Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 18, No. 5, May 1973

A Message from Andrea by Robert Colby

Close association, experience dictates, has a propensity for wielding immeasurable influence for good — or for evil.

Stanford Tillman, one of the ten richest men in the world, numbered among his holdings the Tillman Land Development Company, Tillman Real Estate, Tillman Mining, Tillman Oil, and a controlling interest in the Tricontinental All Risk Insurance Company.

Tillman, a lean, athletic forty-two, lived in Bel Air, in a rambling house surrounded by grand old trees amid casual groupings of shrubs and flowers. There were three servants: a maid and a cook who commuted daily, and a chauffeur, Fred Hammond, who lived in quarters above the garage.

Although his place was not nearly so pretentious as some in the neighborhood, Tillman had no need for a mansion, for only he and his twenty-eight year old wife, Andrea, lived there. They had been married just over a year and were still in the honeymoon stage. Stanford was not simply in love with Andrea; she was a more obsessive passion than his whole commercial empire, and Andrea worshiped him.

That was the way it was on a Monday evening in October, as Tillman prepared to leave for Sacramento. There, in concert with other brass who controlled the insurance companies dominating California, he was to meet with the governor to discuss a proposed bill for mandatory auto insurance.

It was dusk. The dark-blue limousine had been brought around to the front of the house and Hammond was loading a suitcase into the trunk. Stanford Tillman, carrying a portfolio containing pertinent insurance statistics for the meeting, appeared in the doorway with Andrea. She was a beautiful woman, with a superbly proportioned figure and her proud, queenly stance seemed effortless, almost casual.

Tillman’s strong, youthful features were sun-bronzed and unlined. He did not appear to be incongruously matched with Andrea, despite a difference of fourteen years in their ages.

With an arm about her waist, he said, “Sure you wouldn’t like to come along with me, Andrea dear? Three days without you is going to be absolute torture.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” She frowned unhappily. “But none of the other wives are going and I’d be at loose ends. Still, I might fly up Wednesday afternoon and then we could have one night and come back together Thursday.”

“A fine idea! Is that a promise?” he pleaded.

“Mmm.” She nodded. “I do solemnly swear.”

“Then we’ll plan something special for Wednesday night. Ride with me to the airport and we’ll discuss it on the way.”

“I’d love to, darling, but there wouldn’t be time. I’m due at the Brunswicks for dinner and I haven’t begun to get ready.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ll be staying with Janis and Chet. You’d be depressed rattling around the house alone, and I’d worry.” He glanced at his watch. “See you Wednesday, then, sweetheart. Meantime, I’ll phone you at the Brunswicks — incessantly.”

She turned and lifted her face toward him and he kissed her.

“I’ll miss you terribly,” she murmured. “I’m a lost child without you.”

“Hey, it’s only Sacramento, not the far side of the moon, baby,” he said. “But don’t forget, I love you, honey.” He kissed her once more, quickly, then entered the limousine.

Waving, Andrea watched the taillights coast around the curve of the drive, winking once brightly at the road beyond the gate, turning right, then gone.

She went upstairs to their bedroom and began to undress for her bath. Jan Brunswick was an old chum and her best friend so Andrea was looking forward to a couple of days with her (despite Chet, who was jolly but shallow), and the two thundering Brunswick kids, who would be mostly in school. The round trip to the airport should take Fred no more than an hour and a half, by which time she ought to be dressed and waiting for him to drive her to the Brunswick house in Pacific Palisades.

Andrea had stepped from the bath and was drying herself when she heard a muted thump, as of a door closing. Wilma, the maid, had left earlier, while Debby, the cook, had remained to fix dinner for Stan. No doubt that was Debby making her exit from the kitchen, though she should have been gone by now. Her husband, an itinerant gardener, called for her nightly in his truck.

Andrea listened for the starter whine of the truck but heard nothing, and was nudged by a soft finger of alarm. Since Stan was, if anything, overprotective, she was rarely left alone in the house. Yet it was equally rare for Stan to take any sort of trip without her, and this was just an accident of circumstance.

By her tiny, jeweled wristwatch, it would be at least another hour before Fred returned with the limousine. Her clothes were laid out on the bed and she dressed quickly, not really frightened, but a bit unnerved.

She went to the head of the stairs and peered down. A couple of lamps in the livingroom cast a pale glow into the hallway. Cocking her head, she listened. There was nothing but the dignified hush of twilight, the reward to those who can purchase the deep privacy of space and isolation. She descended the stairs and switched on more lamps to cheer the dusky livingroom.

There! That was much better. It was silly to be edgy just because she was left alone for a short time. She was spoiled by too much attention, Andrea reasoned. She crossed to the dining room, entered the kitchen. As expected, it was dark. Though she didn’t hear the gardener’s truck starting and grinding off, it must have been Debby leaving for the night.

With a shrug, Andrea lighted the kitchen and went to see if the back door had been securely locked.

Fred Hammond braked the limousine before the house, and rang the door chime to signal Mrs. Tillman that he had returned. Then he waited behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette. Hammond, gray and craggy-faced and almost sixty, was a tall, solid chunk of a man, nearly as trim and muscular as he had been at forty, when he was one of the private security cops who made the nightly rounds of the Bel Air estates in a patrol car.

He had been Stanford Tillman’s chauffeur for a good many years and had no desire to be anything else. Tillman paid him handsomely and treated him more like a friend than an employee. There was a strong, unspoken bond between them. When Tillman married Andrea, he had told Hammond that henceforth his most important duty would be to keep watch over Mrs. Tillman in his absence, guarding her from the least harm or disturbance. Hammond was pleased to be trusted with such an assignment, for he had discovered at once that Andrea Tillman was a warm, undemanding person who seemed basically unaffected by two of the world’s most generous gifts, wealth and beauty.

After a few minutes, when Andrea did not appear, Hammond went around to the back door. He had a ring of keys in his hand and was preparing to unlock the door when he saw that it was ajar. Debby must still be around, he figured, and he was going to give her all kinds of hell for being so careless; but then, when he stepped in and tried to close the door, he found that it would not latch.

Bending for a closer look, he understood. The door had been jimmied! The implication caused him to stand in petrified shock for a moment, listening in a vacuum so intense that he could catch the faint sighing of the wind, the whispery whine of the refrigerator.

He bolted through the lighted kitchen and rushed to the foot of the stairs. After shouting her name, he went up to Mrs. Tillman’s bedroom. Her door was open, the lights blazing. Everything seemed in good order, so he crossed to the bathroom, glanced at the sunken tub, still damp, and into the empty stall shower. Her purse stood open on the vanity and he poked a finger inside. The contents included a cosmetic bag, an expensive lighter, and a wallet. The wallet was stuffed with bills.

He made a quick search of the other bedrooms, then went below, where he saw that in the livingroom a lamp and a table had been overturned. On the carpet, just beyond, was one of Andrea’s shoes and her jeweled wristwatch, its platinum band twisted when the watch was wrenched off in the struggle.

The study was empty, but the door had been smashed in. This indicated, Hammond concluded, that Andrea had fled to the study where she had locked herself in, perhaps hoping to escape by a window, or gain enough time to use the phone.

In any case, it all became clear when he reached the front door. A note had been attached to the inside of the door by means of a thumbtack. Printed on a piece of cheap yellow paper in severe block letters that must have been fashioned with a ruler, the note read:

Hammond read the ransom note without touching the paper. Using his handkerchief, he removed the note and folded it into a pocket of his uniform jacket. He went back to the study, sat behind the desk and pondered what to do next. Mr. Tillman had been flown to Sacramento in his own jet. It was a short hop in a fast plane, yet there had not been time for him to reach the hotel. Nevertheless, Hammond placed a call, leaving an urgent message for Tillman to phone home immediately upon his arrival.

He phoned Mrs. Brunswick and told her that at the very last second Mrs. Tillman had decided to fly to Sacramento with her husband. She had asked Hammond to convey her regrets and to apologize for her inability to call in person.

This done, Hammond sat waiting. In a little over thirty minutes Tillman rang, his usually calm voice now edged with tension.

“What’s the trouble, Fred? Is Mrs. Tillman all right, or why—”

“Well, I... I believe so, but—”

“You believe so? What does that mean, Fred?”

“I can’t possibly tell you on the phone, Mr. Tillman. Not if there’s any chance we could be overheard.”

“I see.” His voice sank.

“You’d better come home, sir. It’s a big problem, real trouble.”

“Fred, you’re scaring hell out of me, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know. But try to keep cool, sir. It’s something we can work out if you’ll hurry back.”

“Is there some way you can help until I arrive?”

“No, sir. I can do nothing further. There are decisions to be made, and there’s a great deal of money involved. But I would suggest that you cover your trail with some logical reason for leaving, one that won’t arouse suspicions.”

“Yes, I understand. In fact, I think I’ve got the whole picture. Are you alone there?”

“Yes.”

“And Mrs. Tillman has been — detained?”

“Yes, that’s right. Exactly. I called the Brunswicks, said she went with you.”

“Good. Then drive to the airport and wait for me, Fred.”

Seated in the study with Fred Hammond, Tillman had placed the ransom note before him on the desk, Andrea’s tangled watch resting beside it. When he saw the watch and the lone shoe, his face crumpled, but then he quickly composed himself.

“I’m not going to touch this note with my bare hands,” he said, “but I don’t think there’s any chance that a single print will be found on it.”

Nodding, Hammond nervously fingered his uniform cap. “Does that mean you intend to call the police?”

“No, no!” Tillman shook his head, lighted a cigarette. “I don’t care a damn about the money. I’m going to pay the ransom. It’s only important to save Mrs. Tillman. Do you agree? I want your honest opinion, Fred.”

“I wouldn’t give you my opinion,” said the chauffeur. “It might influence you to make the wrong move. Then I’d never forgive myself.”

“Unless there’s a change in the situation, my decision is final, Fred. I just want you to tell me what you think.”

“In your place, I’d do the same thing, Mr. Tillman. But I might hedge my bet a little,” he suggested.

“How would you do that, Fred?”

“I’d pay the ransom but I’d inform the police of every turn. I’d have them standing by, just in case.”

“In case they don’t let her go?” he asked.

“No. By the time you were sure they weren’t going to turn her loose, it would be too late. But when the delivery is made, that’s when these creeps are most vulnerable. The cops might be able to tail the pickup man to the hiding place. That’s important, because if the kidnappers are going to... silence Mrs. Tillman, they won’t do it until they’ve got the money.”

“Why not?”

“Until they have the cash, they need her for insurance. They can’t put her on the phone, otherwise, to break you down.”

Pursing his lips, Tillman considered. “I see your point. The police could give us an advantage.”

“Sure. They might even take the contact man into custody and make him talk.”

“Yes, they might. But this has been well-planned and I have a hunch we’re not dealing with amateurs. They’ll be watching for a trap and if the cops tip their hand, the kidnappers will run scared. If they see the net closing in, their first thought might be to get rid of Andrea, then scatter in all directions. No, I can’t afford to risk it, Fred. And I want your solemn pledge to keep this from the police. Not a word. Just don’t interfere.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he answered. “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Mrs. Tillman’s safety. She’s a fine person and I’m very fond of her.”

“Thank you, Fred,” Tillman said quietly, and seemed on the verge of tears. “But I’m not just fond of her, I love her beyond words. I own a good slice of this world but I’d give it all up, and my life in the bargain, if I could save her. That’s how fond of her I am, Fred.” Tillman sealed his eyes as if in prayer.

Abruptly he then reached into a drawer and came up with an address book. He began to search it for a number. “A million dollars cash,” he said with a wry face, “is quite a chunk of money to raise quickly and deviously — even for me. So I’d better get the ball rolling tonight.”

He reached for the phone.

The ransom call came at six twenty-five the next evening. Tillman answered, and Fred Hammond picked up an extension phone at the same instant.

“Mr. Stanford Tillman?” a male voice, soft and cool, inquired.

“Yes, yes, Tillman speaking.”

“You have the money? One million in fifties and hundreds?” Though the enunciation was careful, the grammar good, there was the mildest hint of a foreign accent.

“Yes, the money is here in a suitcase, ready for delivery.”

“The bills are old and unmarked?”

“Yes, as you demanded.” Tillman contained an urge to shout an obscene threat.

“Very well. Now, sir, you will leave with the ransom at once for San Francisco in your private plane. But for the pilot, you will travel alone. A reservation has been made for you at the Wellington Bayview Hotel. You will check in and go to your room, you will not leave it until you have further instructions. Is that clear?”

“I understand, yes.”

“You may have a considerable wait, perhaps a day or two. Do not use the phone, simply wait. Your contact will say, ‘I have a message from Andrea.’ Do not take orders from anyone who does not use this identification.

“We will be watching. We will be able to detect the police by the most sophisticated means. If they are present, we will chop off your wife’s hand and mail it to you — the left one with the rings. Next, you will receive a foot, and then—”

“Why, you filthy—”

“And then, if you are still not persuaded, we will make you a present of her beautiful head. Now, one minute has passed and we will allow you fifteen seconds to speak with your wife.”

There was a pause. In the background, Tillman could hear what seemed the hollow rumble of traffic crossing a bridge, the deep bass of a ship’s horn.

“Hello — Stan?”

“Yes, Andrea, yes, darling, it’s Stan. Are you all right?”

“Yes, and that’s the only question I can answer. But, Stan, I’m so frightened! These people are going to do some horrible things to me if you don’t pay, or if you bring in the police. I’m convinced they’ll kill me if you don’t deliver the money. Darling, I love you — and please hurry! Because I can’t bear another day in this—”

Andrea was sliced off. The line was empty.

“Well,” Tillman said grimly, “what do you think, Fred?”

Hammond ran fingers nervously through the gray bristle of his hair. “I don’t think they’re bluffing,” he answered. “Sometimes from a voice you can get the personality, the character of a man — and that one is a little colder than death.”

Tillman nodded. “I got the same feeling. The threat he made about Andrea’s hand... It makes me shudder. Because I have this conviction that he means it absolutely, means it literally. He’s psychotic, demented. If I could have just one minute alone with him!”

“Did you notice the foreign accent, sir? Very slight, I had to strain to catch it.”

“Yes. I’d say he’s a Latin type, well-educated. What else did you notice, Fred? How about sounds in the background?”

“There was traffic noise, definitely. Heavy traffic nearby, with that hollow drumming of wheels on a bridge.”

“I agree,” said Tillman. “They were in a building near a bridge, over water, I think. Just before Andrea came on, I heard the blast of a ship’s horn. It was unmistakable.”

“San Francisco Bay?”

“Possibly, yes. It would make sense, since that’s where I’m to deliver the ransom.” Tillman stood. “I’d better get moving, Fred. You call Mike at the airport and tell him I’ll be taking off for San Francisco within the hour. He’s been alerted to stand by until further notice.”

“You want me to cover with an excuse for the quick trip, sir?”

“If he asks what it’s about, say you overheard talk of a big business deal in the works.”

“All right, sir. And then I’ll be waiting in the limousine for you.”

“I’ll be only a minute.” In passing, he dropped a hand to Fred’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re on my team, Fred. It’s a terrible time for me, the worst in my life. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

With a million dollars cash in an outsized suitcase, Stanford Tillman arrived that night at the Wellington Bayview in San Francisco. There was indeed a reservation in his name and after checking in, he ascended to a room perched high above the city, having a grand view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. For a period he stood by the window, wondering if perhaps somewhere out there, in a sordid, makeshift prison, Andrea waited in terror for him to buy her freedom. Although it was one of the highest ransoms in history, Tillman was eager to pay it, had given no thought to the money, except as a means to an end.

He left the window and after stripping off his jacket and tie, sat in a chair with his feet propped by the big suitcase — that million dollar ottoman. His face was grim.

Near one a.m. he closed his eyes for the first time, and fitfully slept upright in the chair, though the room was fully lighted. A few minutes after two, the phone rang. Instantly awake, he lifted the receiver.

“Stanford Tillman,” he said.

“I have a message from Andrea.” It was the same icy-smooth voice.

“I’m listening,” said Tillman.

“You have it with you?”

“Yes.”

“Go to the lobby at once. Ask at the desk for an envelope in your name. It will contain an aerial map. Return to your room with the map, and hurry. There will be another call with final instructions for the delivery. You have exactly five minutes. If you miss the next call, there will not be another.”

Tillman put up the phone, glanced at his watch, pulled on his jacket and went out the door. Locking it, he plunged down the corridor to the elevators.

“Someone left an envelope for me,” he told the clerk, then gave his name and room number.

After a puzzled search, the clerk shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Tillman, there’s nothing at all for you, sir. Perhaps a bit later. Would you like me to—”

“No, never mind,” Tillman said. He dashed off to the elevator and returned to his room.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find the suitcase gone. There was another of those geometrical, block-printed notes on the bed:

Tillman sighed. Another torturous wait; was it a stall? Well, he would give them all that night, plus six hours’ leeway. No longer; and the minute Andrea was safe at home, the hunt would be on!

It was midmorning of the same day, but Andrea did not know that it was daylight because her watch had been taken and the third-floor room had no windows. There was air-conditioning, however. From a vent near the ceiling, chilled air drifted down.

The room, with an adjoining, windowless bath, was furnished with a bed, a couple of chairs and a table. There was also a lamp which she left burning to dispel her fear and loneliness. The cell was entered by means of a concealed panel made of metal but finished on the outside to match the exterior wall. The room was soundproof and Andrea had been told that it had been redesigned for the purpose of holding her prisoner.

Andrea was fed simple but adequate meals three times a day, and by these meals she could approximate the time. Her last meal had been dinner, but that was too many hours ago, it seemed, and no one had arrived with breakfast. She sensed that the delay had some special meaning which she felt was not encouraging but ominous. Suppose they left her here to die?

Thinking about it, she began to pace. The entire plan had been so diabolically clever, and yet three of the people involved were totally incongruous. Certainly their breed was not capable of deliberate, calculated murder, even for a million dollars; and surely they would let her go.

She was neither stupid nor naive, but the way it happened, who could possibly say that she should have seen it coming? From her bedroom she had heard a sound which, looking back, was nothing more sinister than Debby going out by way of the kitchen door. It must have been one of those days when her husband, working in another part of town, did not call for Debby in his gardening truck, and she walked to Sunset Boulevard instead and caught a bus; but it was an odd coincidence, or perhaps intuition, that she had been curiously uneasy.

She had checked the kitchen door and had found it locked. She had then gone back up to her bedroom and was in the process of applying her makeup when the phone rang. It was Claire Vanderhoff who lived in the big stone house next door. Claire was about her age, perhaps a couple of years older. She had been divorced and was recently married to Dwight Vanderhoff of the Vanderhoff Steamship Company.

The company was founded by Dwight’s father who had left him the house and a few millions to boot, it was said. Dwight was vice-president in charge of the West Coast office, while his older brother was president and ran the big show out of New York. The Vanderhoffs were alone in the house, but for a live-in servant couple, the man doubling as butler-chauffeur. The Vanderhoffs, complaining that they could not get reliable help, had discharged their servants about three months previously, and hired new ones. Apparently they were pleased with the present pair.

The Tillmans had been dinner guests at the Vanderhoffs on occasion, and vice versa. They were all members of the tennis club and often played doubles on the Tillmans’ court. Born of proximity and initiated by the Vanderhoffs, the friendship had not been deep, but they were at least a convivial foursome who shared a common interest in tennis. Over cocktails, Stan and Dwight had talked Big Business, while Claire and Andrea chatted of this and that, mostly surface trivia.

On the phone, Claire had sounded breathless. “Andrea, something dreadful has happened! Dwight said he wasn’t feeling well and I was taking him up to bed when he suddenly gasped, and then collapsed. He looks gray, he looks awful! I can hardly find a pulse. Andrea, I’m all alone. Our couple, Nita and Kirk, have gone to the movies. I’ve sent for a doctor, but meanwhile I think he’s dying and I don’t know what to do. Could you and Stan come over to help me?”

“Oh, Claire, of course! But Stan went up to Sacramento for a conference with the governor — thought we told you. I’m all alone myself at the moment, but I’ll be right over, dear.”

“Please hurry, Andrea! To save time, cut across the grounds and come through the hedge behind the tennis court. You know, that little gap.”

“Yes, yes! Don’t panic, Claire. I’ll be there in half a minute!”

She had raced from the house, and darting across the lawn to the space in the hedge behind the court, she had squeezed through and dashed to the front door.

Claire had opened at the first ring. “This way, darling,” she said. “I’m just pitiful when it comes to an emergency. I go all to pieces!”

They crossed the livingroom, which was bleakly lighted and in gloomy shadow, heavy draperies drawn over the windows. Though the atmosphere was oppressive, Andrea had no sense of danger or menace, only a feeling that the scene was incomprehensively subdued, as if they were to be confronted, not by Dwight in a state of collapse, but by a candle-ringed coffin.

They turned into a dim hallway, at the end of which she could see the stairs, though not a sign of Dwight. Then, although she did not actually hear a sound, she had the impression that someone was behind her. She hesitated. Peering over her shoulder, she had a fleeting glimpse of Kirk, the butler-chauffeur, his upraised hand clutching a towel.

Fingers closed around the back of her neck and at the same instant the towel, moist and malodorous, was clamped smotheringly over her face.

After a timeless void, she awoke in this cell of a room on the third floor. She was lying supine on the bed, her shoes removed, her watch gone. Claire was seated at the foot of the bed, Dwight standing behind her. The other two, Kirk and Nita, shorn of their servants’ uniforms, hovered just above her, observing with the clinical expressions of doctor and nurse attending a patient.

“Now, Andrea,” said Dwight, “you’re in this cozy pad on the third floor and you have nothing to fear. We’re not going to hurt you, not unless you become rebellious, that is.” He was a beefy man of middle height. Close to forty, his florid, puffy-eyed face was marked by the erosions of self-indulgence. “You may still be a little groggy from the drug,” he continued, “but you’ve only been out for twenty minutes. And while you were under, we broke into your house and set the stage, so to speak. Then we left a ransom note for Stanford. It demands a million dollars, a truly modest sum for the return of such a precious jewel.”

Andrea was a bit dizzy and slightly nauseated, but her mind was clear and, though with astonishment, she understood well enough. “I can’t believe this is real,” she said. “I can’t believe you would do such a thing. You practically run Vanderhoff Shipping and you’ve got millions.” Aided by Claire, she propped herself up, against the headboard. “Dwight, I thought we were friends. Have you gone crazy?”

He shook his head. “Andrea, like everyone else, you’ve been snowed by the illusion that I’m rich. My older brother, Floyd Vanderhoff, runs the company from New York. He is very rich but I’m just a figurehead, and extremely poor, by our standards.”

Andrea gasped and stared. “I still don’t get it,” she said.

“Very well, I’ll explain,” he said smugly. “You see, I had shown no inclination to work, and my father knew that, without money or position, I would become a glorified bum, thus defacing the untarnished image of the Vanderhoff name. So he gave me the bogus title of vice-president in charge of the West Coast branch of the company. I have a grand office and a big front, but absolutely no active function.

“As long as I check in sober every morning and remain on the premises until closing, I receive three hundred a week and the use of this house, owned and maintained by the company, complete with two servants of my choice. But Andrea, three hundred a day would not fill my extravagant needs, let alone three hundred a week. Right?

“So we have conceived this invincible plan to relieve Stan Tillman of a million tax-free dollars. As friends and neighbors, we had a built-in spy system, and now we can watch from our windows to see if the cops are arriving to campaign our entrapment. And for a clincher, try this one: we can’t miss knowing which way Stan will jump at all times, because we have a tap on your phone!

“Beautiful, oh beautiful!” he said. Beaming, he rubbed his palms together joyously.

“I can’t understand,” said Andrea gravely, “why you would confess all of this to me, and reveal your identity, unless you intend to kill me.”

“My dear Andrea, we could be classed as kidnappers, perhaps, though you came here of your own accord. But killers, never. No, we can give you the whole blueprint of our scheme, but in the end it will be of no value to you. Because by the time a certain message reaches Tillman, informing him that you are only next door in this room, we will be lost beyond a trace in a remote corner of the globe where no questions are asked. And the only requirement is enough coin to pay the tab. Now do you understand?”

“Just the same, you talk too damn much, Vanderhoff,” said Kirk, who had been shifting restively in place, his expression a sneer of impatience. “We have work to do. Let’s get on with it.” Kirk seemed younger than Vanderhoff. Tall and slender, he had a long, stone-quiet face and frozen, lusterless dark eyes. His hair was midnight black, his complexion swarthy and finely pocked.

Dwight shrugged and said, “This is our mastermind, Kirk Pardo, who used to supply me with happy pills back east. When he came out to L.A. and looked me up, I confided my secret, told him I was hungry for quick gold, and didn’t care how I got it. Kirk found my setup perfect for his larcenous talents, and we joined forces. He brought along Nita, Kirk’s little playmate.”

“Oh thanks, thanks a bunch, Dwight,” Nita said sourly. She was a tiny brunette with sharp little features and an awesome figure. She looked coarse beside Claire.

Ignoring Nita, Dwight said, “Kirk was a surgeon in another state before he was deposed for certain malpractices. But his knowledge of anatomy comes in handy for producing the most unendurable pain. Let me warn you, Kirk can be very persuasive when people are uncooperative.”

Kirk said, “You boil it down and what he means is, if you don’t do precisely as I tell you, why then I’m going to bend your pretty bones until you scream.”

“I think you would,” said Andrea. “You have the eyes of a reptile.”

“Now, Andrea,” Kirk continued without a twitch of expression, “we are going to put you on the phone to your husband tomorrow.” He took her hand in his and held it out for inspection. “And if he doesn’t come up with the money, or if he calls the cops, then we’ll have to amputate this little fellow and mail it to him, rings and all. Remember that, Andrea. And when you talk to old Stan, make it very convincing. Otherwise, you’ll keep losing bits and pieces of yourself, you see?”

Andrea read in his gaze the twisted craving of the sadist in search of a victim, and the last, brave little flame of her resistance flickered out.

“All right,” she answered, “I’ll convince him.”

In what must have been morning, Claire Vanderhoff brought her breakfast and went away quickly, not once looking Andrea in the eye. Well, at least Claire had some sense of guilt. Or did she?

Nita brought her a sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch, looking not at all like the timid maid who had served Andrea when she came to dinner with Stan. She was now brazen, mocking.

Several hours later they all entered her cell, Kirk bearing a portable extension phone which he plugged into a jack in the wall beneath the table.

Kirk warned her that the penalty for any attempt to blurt the information that she was being held next door at the Vanderhoffs was instant death — and backed the threat with a knife poised at her throat. Then he dialed their number and began talking to Stan in that crooning voice with just the barest trace of an accent. It was so marvelously underplayed and so totally real that she asked about it after she had that wretched excuse for a conversation with poor, dear Stan, and was disconnected in midsentence. She realized that every scrap of knowledge gleaned might aid the police later.

Kirk told her quite proudly that he had spent some time in Mexico, where he was running dope across the border to the U.S. He had been working with a Mexican who spoke flawless English, but for that subtle overtone of inflection, and he had made a study of his odd patterns of speech.

That one-sided exchange with Stan completed, they took the phone away and left her with the aftereffects, a smothering depression. Shortly, Nita came again with dinner, but Andrea had no appetite and could get down only a few morsels.

A very long time had passed and now it was probably well into the next day. The million must have been delivered by Stan and she should have been released hours ago but, on the contrary, they had not even brought her breakfast.

Now she was frightened, overcome by the first real doubt that she would ever see Stan again.

Kirk had flown back from San Francisco with the suitcase, arriving at the house shortly before dawn. Dwight Vanderhoff had not gone to the office but had phoned in sick. The million had been counted and divided and now the quartet were discussing their triumph.

“It’s fantastic,” Dwight was saying as he leaned toward them across the desk, his eyes feverish with excitement. “To the last piece, it all falls right into place — a work of genius.”

“I thank you,” Kirk said with a little bow, for he had conceived the plan and wanted full credit.

“What I mean,” said Dwight, “is the beauty of the way it all follows through, like a ball launched with perfect form and timing and placement. Your common criminal, if he could, in his wildest dreams, pull one like this, would be at a loss to know what to do with the money. He couldn’t spend it freely because he would be the immediate object of suspicion. On the other hand, if a Vanderhoff lives in the most lavish style, it’s only what’s expected of him. Don’t you see?”

“I see very well,” said Kirk. “But it’s not quite so simple. You must go on for some time in the ridiculous role of the Vanderhoff shipping magnate, and we must play the much less delightful parts of being your servants. Though I assure you, when the time is right, we’ll be gone in a hurry. Right, Nita?”

“Betcha life,” said Nita. “I wasn’t born to be a flunky.”

“You all sound so jolly,” said Claire Vanderhoff. “I love money, too. Oh yes, dearly; but we still have to dispose of Andrea and I’m in no mood for celebration just now. Kirk, are you positive there isn’t another way?”

“Sure, we’ll let her go home and spill the beans to daddy,” he sneered. “Or maybe you believe we actually could hide out somewhere, some splendid place where we’d never be found. Like with the natives in the jungles of Africa.”

“I think we should reconsider my plan to keep her walled up in that room,” Dwight said.

“Nonsense!” Kirk shook his head. “For how long? Fifty, sixty years, until she dies of old age? Besides, the area will soon be swarming with cops, and there’s always a slim chance that they might uncover the trail. If the least clue sent them here, Tillman would push with all his money and power until they tore this place apart. Sure, it’s a seemingly foolproof hiding place, but they have all sorts of technical skill and equipment to uncover a secret room, once they’ve got the scent.”

“C’mon now, Kirk,” Dwight said. “Do you honestly believe they’d ever be able to figure this one in a hundred years?”

“No,” Kirk said, “I don’t think so. But if there’s one chance in a thousand, I’m not gonna take it. Listen, it’s all set up with my boy at the crematory, and it can’t go wrong. He thinks I’m still running dope and have to get rid of a female fink. Tonight I slip him five grand and a body wrapped in a blanket. He doesn’t look at the body and he burns it facedown. That’s the agreement. No questions.

“While I stand by to see that the job is done, he puts in a little overtime and — presto! — what’s left of Andrea you could stick in your pocket. Then we restore her little prison to its former innocence, just another room. Now, that’s the way we planned it, and that’s the way it’s going to be, kiddies.”

There was a heavy silence. Then Dwight said, “All right, I suppose it has to be done. You handle it, Kirk — and spare us the details.”

“Nothing to it,” Kirk said. “Nita will take the condemned a hearty last meal. I’ll lace the coffee with a nice little potion for permanent sleep. Andrea will doze off quietly and she’ll never feel the heat.”

Just after midnight, Kirk carried the blanket-shrouded body out of the house to the Vanderhoff garage and deposited it inside the trunk of the black limousine. Then he wheeled off silently, drifting far below the Tillman place before cutting in his lights. Down on Sunset, he picked up the freeway and drove south carefully, his speed moderate. Even at so late an hour there was considerable traffic and a few patrol cars were cruising about.

In a while he slid down an off-ramp to a main thoroughfare and went south again until he came upon the squat building of the mortuary. It was dark, but for a neon sign discreetly advertising death.

Kirk entered the driveway and drove to the rear, where he braked beside a separate building, doused his lights and left the limousine. He crossed to a door and jabbed a bell-button repeatedly, using a coded signal. The door opened narrowly with a dim splash of light, and then he was swallowed inside.

Another five minutes passed before Kirk returned with a man who toted a canvas stretcher. Kirk opened the trunk and the two men shared the burden of the body, lowering it, then carting it off on the stretcher, their movements outlined for a moment in the soft glow from the open doorway.

Just then, thrusting a .45 automatic, Fred Hammond stepped from the shadows into their path. “Hold it right there, gentlemen,” he said, as Stanford Tillman materialized abruptly at his side. “Now, ease the stretcher down, raise your hands and lean forward against that wall. C’mon, c’mon! You heard me!”

Hammond searched the pair but found no weapons; Tillman frantically unwound the blanket. Andrea seemed pale enough to be very dead — but wasn’t. There was a slow, steady pulse, and with a moan of relief, Stan gathered her into his arms.

It was nearly dawn; the Vanderhoffs and their accomplices were in custody. The police had gone, taking with them for evidence a tape recording of traffic and ship sounds used to deceive Tillman, and the sum of one million dollars paid in ransom. Andrea was lying on the sofa in the Tillman livingroom, Tillman and Fred Hammond sat in facing chairs.

Andrea took a sip of her coffee and said cheerfully, “Ahh, this is good! I like mine with cream and sugar, no drugs, thank you. Maybe it was something in Nita’s expression that warned me — or is it only that she makes rotten coffee? Anyway, it had a rather odd flavor, and after a swallow or two I was suspicious. So I poured the rest down the drain. Then I fell into a deep sleep. But not forever, as planned.”

“Thank God!” Stan Tillman sighed and solemnly shook his head.

“And now that there’s time for details, what’s your story, Fred?” asked Andrea. “Are you psychic? How in heaven did you figure that I was held here, right next door?”

Hammond smiled. “Well, I knew it couldn’t be done without inside information,” he answered, “and I was already thinking along those lines. But I’m afraid the rest was mostly luck, Mrs. Tillman. I was worried, had a feeling they would never let you go, and I couldn’t sleep. Near five yesterday morning I got up and began to wander over the grounds, thinking, thinking. I was right by the hedge on the Vanderhoff side when that creep, Kirk Pardo, drove in.

“I heard voices, soft but excited. So I peeked through the hedge. In the moonlight, I saw the Vanderhoffs and the maid, Nita. They were gathered around Kirk, who was taking a suitcase from the trunk of the limo. I got only a glimpse before the garage door closed. But I thought it was mighty strange for Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhoff to be dressed and about at that hour and cozy with the hired help, everyone fired up over a suitcase.

“I began to try it on for size, putting the pieces together in my mind. It was wild — but possible. I went to Mr. Tillman with it, and together we kept a constant watch on the Vanderhoff place through binoculars. When Kirk sneaked off in the limo at midnight, we tailed him, part of the way with fights out.

“And here we are, Mrs. Tillman, all safe and sound.”

Andrea said, “Dear Fred, I hope you know that you have all our love and gratitude. But I believe we owe you something more tangible. Don’t you, Stan?”

“Yes, indeed we do,” said Tillman, who was gazing fondly at Hammond. “Fred, I’d like to make you a present of some shares in each of the Tillman companies. You’ll have enough to make you independent for life.” He sighed. “And I suppose that means I’ll lose you.”

“No chance of that, Mr. Tillman.” Hammond grinned. “A Tillman stockholder is kinda like a member of the family. And families should stick together, don’t you think?”