

"Then what happens to me? You're a football player. I suppose you…"

"The table is between us. You have that much of a head start. You ought to be able to get out of here before I can catch you."

"But you'll telephone the cops."

Duquay smiled. "You're a smart boy, Masden. I hadn't thought about it, but as a public-spirited citizen, I probably would have. All right, I'll make a deal with you. My phone for your knife."

"How do you mean?"

"My phone's right here within arm's reach on my desk. If you'll allow me, I'll reach around and rip it out of its connection. I'll go first, of course. I'll rip out the phone first, and then you throw your knife to the center of the table and start running. What dp you say?"

The young man's brows contracted. He was thinking furiously. Now and then he looked at Duquay, measuring his man, his width of shoulder, his tenacity of purpose.

"Okay," he said after a moment. "You jerk out the phone. But first. I'll keep my knife while you do. And if you go for that dagger of yours instead of the phone…"

"You just keep an eye on me, Masden."

Slowly, not making any sudden movements, and managing to keep his eyes on his adversary all the while, Duquay half turned in his chair, extended his left arm to the side and behind him, reached the phone, got a good grip on it. Then he pulled firmly and steadily. Finally there was a snapping sound, and the cord dangled loose.

"Satisfied that it's out?" Duquay asked. He dropped the phone and it landed on the thick rug with a soft thud. "Now your knife, please. In the center of the table where neither of us can reach it too easily."

They eyed each other again, neither still quite believing in the other's word, still not trusting each other. There was a long pause while neither moved.

"Come on, Masden. As long as you're holding the knife, you can't leave that chair."

Silently, with obvious reluctance and regret, the young man conceded the point. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the shiny object spinning toward the center of the table. It pirouetted through two revolutions, then lay still.

"Now keep your seat, dad," Masden said, "because I'm taking off."

"I'm sorry I can't wish you good luck, Masden," Duquay replied.

They said their farewells silently. And then both the farewells and the silence were interrupted by a small noise. Both men at the table heard it.

Masden didn't hesitate in reacting to it. His chair flew back behind him as he left the table on the run. Duquay didn't move, but instead gripped both arms of his chair and shouted at the top of his voice, "Sam, stop that man, he's a criminal!"

There was yelling and scuffling and cursing out in the other room. Byron Duquay didn't go to join it or watch it. He sat where he was, content with listening. The scuffling sounds reached a crescendo, till finally one tremendous single sound ended it all — the solid crash of fist on bone.

Duquay sat back and relaxed. The bright light over the card table revealed sweat on his upturned face…

…Captain Sam Williams put in his second appearance at Byron Duquay's poker game about two hours later. It had taken about that long to dispose of Rick Masden, to put him back behind bars, and to fill out a complete report giving all details of the capture.

"Byron," he said, shaking his grizzled head, "I don't know whether I dare sit down at a poker table with you any more. Man, I never realized you had such a capacity for bluffing."

"You flatter me, Sam," Duquay said. "I was lucky, that's all. Before Virginia left this evening, I insisted she help me out of the wheelchair and put me here. Sometimes I prefer receiving you gentlemen in a regular chair, you see. Makes me feel less like an invalid. If I'd been in my wheelchair, I could never have bluffed Masden, not for one single moment."

Sam nodded in agreement. His gaze wandered through the open bedroom door, to where a pair of silvery wheels gleamed in the semi-darkness. Rick Masden had missed seeing those. Or if he had seen them, he just hadn't connected them with the man at the table.