Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1967 (UK)

Chain Smoker by Arthur Porges

At that point when physical achievement is attained, one ordinarily feels replete, but under extraordinary circumstances, one might pursue an anticlimax for emotional satiation.

If you want the pure, bracing air, the privacy, and the unspoiled coast of California Highway 1, there is, as with all good things, a price to be paid But Rex Morland thought the price a cheap one. True, he had to drive thirty miles, round trip, to Seaview, the nearest town; and he couldn’t get the electric company to bring him power; but the big tank of butane ten yards from his door kept not only a freezer and stove going, but also a fine brute of a generator. And since he made his living as a writer, his home was his office, where over the top of his typewriter he could see the thunderous surf battering the rocky shore ninety feet below.

Sometimes friends from Los Angeles or San Francisco, observing his isolation, and the steep, winding road that led from the highway to his house, itself quite hidden from above, would remark, “Isn’t your wife afraid to live in such a lonely place? What if some criminal broke in at night, or something?”

Morland found this amusing. “It’s the city jungles that are dangerous,” he often reminded them. “Out here, there are nothing but raccoons, foxes, deer, and bobcats. Maybe a few rattlers, but no animal is as deadly as one of your big city delinquents, believe me!”

He honestly believed this himself; and it was true, in general; but what happens when evil from the city turns the isolation to its own advantage?

The ordeal began towards dusk of a fine August day. Morland’s wife and his sixteen-year-old daughter, Kathy, were inside the house; he could hear them giggling over the dinner dishes, a sound that warmed his heart. He had gone out to take a reading on the big butane tank that kept the house livable. He knew he was childishly compulsive about this; the thing had been filled to capacity only six days earlier, but he had a foolish dread of finding himself without light, heat, or cooking facilities on some weekend, with the service company twenty-odd miles away, and closed until Monday. He also enjoyed checking; the serviceman had shown him how, and the operation fascinated him. You turned one indicator to the 100 % mark, opened a valve, and then brought the first metal finger clockwise until the stream of escaping gas changed to a liquid spray. This evening it did so at the 73 % mark, which meant that the tank was over three-quarters full. Not for the first time, his hand grazed the rushing flow of liquid and was badly stung; for the stuff, expanding as it blew free, became extremely cold No doubt it could freeze a finger solid in a few seconds.

He gave a grunt of satisfaction to learn that so much of the gas remained, and stood up, turning towards the house. There was a stealthy footstep behind him; he whirled, startled, and almost bumped his nose on the gun muzzle. It was quickly withdrawn, however; the skinny youth who held it was taking no chance of its being grabbed.

“Who’s inside?” the boy demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“Wha-what do you want?” Morland gulped, instead of answering him. “You can’t be Kessler. He was picked up, at least—”

The boy laughed, a nickering sound without mirth. “Wanna bet? No hick sheriff can hold me.”

“What happened?” Morland asked, not so much caring as playing for time. He had to get his bearings. The radio had reported earlier that Fred Kessler, pyschopathic killer on the loose from Santa Cruz, had been captured near Seaview by a deputy sheriff.

“Since you ask so polite-like, I’ll tell you,” the boy said, still watching the lighted windows of the house. “I always carry a hide-out gun, where, I ain’t telling. Nobody knows, because after I use it, they can’t talk. The sheriff won’t talk, either. I took his car, his gun, and even his cuffs, see?” He pulled them from his pocket with his free left hand, dangling them in front of Morland. “Then I headed south, towards San Luis; but I knew they’d get roadblocks up fast. So when I saw your box on the highway, I investigated. You’re almost lost down here; can’t even see the place from up there. I ditched the car in a gulley where they won’t find it for days, and I’ll stay with you folks for a while, until the fuzz gets tired of this stretch. They’ll never figure I’m on foot, see? Now—” his voice became urgent, almost savage, “who’s inside there?”

“Just my wife and daughter.”

“Dames, huh? Good; I can handle them.”

“You can’t stay here,” Morland blurted, desperation in his cry.

“Wanna bet. If you all behave, nobody’ll be hurt.”

“How long?”

“How the hell do I know? You ask too many questions, Pop.”

“But when you leave...” Morland didn’t dare press that point. He didn’t have to.

“When I leave, you’ll howl copper; sure. Only you won’t, because I’ll have one of them,” he waved the gun muzzle towards the house, “with me. We’ve yakked enough,” he added. “I could use some food, and this wind is chilly.”

Resignedly. Morland took one step toward the house, but the boy blocked his path with a tigerish move, gun steady.

“Not you, Mac; I don’t need you in there; I can handle them better alone. Three’s too many to watch.”

The heavy police revolver was pointing directly at Morland’s chest, and for a moment he knew that the boy was ready to pull the trigger. Then the muzzle drooped, and Morland felt some of the ice leave his middle. He guessed the killer was afraid a shot might be heard; it was lucky he didn’t realize how isolated this place really was. A cannon could go off here every five minutes and nobody would even notice it, especially with the surf beginning its evening thunder against the rocks below.

“What the hell,” the boy muttered. “Might as well use these.” He pulled out the cuffs again, peered at the butane tank, and snapped, “You were born lucky, Pop; some have it; some don’t. Scrounge down by that pipe, quick like a bunny.”

His pale eyes were glowing, and Morland knew it was no time to argue or delay. He crouched by the big cylinder, and held his tongue. The boy unlocked the cuffs, tossed them to Morland, and said, “One on that thick pipe; one on your wrist; I’m watching real close, and I know the right sound; I got reason to know.”

Morland could believe that. It was getting quite dark now, but there was enough light from the house to make any fudging risky. He’d be no use to his family dead or with a cracked head; and a sick feeling in his stomach told him they might need help very badly soon. This punk had murdered five people in Santa Cruz, and had an earlier record involving crimes as unpleasant, if less permanent, in their effects on the victims. And Kathy was only sixteen, and too pretty; right now, Morland wished she were fat and raucous like her chum, Selma.

The cuffs clicked home; Kessler came close, gun ready, and checked them.

“Guess you’ll stay put,” he said, and turned toward the house. “Don’t try any yelling,” he added coldly. “It’ll cost them.”

Morland winced. This punk was good at the kind of psychology he needed in his business. Then he groaned as the front door opened, and Julie stood there.

“Rex,” she called, “you’re taking a long time with that tank. How can you even see in this light?”

In a few quick, feline bounds Kessler landed in front of her. “Inside,” he ordered. “Quick like a bunny.”

“Where’s my husband?” Julie demanded, standing there like a rock.

“Do as he says!” Morland yelled; “I’m all right. Please, Julie, he means business. Do exactly as he says, and you’ll be all right.” He wished he could believe it himself; but in any case, it was the only thing to tell her.

She caught on quickly; Julie was always bright; and went into the house. The door closed behind her. By standing half upright in a terribly cramped position, Morland could watch through the living-room window. Without wasting a moment, Kessler had zeroed in on the phone. Morland hoped he’d be dumb enough to tear it out, which might bring a repair man (what good would that do? he asked himself a second later) but the boy was too wise; he just sat near it, on the sofa.

By straining his ears over the surf, Morland could catch some of the conversation through the open windows. Kessler was demanding food, and the two women were getting some ready. Good, until he was fed, the danger was diminished; but Rex didn’t like the way the boy was already watching Kathy; damn those toreador pants of hers — she ought to be wearing a flour-sack, a dirty, wrinkled, tom one.

It was time for action, not wishful thinking. He examined the cuffs, first by the feeble light reaching him from the house, and then, very cautiously, by the flame of his lighter. They were thick and heavy, but old-fashioned, he guessed, from the look of them. He wasted fifteen minutes trying to pick the locks with odds and ends from his pockets, but old or not, they weren’t that easy. Then he pounded metal with a variety of rocks, but didn’t dare make too much noise. The rocks crumbled, but the steel only got shiny where it was battered.

He rose and watched the house again. They were serving the food now, and the boy seemed almost as anxious to smoke as to eat. Clearly, he had been starved for cigarettes, and was something of a chain-smoker.

“You dames can cook, all right,” Morland heard him say, as he wolfed the warmed-over roast lamb of their dinner. “Kathy won’t have no trouble getting a man, not a bit. Good cook, and good looks; not every broad can wear them pants,” he added, eyes smouldering.

Morland didn’t like the trend of that conversation one little bit. He had to get free; get help; do something; had to. Once that killer was full of food, he’d be ripe for mischief, and Morland was afraid; more scared than ever in his life before, and not for himself.

He yanked at the cuffs in a frenzy that was nearly hysterical, and regained control by a concentrated effort of will. Use your brains! he told himself; don’t panic; not now. Use that writer’s imagination, if you ever did believe in it.

All right; I’m calm now. What can I do; what have I got to work with? Nothing in my pockets; I’ve tried that angle. And I can’t move very far tied to this tank. He tensed then. The tank! Surely there was an angle. What angle? Fire! He could open the main valve, use his lighter, send a column of flame up. His elation died. Idiot! Before any help came, Julie and Catherine might be dead. And even if Kessler panicked and ran, leaving them unharmed, this whole hill would catch fire; the house would go; the flames would surge through the dry bush; the women might not make it to the highway even if they didn’t stop for him, which they would; imagine Julie and Kathy leaving him to burn! If only the cuffs were off, then there were really angles. They wouldn’t burn off, not without ruining his hands too.

Suddenly he remembered the cold rush of liquifying gas. Cold was useful, too. It made metal brittle; he’d used that gimmick in a story once. What an idiot not to think of it sooner, now that it counted.

Hastily he fumbled with the small valve, opening it wide, and turning the indicator until the stream was at its chilliest. Then he directed the flow against the middle of the cuffs, watching the steel grow a coating of frost. He let the process continue for several minutes, then shut off the gas, and used all his strength to bring leverage against the frozen metal by wedging the cuffs between the heavy pipe and the side of the tank. With modern steel it might not have worked; with this, success came with almost ridiculous ease. The metal snapped, and he was free.

Morland sprang to his feet, swaying a little from the pull of cramped muscles. He approached the house very catiously, careful not to break a single twig. What he saw through the window almost drove him wild with fury. Kessler had Kathy on his lap. Julie, her face grey and years older, watched in helpless horror. As for the girl, she seemed like an automation worked by wires.

There was an axe among the garden tools. In three strides Morland reached and seized the thing. He’d crash in there and chop the punk to bits; he’d splatter him all over the room; he’d — damned if he would! It was crazy, foolish stuff again. The boy would shoot him dead, and that would be the end for all of them. No; instead lure Kessler out here. But he wouldn’t come; Morland knew that. The boy would merely say, “Come in with your hands up, or I’ll fix the women,” or words to that effect. And Morland would have no choice. That still wasn’t the answer. He had to get him outside without making him suspicious. But how?

Then he had it. The generator. Shut that off, and the lights would go out. Kessler would ask the women, find out about the generator in its little shack, and come out to fix it. Then Morland would be waiting with the axe.

Hurriedly, he went to the shack, but once there, he hesitated, trying to figure all the angles. Would it be better to go up to the highway for help? There wasn’t time; it would take ten minutes to get there, and traffic was light on a week night. Lord knows how soon he’d find help; and the women would still be hostages. No, this was the only way.

It was the work of moments to pull the cut-off switch and stop the full-throated hum of the generator. The lights grew dim in the house, then died out. Morland, axe in hand, waited at the locked door.

He heard Kessler questioning the women. Then the boy said, “I don’t like this; I smell trouble. Know what? I think your daddy got loose, Kathy, honey. He’d like to sucker me out there in the dark. But I ain’t no sucker; people are learning that. I want a flashlight; gonna do me some shooting.”

The women were reluctant to help him, but after Kathy gave a little squeal of pain, Mrs. Morland knew it was hopeless, and gave Kessler what he wanted. The boy locked them in the windowless dressing-room, and flash in hand, came to the side door. This was bad; Morland knew he couldn’t lay for Kessler there; he would be seen first, and shot. The whole plan was coming apart at the seams.

Quickly, his brain feverishly active, Morland scuttled back to the generator house. But the way Kessler was waving that flash, it was impossible to ambush him. He came along, all too cautiously, quite sure of himself, even puffing a cigarette. Morland had no doubt the boy could use that gun; the way he held it was a clear indication of that.

Morland played for time. He grabbed a rock and flipped it far to the left of Kessler. The flash flickered that way, and the killer drifted over for a look. That gave Morland a chance to get to the butane tank. With a few quick twists he shut off the main valve on top; no gas could get to the generator now. Then, before Kessler got near the shack, Morland ducked in and opened the gas valve of the generator. Nothing came out, of course, the main valve being closed. Just in time, he slipped out and returned to the tank, crouching behind it in the dark.

Kessler warily entered the shack, put the flash on a shelf so that it lit up the generator, and prepared to get the thing going again. From his place by the tank Morland could see Kessler locate the switch and jiggle it. Now was the moment, as the boy bent close to the generator, puzzled by the lack of response to the switch, cigarette-end glowing as he puffed nervously.

Morland opened the tank’s master valve wide. There was a hissing roar in the little shack as butane surged from the generator’s open petcock; and almost simultaneously a whoomp of igniting gas as the flammable stuff, pouring out in heavy concentration encountered the glowing cigarette. The screaming was a sort of anticlimax.

By shutting off the main valve in a hurry, and the use of a fire extinguisher from the house, Morland managed to save most of the shack, as well as the generator. There was little he could do for Kessler, although he honestly tried. After he had comforted the two women, who were verging on hysteria, he ventured on a feeble joke.

“Damn it, we’ll be out of butane again, and the thing was just filled!”