Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

The Trouble with Ruth by Henry Slesar

Henry Slesar has been associated with AHMM since the magazine’s inception, and over the years we have published more than one hundred stories by him (some written under pseudonyms). He also wrote for the television series Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Edge of Night. In honor of his memory, we are reprinting the first story he wrote for us; it appeared in the second issue of AHMM. He passed away on April 2, 2002.

The sound of the apartment door closing behind Ralph had an abruptness that struck Ruth like a blow.

The wall was growing between them; they both hated it and could do nothing about it. They’d been married almost ten years, and by unspoken agreement had never slept or said goodbye on an argument. But their lips were cold as Ralph had kissed her goodbye.

Ruth sighed and went into the living room. There was an opened pack of cigarettes on the television set. She lit one. It tasted black and horrible; she stamped it out. She went into the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and sat down to wait. She knew just what to expect. In half an hour, her husband would arrive at his office. Five minutes later, he would be on the telephone tactlessly informing her mother about yesterday’s episode, the third in three weeks. Her mother’s voice would be marvelously steady as she replied to him, but by the time she dialed Ruth’s number the sobs would begin in her throat and the first words she uttered would emerge choked and grieving.

At a quarter of ten, the telephone rang.

Ruth picked it up, almost smiling at the accuracy of her prognostication. “Hello?”

It was her mother, of course, and the thin voice was gulping out words of sorrow and commiseration.

“Mama, please!” Ruth shut her eyes. “You’ll just have to get used to the idea. I steal, Mom. I can’t help myself. Try to understand that—”

There was talk about doctors, and trips out of the country; things that Ruth said she and her husband could not afford.

“I know it’s a sickness,” she said. “I know it’s not nice. It’s better to be a murderer or an alcoholic nowadays. You get more sympathy...”

Her mother was crying.

“Please, Mama. You’re not helping. You’re not helping me this way at all.”

When she found a silence long enough to say goodbye and hang up, Ruth returned to the living room, and put her head against the arm of the sofa.

The questions troubled her again. How does it happen? Why does such a thing begin? Why do I steal? Could a doctor — one of those doctors — help her? She shuddered. She had been a perfectly normal child. Her family had money, some money, anyway. They had lived in a fine two-story house overlooking San Francisco bay. And she had been bright in school, a top-of-the-class student. Nobody brought home a longer row of A’s on their report card, not even the two cool, distant young ladies who were Ruth’s older sisters. Also, she was popular.

But she had stolen, even then. Her first crime — Fanny Ritter’s pencil box, a beautiful thing of blue binding and secret compartments. She had made the mistake of displaying her new possession at home, and then they knew. Everybody knew. She was a thief!

Ruth Moody, now twenty-eight, sobbed in her living room for the troubles of a thirteen-year-old girl.

No, Ruth decided at last, as she had decided before. It couldn’t be something in the past. Her past was good and innocent.

But the question remained unanswered: Why did she steal? Why did she take the spools of thread from the department store on Washington Avenue? The cheap pearl buttons from the notions counter? Why did she leave the dress shop on Fourth Avenue with an unpurchased evening bag?

They had understood. All of them. They had called Ralph. They realized she was not a shoplifter, really, but a woman with a problem. Everything was handled very simply. Ralph paid for the merchandise taken, a proper bill of sale was tendered. Her name and her description recorded in the files for handy reference if ever it happened again...

At eleven o’clock, a ringing sound roused her. She had fallen asleep and first looked towards the telephone, then realized it was the doorbell.

The man in the doorway took off his hat when she appeared, but that was his only courteous gesture. He stepped inside without invitation, closing the door behind him. He was short and his face had the hot, quick-burned look of sunlamp treatments. His thick hair was glossy, and his clothes had too many sharp corners.

“You Ruth Moody?” he said.

“Yes.” She was more annoyed than frightened.

He smiled, uncovering tobacco-stained teeth. “I got a little business to talk over, Mrs. Moody.” He nodded toward the living room. “Can we go inside?”

“What sort of business? If you’re selling something—”

“I’m buying, Mrs. Moody.” He chuckled. “All right if I sit down?” He was already sitting down, on the sofa, lifting his trousers at the knees to preserve the knife-edge crease. “I think you better listen,” he said carefully. “It’s about your husband.”

Her hand clutched at her houserobe, and she took a seat across the width of the room.

“What do you mean?”

“I know something about your husband,” he said. “And I know a lot more about you. Put them together — they can spell trouble.” He laid his hat down on the cushion beside him.

“Mrs. Moody,” he continued, “how would you like to make a thousand dollars?”

“What?” Ruth asked, puzzled.

“You heard right. I got a little proposition for you. If you go along, you’ll get a thousand bucks in the mail. If you don’t — well, your husband might have a hard time making ends meet. You get what I mean?”

“No!”

“Let me put it this way. If you were a man’s boss, and you found out that the man’s wife was a shoplifter—”

Ruth’s hands flew to her mouth.

“There. You see what I mean? It makes a difference, don’t it? I mean, these days a man’s family is important in his work. Gotta think of the firm’s reputation, and all that. You see what I mean, don’t you?”

“How did you know?” Ruth said miserably. “Who told you that?”

“Don’t ask me that, Mrs. Moody. Let’s just say I got sources. But don’t get upset. It’s a sickness, you know, like pneumonia, or hay fever. You can’t help yourself—”

Ruth looked at the man hard. Then she said: “How much do you want?”

He waved his hand. “I don’t want your nickels and dimes, Mrs. Moody. Didn’t I tell you? I’m here to buy.”

“Buy what?”

“Your services. All you got to do is play along with us, and you can have a thousand bucks. Take my word for it, you got nothing to lose.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ruth said.

“I can’t spell it out for you. But I got a friend, see? He’ll tell you the details. All you gotta do now is put on your hat and coat and come with me. My friend’ll outline the whole deal. It’s real easy, believe me. You won’t regret it for a minute—”

She stood up. “I’m not going with you!”

“Suit yourself.” He seemed genuinely unconcerned. “We’re not desperate for your help, Mrs. Moody. But we thought we’d give you a break.” He sighed, got up, and took his hat off the sofa. “But if you don’t want to play along—”

“You don’t really mean this.”

He smiled, reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a small business card. He read a penciled notation.

“Otto Mavius and Company, 420 Fifth Avenue. That’s where your husband works, right?”

“But I’m not dressed!” she said frantically. “I can’t come with you now!”

“I can wait, Mrs. Moody. I’m in no hurry.”

They looked at each other for a while; then Ruth whirled and ran towards the bedroom.

In half an hour, they were in a taxi, and the man with the sunburn was giving the name of a modest downtown hotel to the driver. Ruth slumped in the other corner of the cab, not looking at him, her arms folded tightly against her chest to conceal the trembling of her body. The man was inclined to silence, too, eyes fixed thoughtfully out of the side window. But when the cab pulled up to the undistinguished entrance to the hotel, his face brightened.

At the door of Room 408, the man said, “You just relax, Mrs. Moody. You’ll like my friend. He’s a gentleman.”

The gentleman was wearing a brocaded houserobe, and smoking a Turkish cigarette. He had made himself at home in Room 408, but the room had an air of sudden arrivals and quick exits. He was seated on the lumpy sofa, using an oblong coffee table as an impromptu desk. There were papers scattered in front of him and he was scrawling something on the top sheet, his tongue poking out of his mouth exploring his upper lip.

He looked up when Ruth and the sunburned man entered, his pale, youngish face suddenly cordial. He finished what he was writing, put down the pen, and invited them inside.

“You must be Ruth Moody,” he said pleasantly. “Come sit on the sofa. It’s the only comfortable thing in the place.” He looked at the other man. “Why don’t you fix Mrs. Moody a drink?”

“Sure. What would you like, Mrs. Moody?”

“Could I have some coffee?”

“Certainly,” the gentleman said; he nodded to the sunburned man to get it. The man went to a table still cluttered with the remains of a hotel breakfast.

“Now then, Mrs. Moody.” The gentleman leaned back and folded his hands over one knee. “Did my friend tell you very much about our plan?”

“No.”

“That’s just as well. Let me outline it for you.”

He put out his cigarette.

“It’s very simple,” he continued airily, watching the other man place the coffee before her. “We happen to know that you’re a kleptomaniac, Mrs. Moody. Now, now. Don’t get upset over it. Both my friend and I are aware that doesn’t make you a criminal. We respect your illness. Don’t we?”

The sunburned man nodded.

“So,” the gentleman said, “we’d like to make you a little offer. We hope you won’t refuse, because if you do—”

“I told her, Harry.”

“Good. Then I needn’t go into that part. But the important thing I want you to remember, Mrs. Moody, is that no matter what happens, you’re safe. Do you understand that? You can’t be arrested for what we want you to do.”

She gasped. “Arrested?”

“Yes. You see, legally, you’re not liable for your little thefts. Surely, you’ve found that out already. You steal because you have to; no other reason. If you’re caught — well, you merely return what’s been stolen, and that’s that.”

“I don’t understand this.” Her voice was going shrill, and she fought to control it.

“Please. Let me explain. We know that you’ve been picked up three times.”

She sipped the luke-warm coffee, her arm trembling as she raised the cup.

“This means that you’re already a recognized klepto, Mrs. Moody. The stores and the police know all about you. If you were caught stealing something else — something, shall I say, a little more valuable than spools of thread...”

Her eyes widened, and the other man chuckled.

“I think you see our point now, Mrs. Moody. Now let me explain our plan in detail.”

He picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table.

“Here is exactly what you have to do. At twelve-fifteen tomorrow afternoon, you’re to enter a shop called Travells, on Forty-seventh Street. You may not know the place; it’s a rather soignée jewelers, not exactly Tiffany’s perhaps, but well-recognized in its own right. You are to approach a certain counter, which I will diagram for you, and engage the attention of the salesman. You will ask to see a certain tray — I’ll designate that, too — and then, a moment or so after you are examining that tray, there will be a disturbance in the store.”

The short man laughed, with much enjoyment.

The gentleman went on: “It’s ten to one the salesman will leave you alone with the tray since the disturbance will occur nearby. In any event, his attention will be drawn away from the business in hand long enough for you to take the pin without his noticing. In either case, you’ll merely pick up the diamond sparkler on the upper right hand corner and walk out the door. Simple as that.”

Ruth Moody’s skin went damp and cold.

“You needn’t run, you understand. Merely walk out the door. As you come outside, you will see a man with a yellow cannister, collecting funds for Children’s Welfare. You just drop the diamond pin in the opening on top of the cannister, and walk to the corner. There will be a taxi waiting there; it’s a hack stand. You will get in, and give him your home address.” He leaned back and smiled. “And that’s all there is to it.”

She couldn’t say anything. She looked towards the door, and then the window, aimlessly. She picked up the coffee cup but the liquid was cold and tasteless.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t do such a thing.”

“As I said before,” the gentleman said smoothly, “you’re safe — you have absolutely nothing to lose, Mrs. Moody. If you’re stopped before you reach the exit, simply give yourself up. When Travells learns of your — idiosyncrasy, no harm will come to you. You know that. It’ll be just another — medical incident. And that’s all.”

“I couldn’t! I wouldn’t have the nerve.”

The gentleman smiled again. “Nerve, Mrs. Moody? Now, really!”

He looked at the short man.

“Where did you say Mr. Moody worked?”

Grinning, the sunburned man reached into his coat.

Ruth said, “All right. Tell me exactly what I have to do.”

The facade of Travells was fastidiously designed, but unpretentious. One gem per window seemed to be the limit, but each needed no expert’s eye or jeweler’s loupe to proclaim its value. Ruth Moody, wearing her best dress, her good coat, and her newest hat, walked through the front entrance and felt like the thief she was going to be.

She recognized the store layout quickly from the comprehensive sketch the gentleman had shown her the day before. Some fifteen to twenty counters, each under the stewardship of a genteel salesman in a dark suit and silvery gray tie; a ceiling that rivaled a cathedral’s, with a reverent hush to match. About a dozen people were paying their respects to the gems in various showcases.

Ruth went to the counter that had been described to her. The salesman bowed slightly as he asked if he might be of service.

God help me, Ruth whispered to herself. “This tray,” she said softly, supporting her nervous body with both hands against the counter. “The one on the second shelf. May I see it, please?”

“Certainly, Madam!” He reacted as if her taste were remarkable. He unlocked the rear of the case, and produced a velvety tray that flashed brilliant, blinding stars in her eyes.

“Some of the loveliest stones in our collection,” the man said enthusiastically. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

“I’m not sure.” Her eyes went to the spectacular sparkler on the top row. What’s going to happen now? she asked herself.

The answer came almost immediately. Not ten feet from where she stood, a gentleman in a topcoat with a velvet collar, and a homburg with a pearl-gray band, suddenly cried out some word that might have been “Heavens!” But his cry was lost in the unnerving sound — terrifying, in this place — of smashing glass. She saw the salesman’s face whiten by shades when the noise came.

The gentleman in the homburg had been carrying an umbrella, with a heavy metal handle. He had swung it about, far too carelessly, and the motion had smashed the glass.

“Excuse me—!”

The salesman paused a split-instant as if to take up the tray, then he rushed to the scene. Ruth heard the commotion and it was five precious seconds after he had gone that she recalled what she had to do. Her hand darted out and closed around the huge diamond pin in the upper right-hand corner of the tray. She slipped the gem into her coat pocket and began the long walk to the exit.

It was only some fifteen yards, but she was exhausted by the time the door swung behind her. The street was bright with sunshine, and the people were walking briskly by. There was laughter, and the click of heels, and many normal, everyday noises to give her renewed confidence. But she was frightened. When she saw the familiar sunburned face, and heard the jingle of coins in a cannister, she was actually grateful.

“Help the Children’s Fund, lady?” He grinned at her.

“Yes,” Ruth said dreamily. “Yes, of course.” She deposited her contribution.

“There’s a cab on the corner,” the man said quietly, shaking the can. “Go home, Mrs. Moody.”

“Yes,” Ruth said.

As he turned to go, in the other direction, she saw an elderly lady drop a quarter in the cannister, and the sunburned face beamed with gratitude.

She got into the taxi but couldn’t remember her own address until they were halfway up the street.

When Ralph Moody returned home that night, he found his wife in tears.

“Honey! What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Ralph—”

His face darkened. “It happened again? Is that it?”

She moved her head, miserably.

“What was it this time?” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “What did you take?”

“Travells,” she sobbed.

“What?”

“Travells. The jeweler’s—”

“No, Ruth, Not jewelry—”

“You don’t understand. I didn’t take it. I stole it, Ralph. Don’t you see? I stole something—”

After a while, when his anger subsided, gentle persuasion drew the whole story from her.

“I was so frightened,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do.” She clutched his sleeve. “Ralph, I’m going to do what you and mother suggest. I’m going to see a doctor.”

“Maybe it’s too late for a cure,” he replied. “This isn’t a spool of thread or a handbag you took, Ruth. This is something valuable — God only knows how valuable.”

“But they forced me to do it! They blackmailed me into it!”

“Is that what we’re going to tell the police?”

“Police?”

“Of course. We have to call them, Ruth. Don’t you see that?”

“Why? Why must we?”

“Because it’s dangerous not to. If you were recognized — if that salesman can give your description — then things will look worse than they really are. Don’t you see that? We must call them!”

As he dialed the operator Ruth said: “But, Ralph — what if they don’t believe me?”

Captain Samuel Wright, a graying, intelligent policeman, wasn’t that incredulous. But his words of advice weren’t encouraging when Ruth Moody told her story.

“Listen, Mrs. Moody. If you’re holding anything back, don’t. I’m not saying your story is a phony. My own subtle viewpoint is it’s too cockeyed to be phony. But I could be wrong, dead wrong. Now, if you could identify those men—”

Ruth’s husband said hotly, “Why should she lie about this? What does she have to gain?”

The Captain shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s no argument. She could stand to gain a diamond, a diamond worth maybe eight to ten grand. She could be double-crossing her accomplices. She could have figured that she had been spotted in Travells, so she’s playing it safe with this screwy story.” He held up a hand. “I don’t say that’s what’s happened. But I don’t sit on the judge’s bench, Mr. Moody. I’m a policeman.”

“But it’s true,” Ruth said plaintively. “So help me, it’s the truth.”

“It’s a heck of a way to pull a robbery, though. You’ll have to admit that. How many people are going to believe it your way?” He lifted his wide shoulders in a gesture of doubt.

He paced the floor a moment.

“If you could only give me a better description. Except for one being sunburned, we got nothing to work with, really. You say they looked ‘ordinary.’ ”

“But you checked that hotel, you know they were in that room.”

“We only know somebody took the room, Mrs. Moody. Somebody who signed the register as a Mr. Fred Johnson, from Cleveland. We got no way of knowing whether it’s an alias or not, now that the guy’s checked out.”

“But doesn’t that prove—”

“It doesn’t prove a thing. They might have colored their hair, changed their appearance. The sunburn for instance — that’s not going to last too long.” He chewed his lip.

Ralph snapped his fingers. “The thousand dollars! They promised to mail Ruth a thousand dollars if she played along. Wouldn’t that prove at least that my wife’s innocent?”

“Don’t count on that thousand dollars, Mr. Moody. If your wife’s telling the truth, you’ll never hear a peep out of those guys again.”

The Captain sat down, his face strained. “Okay! So maybe you’re right. So maybe it’s a new dodge. Maybe those guys can pull these ‘safe’ robberies of theirs all over the place. Maybe one of them works in a department store, and has access to the names of recognized kleptos—”

“Couldn’t we check the stores? Identify the employees?”

“You know how many people work in those places? You’re asking for an awful lot, Mr. Moody.”

The tears were coming again and Ruth reached for her purse and a tissue. She applied the corner of it to her damp eyes.

Something inside her purse caught her attention as she was about to shut it.

She took the object out and stared at it. Then she turned it on its side and studied it again.

When she looked up once more her eyes were bright and miraculously dry.

“Captain!—”

“Yes, Mrs. Moody?”

“You need better information. Would the name of the man in the hotel room help?”

“His name?” The Captain put his hands on his hips. “Are you kidding? You can really tell me his name?”

“I can. I can!” Ruth said. Then she started to laugh. The sound of it frightened her husband until he realized that it was genuine, honest mirth.

“Here,” she said, handing him the object from her purse. “I don’t know why I did — but I did. I took it from that hotel room yesterday.”

The Captain turned the object over in his hand. It was a fairly high-priced fountain pen, gold, with a black cap. He peered closely at the gold letters engraved on the side: Harrison V. Moyer.

He grinned at Ruth, and went to the telephone. He used the end of the pen to dial headquarters.