Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 7, July, 1980

The Real Story by Dorothy Benjamin

An unsolved case rankled Chief Cort...

Chief of Police Andrew Cort moved the file folder on his desk, picked up the lone magazine, and opened it to the place marker he had inserted at home. The chief was a big man, solidly built, with close-cropped greying hair. His frown deepened as he read.

To his men Chief Cort was stern, humorless, and demanding. They grumbled frequently about his uncompromising attitude. A number continually complained about the set of rules he had established when he took charge of the department eighteen months ago: uniforms kept neat and clean and in topnotch condition; carefully written reports turned in without undue delay; no time off from regular duty except for the most urgent of reasons; courteous treatment of the public at all times.

Chief Cort made it clear that neither corruption nor incompetence would be tolerated and that he considered dereliction of duty inexcusable. He was determined to upgrade the department and nothing less than excellence of performance was acceptable to him.

In Chief Cort’s opinion the previous chief, who had resigned under fire, had run a sloppy department. The majority of the men had simply enjoyed the lax discipline, but a few had taken advantage of it, and those were generally the ones who complained about the new regime. But even they, if pressed, would concede that Chief Cort was fair. A rule for one was a rule for all.

Like most of his colleagues, Chief Cort felt a keen sense of satisfaction when a difficult case was solved. An unsolved case rankled. He would constantly review the files and pore over reports in search of a clue, however tenuous, which might have escaped earlier notice. Even when pure chance was instrumental in the solving of a case he expressed gratification. He sought no personal glory.

Chief Cort closed the magazine he had been reading and, steepling his fingers, sat in thought for several minutes. Then he flipped on the switch to the intercom. “Send in Officer Brady,” he commanded.

Removing his reading glasses, he placed them alongside the folder on his desk and rose. He stretched and walked about the office for a few moments before returning to his desk. His movements were deliberate, but for all his burliness Chief Cort could move quickly when required.

There was a knock on the door and Officer Brady entered, buttoning his jacket. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”

The chief leveled his gaze at Brady and the officer hurriedly completed fastening his uniform.

“Brady, do you recall the Sampson Stamp Shop burglary? I’ve been reviewing the case.” He indicated the folder on his desk.

“It must be at least ten months since the Sampson B-and-E,” Brady said.

“You knew the owner of the store quite well, didn’t you?”

Brady’s manner turned defensive. “You remember what you said, Chief — that we should get acquainted with the people on our beat. You know — to win their confidence? That way they would be more likely to cooperate, you said, if—”

“I remember what I said, Brady,” the Chief said dryly.

“Well—” Brady pushed out his chin “—yes, sir, I knew the owner, sir.”

Chief Cort’s eyes narrowed but his voice remained even. “I’m right in believing that your hobby is stamp collecting, am I not?”

Officer Brady’s chin eased back.

“Yes, sir.” He became expansive. “It was something to help me relax when I was off duty — you know? I started collecting stamps a couple of years ago.”

“I imagine it takes time to build up a good stamp collection,” Cort said. “I don’t suppose you have a complete collection of any country?”

Officer Brady hesitated. “No, I don’t, sir. Like you say, Chief, it takes time. Money too — something I don’t happen to have a lot of.”

“Who does these days?” the Chief said. “Is there anything in particular you’re collecting in the stamp line, Brady?”

Brady cleared his throat and said guardedly, “Uh, commemoratives. Whatever I can pick up.” His tone quickened. “Old man Sampson used to give me pointers on what to watch out for in a trade. Stuff like centering and imperfect perfs — perforations. He taught me to use mounts to keep my stamps in mint condition. I hinged them at first, which decreases their value.”

“Mr. Sampson seems to have been most helpful to you.”

“Yeah, sir, he was. I was sorry when the old man’s store was hit and he decided to close it up.” Brady shrugged. “Oh, well, I don’t suppose he made much money there anyway.”

Chief Cort’s face darkened. “Very little,” he said curtly. “Mr. Sampson’s daughter told me she often put money into the cash drawer to make her father believe he had done sufficient business to cover his bills. Mrs. Haines did the bookkeeping for her father so Mr. Sampson never had any idea what she was doing.”

“She never told me that,” Brady said petulantly.

The Chief’s voice was sharp. “Any reason why she should?”

“It’s just that I knew her pretty good. Being on the beat and all. I’d have thought she’d have confided in me.”

“A lady’s prerogative, Brady. Tell me — you knew Jonathan Haines, didn’t you?”

“Sampson’s grandson?” Officer Brady scowled. “I know him. Punk kid.”

Chief Cort raised an eyebrow. “I understand Jonathan Haines installed the burglar alarm system in his grandfather’s store and didn’t charge Mr. Sampson anything for his work, not even for the parts. And when his grandfather had a prolonged siege of illness, young Haines spelled his mother at the store. Did you know he graduated from journalism school last June with high honors?”

He regarded Brady sternly. “You call him a punk kid, Brady? It seems to me the world could do with more punk kids like Jonathan Haines.”

“Well, I used to think he was O.K. too, but when I bumped into him on the street a while back he acted real snippy to me.” Glancing at the chief, Brady shifted his gaze.

“It could be that Haines is still upset over the burglary,” the chief suggested. “He may hold himself responsible for the failure of the alarm system to work when it was needed most.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Brady nodded.

“The stamp album that was stolen contained Sampson’s own collection.” Chief Cort reached for his eyeglasses and consulted the folder on his desk. “United Nations complete, valued at one thousand dollars. Sampson had brought his collection to the store for safekeeping because of an attempted break-in at a house near his. He was afraid his house might be next. Is that right, Brady?”

“It’s all there in my report,” Brady replied testily. “I went over the case with you months ago, Chief.”

Chief Cort rapped the top of the desk with a pencil. “We’re going over it once more, Brady.”

He picked up a paper. “According to Jonathan Haines, his grandfather felt certain his collection would be safe in the store because of the burglar alarm. But that very night the store was broken into.” Chief Cort peered at Officer Brady over his glasses. “Mr. Sampson showed you the album containing his U.N. collection, didn’t he?”

“And who knows how many others he showed it to?” Brady bristled. “What are you trying to prove, Chief? That old man blabbed all over the place about his stamp collection.”

“But how many people, Brady, were aware that the stamp album had been brought into the store? Didn’t it strike you as odd that the album was stolen the very first night it was there?” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “As your report states, on your late-evening rounds you found the rear door of Sampson’s standing open. The window in the top half of the door had been smashed. You notified headquarters of a possible B-and-E. Within moments of your call the alarm sounded.” The chief paused and raised his eyes from the folder. “Sergeant O’Hara was standing near the board and informed me later he was startled that the alarm sounded so quickly after you had called in.”

“I don’t know about the alarm,” Brady said. “I don’t know why it malfunctioned. I’m no expert.”

“But you’re positive it did malfunction.”

“What else? That Haines kid didn’t do the job right, that’s all.”

“I want you to think carefully before you answer, Brady. You didn’t touch the door — push it or kick it perhaps — so that it might have triggered the alarm although it had failed to go off when the door was broken open?”

“I never touched the door!” Brady’s voice rose.

Chief Cort removed his glasses and studied Brady thoughtfully. “You waited until Detectives Coleman and Glen arrived. In the meantime — while you were waiting — you did not touch the door at all? Is that your story, Brady?”

“Exactly what’s in my report!”

“I see.” Chief Cort adjusted his eyeglasses, placed the folder to one side. “Brady, do you ever read Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine?”

Brady goggled at Chief Cort. “Sure,” he said. “I read it sometimes. Why?”

“Have you read the latest issue?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You should. You’ll find a very interesting story in it that parallels much of the Sampson burglary.

“In the story,” he said, “the patrolman on the beat notifies his headquarters that, while making his rounds, he has discovered the rear door of a stamp store standing ajar. He expresses the opinion that it looks like a B-and-E. Then he himself smashes in the window on the rear door with the butt of his gun, reaches in, and opens the door — being careful, of course, not to leave any prints.

“Earlier in the day—” the Chief paused and glanced at Brady “—when the owner of the store showed the album containing his personal stamp collection to the patrolman, the officer made note of where the owner kept the album, so later the officer doesn’t need to waste any time searching for it. He snatches it, hides it in his car, and is waiting at the stamp shop when the detectives arrive.”

Chief Cort leaned back in his chair and eyed Brady. “What do you think of the story?”

Brady moistened his lips. “It’s a story some writer dreamed up out of his head. You know — writers and their imaginations. It’s just coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” The chief made a wry face. “The officer planned the whole thing, Brady. There was a B-and-E, all right, but it was committed by the patrolman on the beat. Pretty neatly too. He expects the burglar alarm to go off when the door is broken open, so — very cagily — he reports a B-and-E before he has even touched the door, knowing he has only about four or five minutes until reinforcements are due to arrive.

“He breaks open the door, dashes into the store, grabs the stamp album, runs to his car, which is parked close by, and stashes the album. When his colleagues arrive, he is waiting for them at the store, all innocence.”

Brady swallowed. “Coincidence,” he said.

“Possibly,” the Chief said, his mouth tightening, “except for one thing. You’ll be interested to learn that the author is Jonathan Haines. Oh, yes,” he further enlightened Brady. “Mr. Sampson’s grandson.”

Brady stared at the chief.

“When I read the story I requestioned Mr. Haines and he said he had written it out of frustration. He has never bought the theory advanced by the police that the burglar alarm malfunctioned when the door was broken open and then went off accidentally afterward.”

Cort stood. “And neither do I,” he snapped. “I want the truth, Brady. The real story this time!”