Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 20, No. 1, January 1975

A Wreath for Justice by Edward Wellen

Christmas exchanges rarely are made with such dexterity as this one.

Last year’s leftover tinsel icicles did for this year’s Christmas tree. Thomas Orth’s hands hung the strips on the boughs. He watched the hands as though they belonged to someone else. Strange how you still went through the motions long after the meaning had gone. The few gift packages under the tree flaunted their false gaiety.

The doorbell rang.

An icicle of fear stabbed into his chest, freezing him through and through. Who, at this hour...? Then he hurried, dripping tinsel, to answer before the doorbell rang again and wakened Lucy. He gaped on seeing who stood there — Kenneth Mathwick, Sr. himself.

Mathwick leaned forward, pushing his imposing presence at Orth. “Quick, let me in.”

Still gaping, Orth gave way. As Mathwick stepped in and swung around to shut the door Orth saw he carried a briefcase in one gloved hand. He had brought the night chill in with him as well, and Orth shivered.

Mathwick looked past Orth. His eyes darted left and right. His voice came out a harsh whisper. “Your wife?”

“Lucy?” Orth felt stupid. After all, he had only one wife and her name was Lucy. “She’s upstairs. Asleep.”

“No one else here?”

“No.” Orth spoke mechanically, his mind trying to unwhirl.

“Ah.” He wasted a moment, drumming on his briefcase. Then he cleared his throat and put on the well-known Mathwick getting-down-to-business expression. “You know Judith Hillerin, of course?”

Of course, Orth reflected. She was the typist with the indolent look-how-I’m-put-together shape and the insolent I-dare-you-to-slap-me face.

Mathwick was waiting for him to answer. Now it was Orth’s turn to clear his throat. “She’s one of the typists, isn’t she? Why do you ask?”

For some reason the worn star on the top of the tree held Mathwick’s gaze. He spoke to Orth at last but kept his eyes on the star. “The office Christmas party — you were there this evening, weren’t you?”

Orth’s mouth slid slightly to the left. He was only a lowly slave and Mathwick Senior was Mathwick Senior, but had his presence at the party made so little impression? Mathwick’s glance had passed over him several times, together with a fixed smile, and one of those times Mathwick had even raised a paper cup to him. Now it would seem that the board room had been, for once in the year, loud and crowded enough to joggle him out of Mathwick’s sight and mind.

“I was there, but I stayed for only a drink or two. I would’ve liked to have stayed longer, but I felt I’d better leave early to be with Lucy.”

“Yes, I can see how you would feel that way, especially on this night.” Mathwick’s voice went sentimental, almost mushily so, but his eyes sharpened. “How is your wife these days? I understand she hasn’t been well for some time.”

Orth still had enough courage in him from his drink or two at the party to draw himself up and try to stare Mathwick down. This was his castle and no outsider had the right to peer behind the arras — but Mathwick wasn’t stare-downable.

“Well, the doctors haven’t been able to find anything physically wrong with her, but she does have to take medication for her nerves.”

The fire in Mathwick’s eyes could have come from his mentally rubbing his hands. “Sad. Dismal for her and hard on you. Yes, that’s what I had heard, that she’s in this drugged state much of the time.” Mathwick’s eyes probed Orth’s. “Then your wife would not be able to testify — I mean, say for sure — that you in fact left the party early and came straight home?”

Orth blinked. He opened his mouth, without having yet formed in his mind what he meant to say, but in any case Mathwick gave him no chance to speak.

“No, hear me out. You could say you stayed on at the office party till almost an hour or so ago, when it ended, and your story would hold up.”

Orth spoke slowly, dragging it out of himself. “I suppose I could. But why should I?”

“Because something happened after you left.” Mathwick’s brow glistened. “I remember — and no doubt others remember — that the Hillerin girl was still full of life toward the party’s end, when she dropped out of sight and I took it she had gone home or wherever. Junior and I were alone there at the finish. No one — aside from Junior and me, and now you — knows about it yet.” He paused.

Orth had to force himself to ask. “Knows what?”

Mathwick’s face twitched. “Junior tells me he was too drunk to remember actually doing it. All he knows is, when he came out of his haze he was alone with Judith in his private office and she was dead, with his letter opener thrust in her.” Mathwick shuddered. “Awful. I didn’t believe him till I went in and saw with my own eyes, and I still can’t believe it.” He shuddered again. “The blood on the carpet.”

Orth had always felt a dull hate for Junior ever since Junior had come into the firm, starting above Orth and rising from there. Grim pleasure overrode shock, then honest wonderment overrode grim pleasure. He stared at Math wick and tried to read between the lines of his face. “Why come here and tell me? Why not go to the police?”

Mathwick drew in a lot of air, as though more for size than for speech. “Because I can’t let Junior go to jail. That would end everything for me. Junior has too much to live for to let one mad moment jeopardize his whole future. I built the firm to last after my time.” His gaze fixed on the star again. “I know everyone thinks I’m cold and hard. Maybe I am. But if I am it isn’t because I’m selfish. All I’ve ever done I’ve done for Junior.”

Orth couldn’t help making the thrust. “Why don’t you take the blame for him, then?”

Mathwick waved that away. “Everyone would know I couldn’t have done it. For one thing, I had no opportunity. Too many employees hovered around me every minute of the evening.” His gaze fixed on Orth. “So I need someone else. I need someone who would not have drawn notice if he slipped away to the inner office with the Hillerin tramp. I need you.”

“Me?” It came out a high-alto mi.

“It was an act of passion, a moment of madness. Too much to drink, and you’re unused to drinking. Too much frustration at home, and you’re faced with this temptation at hand. Perfectly understandable. Everyone knows the Hillerin girl was a teaser. Everyone knows you’ve always been a quiet person, a dutiful employee, a solid citizen. You’ll get off lightly, especially if you come forward of your own free will. You’re childless, you have a sick wife to care for. You have little to lose, a lot to gain. I’ll give you—”

“You’re out of your mind.” There went his job, but Orth didn’t care. He stared at Mathwick and anger surged. The man really thought that he should be willing to sacrifice himself for Junior, of all people. “Why should I—”

Mathwick cut him off with a gesture. “A million reasons.” He opened the briefcase, playing it close to his chest, and withdrew a sheaf of bonds. “I had these in my office safe. One million dollars in negotiable securities. Bearer bonds. See for yourself.”

He placed the bonds on Orth’s palm, which found itself coming up to receive them. Orth studied the bonds. They were the real thing and they would add up to a million, maybe more in a rising market.

Mathwick drew out of the briefcase a stiffly rolled handkerchief which he unfolded to lay bare a letter opener with a three-inch-deep dark red stain on the daggerlike blade. “What do you say? Your prints on the handle in exchange for a million dollars.”

There was a long silence and a long stillness, then slowly, slowly, Orth’s other palm rose.

Mathwick breathed out an invisible heaviness, then his voice grew brisk. “No, your other hand. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

Orth nodded numbly and switched the bonds to his left hand. Mathwick placed the letter opener on Orth’s right palm. Orth held bonds and opener as though weighing them in the balance, then closed his hand over the hilt.

Mathwick sandwiched Orth’s hand between his and pressed it hard to the hilt as though molding clay. After making sure each finger had good contact, Mathwick freed Orth’s hand. Orth opened his hand. Mathwick’s waiting handkerchief swallowed the letter opener carefully and the briefcase swallowed both — with finality.

“I’m really deeply grateful to you, Thomas, and I’ll see that you get the best counsel around. All you have to do now is give me an hour to take care of... replacing the letter opener, then turn yourself in.”

Mathwick strode to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out. “I parked my car around the corner to make sure no one would see it in front of your house. And I made sure no one saw me come in. Now I’m making sure no one sees me leave.”

He nodded farewell at Orth and put his hand on the doorknob.

Suddenly a suspicion seized Orth, convulsing his grip on the bonds and screeching silently at him to snatch back the letter opener before it was too late. “Hold on, Mathwick.”

Kenneth Mathwick, Sr. turned his head and lifted an eyebrow. “Eh?”

“How do I know this isn’t all a frame?”

Mathwick frowned. “What do you mean, all a frame?”

The words rushed out. “I mean how do I know you won’t try to have your cake and eat it too? Now that you have my prints on the letter opener, what’s to keep you from bolstering the case against me and at the same time getting your million dollars back? How do I know that after you... replace the letter opener, and they find Judith that way, you won’t discover that the bonds are missing from your safe? I’d never be able to prove that you made this visit and that we closed this deal. So how do I know you won’t lead the police to believe I killed Judith, not in a mad moment — because, as you said, I’m the quiet type — but more believably in desperation when she caught me robbing your safe?”

Mathwick shook his head. “The thought never entered my mind. I give you my word.” He turned the knob.

“Not so fast, Mathwick. Whether or not it was there before, or would’ve come to you on your way back to the office, the thought’s there now. So we’ll settle it now.”

Mathwick almost hissed with impatience. “I’ve no time to sit down and reason with you. I need to get back before one of the night people stumbles on the body. There’s always that chance though I locked the door to the office. You’ll just have to trust me, Orth.” With an air of finality he made to go.

“Mathwick, I said to hold on.” Was that his own voice, so suddenly hard and menacing? It had stopped Mathwick. “I can phone the cops and have them at the office before you get back to it.”

Mathwick looked at Orth and for the first time gave him a nod of respect. “What do you suggest, then?” He frowned, but not angrily. “How can I satisfy you that I won’t double-cross you?”

Orth found himself ready with the answer. “Write me out a note saying you’re giving me the bonds of your own free will in payment for services rendered. If you’re leveling with me I’ll never have to show the note.”

Mathwick’s frown deepened. Then he erased it, sighed and let his shoulders droop. Though he had wiped his frown, suddenly he looked his age and more.

Yet he had control of himself— Orth had to give him that. Mathwick’s hand did not tremble noticeably as he wrote. There was nothing more to say, except with their eyes, and they parted silently.

A wind had risen, and it took Orth a good solid slam to close the door after Mathwick. Orth’s heart thumped an echo. Sure enough, in answer to his listening he heard the springs of Lucy’s bed and her drugged footsteps moving to the door of her room.

“Who was that you were talking to?” she asked.

“Santa Claus.”

One thing Lucy lacked was a sense of humor. He hadn’t expected her to laugh, and she didn’t; he had expected her to go on talking, and she did. Her tone was querulous; he wasn’t listening to her words.

His free hand still held the feel of the hilt; he rubbed it against his thigh. He had to find a safe place for the bonds and the note before the police came for him or he turned himself in. The sheaf grew heavy in his hand, but its heaviness took a weight off his mind. A million dollars.

A million dollars could buy Lucy the best medical care. A million dollars could buy him a new life after he served his time.

Thomas Orth looked at the star on the tree without seeing it. He saw himself touching Judith Hillerin’s look-how-I’m-put-together shape, saw himself trying to kiss Judith Hillerin’s I-dare-you-to-slap-me face, heard Judith Hillerin’s mocking voice, saw red, then saw blood, and lastly saw his hand drawing away from the letter opener in Judith Hillerin’s body.

A million dollars could even buy the truth.