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

Ms. Found by a Patrolman by Carole Rosenthal

Here, one must recall Scott’s admonition:

And many a word, at random spoken,

May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken!

I confess I’m slightly confused by Lila Potterman’s attitude, even a bit dizzied by her complete about-face. Because I am that truly unique creature in these chaotic times — the RATIONAL human being — I am writing down this objective account of our evening together so that I can figure out her puzzling behavior.

First, without false modesty, let me declare that I am an eligible bachelor. I have no trouble meeting and attracting women. This account is in no way a traditional Lover’s Lament.

I am tall, dark and, yes — I admit it — even handsome. Then too, I am a noted doctor, which by itself assures my social success.

These qualifications, however, meant nothing to Lila Potterman. She has the true scientific mind that cuts through sentimental garbage masquerading as fact in our society; but perhaps to understand my admiration for her I should begin with an account of my life’s dedication, a dedication that stops at nothing.

I am a man of strong principles, devoted to abolishing dangerous traditions. Not as a profession, of course — the world isn’t ready for that yet — but as a hobby. As a scientist, I have seen that certain outmoded concepts of honor and humanity spread across the earth like contagious diseases, and hold back the progress of the human race.

Love, Piety of Motherhood, Freedom, Mans Dignity — all false issues; look at the facts of war, overcrowding, crime.

We have to change the people who carry diseased traditions (primarily mothers), and start anew with enlightened people to create a more thoughtful world, Reconditioning; possibly we will even have to eliminate large groups of incurables.

What does this have to do with Lila Potterman? Well, let me explain.

The creation of a new world is a mammoth project, involving changes in the entire social structure. Frankly, it’s tiring. Like other men with far-reaching goals, I want companionship; a helpmate to comfort me, physically and intellectually; a wife.

Where would I find one? Oh, I knew plenty of women. They flocked to me, honestly. I could practically see their lips moving to practice the magic phrase: “My husband, the doctor.” Disgusting! Stupid perpetuators of tradition! When you considered that these women were also potential mothers — well, you can plainly see where that leads.

I wanted a rational woman, someone who understood me, who wouldn’t cringe from reality; a woman who could help, in some small way, with my plans for a new world. In short, someone exactly like myself — only female, of course.

How was I to meet this woman? Clearly, trusting to chance and circumstances was too much a hit-or-miss operation. These women — if they existed — must be rare. One could not meet them at parties or bars or even at dull scientific conventions. You couldn’t spot them on the street, and grateful uncles recuperating from bladder operations — no matter how well-meaning — never provided them when they hooted: “What, a good-looking young guy like you not married yet? Have I got a niece for you...”

I had just finished eating dinner several months ago, and was turning the problem over once again in my mind as I settled down with my pipe and newspaper. Would cloning work, I wondered? Growing a complete duplicate of myself from one of my cells certainly had a strong appeal, no doubt about it. Still, even if the technique were perfected soon, could I wait twenty-odd years for my double to grow up? And he’d be male besides.

Suddenly my eyes lit upon a small heavily-bordered display ad in the back section of the newspaper.

“Computer-Mater!” it said in bold letters. “The scientific method of matching minds! Our complete data-processing technique finds your perfect partner through the most up-to-date technology. Absolutely confidential!”

I read the ad three times. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? With the help of a totally rational machine, using systematically collected facts as raw data, I could find my female counterpart. I was so excited that I tossed restlessly in bed all night, and telephoned for an application form as soon as I got up in the morning.

However, two days later, when the form arrived in the afternoon mail, I eyed it with some dismay. A puffy pink cupid in the lower left-hand corner of the envelope was unleashing several crooked arrows at my name (misspelled) and address. I tore it open and read it in the elevator:

I snorted to myself and turned my front door key sharply. I.Q. indeed! What about the T.Q.? Tradition Quotient! That’s what will turn the world from madness and destruction. Have useless old attitudes and responses been extinguished?

Remember, before you think that I abandoned the idea, that I hardly expected better from a commercial operation, designed to appeal to the general public. Therefore I had already prepared another, deeply-probing questionnaire, together with several pages of instruction for use. I attached these to a check and sent them off. Maybe...

A week later my bank informed me that Computer-Mater had cashed my check, and a letter arrived, promising partner-appraisal information soon. So the “maybe” became a “probably” in my mind, then, unaccountably, a “definitely.”

I began to count on Computer-Mater. Images of my matching opposite spun through my head. I spent hours composing our dialogues, our dinner anecdotes, even our lovemaking. I was completely exhilarated, perhaps even a bit carried away, for I decided to put my theories into practice. I would convert the women I already knew to rationality or... follow out the logical conclusion.

Unfortunately they were incurable, low T.Q.’s in every single case. No amount of patient reasoning could penetrate their foggy minds.

The first was an imaginary thread-lifter, who plucked, cooing, at my lapels and cut her eyes sideways at me incessantly. The second, plain and dumpy, kept talking about “security.” The third — probably the worst of the lot and the one with whom I tried hardest — was a lanky sophisticate who kept gold-plated “His” and “Hers” ash trays in the bathroom. All tragic terminal cases.

Within the month, all three had expired of diseases stocked by the hospital research laboratory: Bubonic Plague, Botulism and Anthrax — in that order. The Anthrax, since it usually attacks sheep and cows, especially amused me; and it baffled even top medical minds in Manhattan. Isolating the toxins presented no difficulty for someone with my laboratory background.

Meanwhile, though, I had not heard from Computer-Mater again. The intellectual excitement generated by my experiments kept me from depression, but I was beginning to worry.

Then one afternoon I returned home from the hospital and found the cupid-adorned envelope stuffed into the back of my mailbox. Nervous excitement prickled on my palms. I licked my lips and tore it open.

I was — rationally — prepared to wait. I rarely get apprehensive or edgy, but by midnight I found the words of the medical journal in front of me were blurring. At the back of my neck, muscular tension tightened like a thick knot. My plans — if not those for all mankind-seemed to hang so fragilely. What would I do if this scientifically-developed method didn’t work?

I had exhausted my resources. Had I, perhaps, been too impulsive? Was the world right and was I wrong? Well, it was too late to turn back. According to the conventional universe I was merely a criminal.

So when morning came, I renewed my determination. Clamping my teeth tightly onto my pipe stem, I dialed Computer-Mater. Two rings and a brief, staticky silence, then a crisp, feminine voice came on the line, offering to help me.

“Look,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “this is more important than you realize...” and I outlined the procedure I followed in sending in the questionnaire, making appropriate threats about the Better Business Bureau.

“Just a moment, please. I’ll get your file.”

The telephone wire was coiling around my ankles and I stepped over it, sitting down in a straight-backed chair. In a minute she was back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but our data-processing crew was just running early-morning applicants through the computer. None of them come very close to your qualifications.”

“You’ve already cashed my check,” I reminded her.

“Yes,” she said, “but so far we haven’t located any applicants fitting your needs. You want someone unencumbered by social con—”

“Let me speak to the company president,” I said firmly. One always wastes time with secretaries.

A brief pause; then the crisp voice continued, cutting through my rage. “I am the president of Computer-Mater and I have all the necessary information in front of me. Your anger is a pointless waste of energy since all possibilities are being thoroughly investigated. The problem is yours, rather than the computer’s.”

My pipe fell to the floor. The stem snapped and the bowl rocked crazily.

“Do you mean there’s nobody for me? It’s impossible that—”

“You’re not listening carefully,” the voice said sharply. “I said we had no applicants meeting your needs. However, I personally supervised your case, because I found your standards quite admirable. When our Mater rejected all of the people we fed into it, I thought of one person who might be your match. Someone who hadn’t made formal application, but—”

“Yes?”

“For my own interests as well as yours, I filled out a supplemental questionnaire and sent it through the computer. The result was,” she exhaled gently, “a success. Computer-Mater has matched us. We are mirror opposites, agreeing on virtually every subject introduced into the machine.”

There was a silence, the awed silence that attends birth.

“Well,” I said.

“My name is Lila Potterman,” she said.

“Well.” I stood up, wiping my hands on my trousers. “Well, well, well.” It was difficult to frame words on such an occasion. “Can I see you tonight? Dinner and a show?”

“Don’t be silly! I’m free after 7:30, but let’s not waste time with empty rituals of courtship. Obviously we want to assess each other’s character and answer any questions we failed to feed into the computer. The evening should be devoted to discussion, don’t you think?”

I agreed. We made our arrangements and I hung up the phone. A sensible woman!

At the appointed hour, I met Lila Potterman at a cocktail lounge downtown, one of those arty little Village places where people are encouraged to mar the wooden tables and beams with crudely carved hearts and initials. The irony of such a setting appealed to my sense of humor. She was sitting near the back, an ice-blonde with long, loose hair and a pink cashmere sweater draped around her shoulders.

I slid into the booth opposite her. Her eyes were pale and crystalline and she cocked her head to one side as I frankly appraised her.

“Are physical appearances that important to you?”

“Not at all,” I said stiffly. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, I was pleased by her good looks. Aesthetic appeals, I decided, could not be hastily dismissed in creating a new world. What, for instance, if we had children?

As if she read my mind, she began talking.

“Do you believe in eugenics? I think we have to define our convictions immediately. Simple physical and personality attraction is insufficient for our relationship, and I’m interested in knowing where you stand on certain important issues.”

I signaled to the waiter and ordered drinks.

“I stand against tradition,” I said simply.

She nodded, and leaned back so that the sweater slid from her shoulder and revealed a graceful white arm. “So do I,” she said. “In fact, I believe that old values are simply perpetuating themselves out of inertia, even though they have lost their validity. But have you thought of what would happen if we peeled away slushy traditions? Would you personally object, for example, to the idea of starting from scratch?”

She wet her lips with a delicate pink tongue and leaned forward on the edge of her seat as she waited for my answer.

“Do you mean—” I began.

She rocked her head in assent. “I know you understand my meaning,” she said. “According to our Mater we have common goals. We’re almost exactly alike in our thinking. How would you propose to eliminate the old consciousness?”

I nodded and cleared my throat. Her concern for the problems of mankind made her eyes sparkle in the most delightful way. Her cheeks colored with excitement as I explained my ideas. She was following all the complexities of my theories perfectly.

As we sat, talking there in the dimly-lit cocktail lounge, I felt remarkably happy. Surrounded by the vestiges of useless tradition we, two visionaries, were able to see a clear light beyond. Lila Potterman had been well worth waiting for. I even caught myself trying to steal furtive glances at her shapely legs.

At one hour past midnight, we adjourned to her apartment to continue our conversation. I was a little intoxicated — elated perhaps — by the lucid quality of our communication, and while Lila prepared a late dinner for us both, I congratulated myself on the foresight that had brought us together. We were just finishing our steak au poivre, when Lila unfolded her ripe lips and smiled challengingly at me.

“So far we’ve been in agreement on every single point,” she said slowly, “but there’s one thing I’ve been wondering about. It’s easy to talk about getting rid of people, and your theories — which I share — are terribly practical. But how do I know, when it comes right down to it, that you have the courage of your convictions?”

I met her eyes and grinned. I knew the answer to that question well enough. Hadn’t I proved my objectivity when I took care of those three pesty women? But how would Lila react if I told her? Could I trust her objectivity and freedom from cultural values?

“I really must know this,” Lila said, “if we’re going to consider seriously a permanent match. I’d be hampered by someone who turned back at the crucial moment, because I believe in completing each necessary step of my convictions.”

I tightened my lips, and with a slight inward tremor, I made my decision. I would risk it! I might lose her either way.

“Well,” I began, looking down at the table, “I did have three girlfriends who passed away lately...”

Soon, I had told her the entire story of how I developed the Tradition Quotient for measuring them, how I tried to convert them to rational thinking, and how — when they proved incurable traditionalists — I refused to compromise my principles.

The mercy killings (for I had decided it was at least that) struck Lila as particularly amusing; her breath quickened as I outlined the details. Dark lashes cast fringed shadows on her cheeks.

“But how did you administer disease toxins to them?” she wanted to know. “Wasn’t it dangerous?”

“Not at all.” I straightened my shoulders under her admiring gaze and slid my chair closer to hers, so that my knee pressed against her thigh. “You see, I simply placed the isolated toxin on the point of a pin, and attached it to a corsage. Near the end of the evening, I insisted upon adjusting the corsage on their dresses. Those women were so flattered by my attentions that they never even minded when I accidentally jabbed the pin into their skin.”

She laughed aloud, shaking her long blonde hair back and forth.

“The medical diagnosis was natural death, of course,” I said.

“How traditional of you! You said it with flowers.”

I smiled, and she ducked her head to conceal the rising color in her cheeks.

“You didn’t bring me flowers,” she said.

I smiled at her coyness.

“Shouldn’t you always be prepared?”

I took her hand under the table. “Let’s not beat around the bush any longer,” I said. “Now that you see my dedication, let’s make plans for a future together.”

Her body leaned closer to me, and I felt her warm breath as she bent her face near mine. She spoke softly.

“Yes,” she breathed, “we’re a good match, an even match. My computer will be invaluable in our research and experiments, and we can do so much together. Through Computer-Mater alone, I’ve recorded the attitudes of thousands of New Yorkers, and we can reprogram the machine to tabulate them. On your own, it would take four years to find these people and to measure their T.Q.’s. But together, with my computer, we can do it in days!”

I squeezed her hand passionately. My voice rose with excitement.

“Perfect! Perfect!” I said, with more ardor than I had ever experienced. “We can’t possibly fail! I bless my rationality in ever finding you. You’re the one perfect woman to stand behind me in my plans! You will aid me and work with me as I put into effect: Operation Future!”

Was it my imagination, or was Lila withdrawing her hand from mine?

“Stand behind you?” she said.

“As a wife,” I said, oddly confused by the way her voice flattened. Perhaps she needed more reassurance. “I’ll put the plans into effect and you’ll see that things run smoothly on the home front.”

Her eyes narrowed and she shifted her body away from me. “What do you mean ‘home front’?” she asked.

“Not the literal home front.” I was afraid I’d offended her. “You know I don’t believe in that. I mean that you’d take care of background details, handling the kind of thing a woman can do best.”

Lila stood up and ran her hand through her hair. Her tongue clicked gently against the roof of her mouth. “Male supremacy is a myth,” she said. “That’s the most mindless tradition of all!”

We finished our meal slowly and in silence. This was our first quarrel; it hung heavily in the air. By the time Lila brought in the dessert, I was beside myself with apologies, but I couldn’t take back what I’d said. Anyway, I thought, defending myself as she sat opposite me with her face stony, her eyes downcast, I’m not so sure that what I said needed apologies. There are certain biological verities.

Still, I didn’t want to lose Lila Potterman. The computer had matched us — and, I confess, I was growing fond of her. I only wanted her to stop crossing and recrossing her long, beautiful legs, to stop repeating, “Mindless traditions have no place in an enlightened world!” Had she no forgiveness in her at all? Not one grain?

Finally, not knowing what else to do, I left, deciding to give her a few days to get over her anger.

That’s the end of my chronicle of what happened this evening. If I was dizzy when I started this, I’m even dizzier now, but since I’ve tried to be as objective as possible, recording all the details, I’m sure that when my head clears I’ll find the clue that will make this whole thing fall in place for me.

Oh yes, before I lie down, one more thing. It doesn’t make much sense, but maybe when I think about it... Her parting remark as she ushered me to the door was strangely traditional.

“ ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ ” she said.

Does that mean she is interested in me?

Or does it mean I should have complimented her more on her cooking? But I couldn’t have done so in all honesty. That dessert, for instance, left a very bitter aftertaste...