Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1960

When You Commit a Crime by Donald Martin

When running from the police, I suggest you travel as lightly as possible. A valise of stolen money may very likely prove somewhat disconcerting. On the other hand, I do recommend your investing in a good pair of track shoes and in considerable stamina.

He had taken the train out of New York to Pittsburgh. There he had gotten off and switched to another train going to Cleveland. From there he had changed again and gone to Chicago. Now he was sitting in a train that was speeding still farther west, watching the small towns appear in fleeting stage sets of houses and stores, flying through a world of flashing telephone poles and glancing trees.

He had not taken notice of the old couple until he had changed at Pittsburgh. Being acutely sensitive to faces at the moment, he was aware that they had followed him in each of his changes and were now on the same train, sitting several seats behind. They appeared innocuous enough. The man was in his mid-sixties probably, short and well-groomed, with a small mustache that lent a certain dignity to his pleasant face. The woman — Frank assumed she was the wife, they had a well-worn compatability about them — seemed of the same age, was short and gray, her face serene and motherly, with — a soft reticent smile. Observing them in the dining car earlier, Frank decided they were tourists by the way they looked out of the window and made quiet but animated remarks, pointing at the rushing landscape with childlike interest.

But today, he decided, he could not trust even his mother, should that sad, long-suffering old woman appear before him. The uniformed conductors gave him a chill. Accusation and suspicion seemed to darken every face. He could not put his trust in anyone. Not with the events back in New York still smoldering, not with a bank guard lying critically wounded in the hospital, not with his — Frank’s — picture staring moodily off every front page; and, this most of all, not with the valise containing the twenty thousand dollars sitting on the seat next to him.

West, his partner, was dead, shot by the intrepid but foolhardy guard who had drawn on two leveled revolvers. The loss of his partner had thrown Frank into a frenzy until he realized — after his desperate getaway — that now the contents of the valise belonged to him alone.

He had left the city that night before a positive identification had been established. In Pittsburgh he had picked up a New York paper and stared into his own face — his picture leering up at him as at some sardonic joke. The sight of it put wheels under him, sending him off on a journey without destination.

He had disguised himself as best he could, dyeing his naturally reddish hair black and obtaining a pair of glasses with plain glass lenses. This could alter his appearance slightly — but it could not affect the constant self-harassment which the hunted man inflicts upon himself.

As far as he knew the police were still searching for him in New York. Passing through the ticket gates at the Cleveland and then the Chicago stations, he had not been aware of any scrutinizing faces.

Perhaps he would go to Vegas or L.A., or perhaps even slip into Mexico and sit there with his valise until he became less prominent and the climate he had created cooled off.

But the old couple were sticking in his mind. He had to laugh, humorlessly, when he thought of them trying to get that money away from him, if that was their game. If they had recognized him and not informed the authorities, then it certainly was their game. But he knew, too, that an excessively active distrust of all people and all things was not good either. Perhaps they were complete innocents. Perhaps it was their gentle, twilit serenity that was annoying him. The constant nearness of serenity always has a pernicious-effect on tension. Privately, unconsciously, he begrudged them their peace of mind. He certainly had never known tranquility, not as a youth and he’d never know it now, because that guard was going to die.

At midnight the train stopped at a small town. After its headlong rush through the dark it seemed to be pausing for a breather. Frank had dozed off, the valise on the floor between his legs. The train’s jolting halt woke him. He looked around at the bleak little station, the small dark platform, the alien lights in the little ticket office. Suddenly he became afraid of the old couple, the uncanny fear flooded him all at once; it was as if they had entered his soul during his sleep. Here he could lose them once and for all. He jumped up and picked up the valise and pulled his other piece of luggage down from the rack and hurried to the end of the car.

A cool night breeze swirled out of the strange dark, the strange town. The conductor, standing on the platform, raised an odd look to him as Frank came down the iron steps.

“Getting off here, sir?” the conductor asked.

“Yes,” Frank said. “This is my home town. I’ve decided to pay a brief, surprise visit.”

The conductor’s big ruddy face cracked with a large smile, filling it with small-wrinkles and an appreciative sentimentality.

“That’s very nice I think,” he said.

“It isn’t often that I get the chance to pass through,” Frank said.

“There’s nothing like coming back to the old town,” the conductor said. “Well,” he said, flipping one finger to the peak of his little cap, “have a nice stay.”

“Thank you,” Frank said.

He hunched his shoulders and lighted a cigarette. The conductor picked up the portable step, waved down the train and then climbed up into it. A metal door banged. Frank stood there on the platform as the train began to pull out. He watched the thick massive cars roll past him one by one with increasing speed, each dark window framing a sleeping or disinterested face, the iron wheels grinding and clattering. Then the train was gone and he was watching it tail off into the dark, as if into a mysterious oblivion, standing alone on the platform between his luggage.

He looked around. Across the tracks lay a small town in its repose, small clapboard buildings lining a down-sloping main street. It was dark. The stars bristled high overhead, circling over the town as though over a blessed place.

It seemed a simple enough place, a place where people went to bed at nine o’clock and didn’t get around to asking questions. Perhaps it would be an ideal place.

He bent and picked up his luggage and walked into the ticket office. As the rickety wooden door closed behind him he almost dropped the luggage. It took a terrific effort of self-control not to betray himself. The old couple were sitting on the bench there with their luggage. The old woman smiled at him. The man nodded. Frank stared at them. If they were indeed following him, as it seemed, then they would have had to get off that train in a hurry, as he had. But they were sitting so placidly, bags packed and clustered around them, that it appeared hurry was the last thing on their minds.

Then he decided it was probably all a great coincidence. He had best treat it as lightly as possible. To show irritation or suspicion would perhaps be to cast an unnecessary seed. So he walked toward them, casually, forcing a smile that felt terribly stiff.

“Hello there,” he said, feeling self-conscious, discovered, his disguise notwithstanding.

The two old people smiled warmly, as if they genuinely appreciated this gesture of friendship.

“Good evening,” the, old man said.

“Listen,” Frank said, maintaining his smile, “are you following me or am I following you?” The look of concern that entered the old man’s face made Frank regret that he had said it.

“We’re merely traveling,” the old man said, in his voice a note of apologetic explanation.

“It seems we’re all traveling together,” Frank said amiably.

He sat down on the bench. The old couple turned their heads and stared at him. He waited for some indication of recognition, but none was forthcoming.

“Do you live here?” the man asked.

“No,” Frank said. “Do you?”

“Oh no. We’re on our vacation. The first real vacation we’ve had in years. We decided we wanted to see the country. You see nothing from an airplane. So we’re taking the train, from here to there, trying to see as much as we can.”

Frank nodded. It sounded reasonable. Perhaps. But now it was his turn. He was going to have to concoct something, and fast.

“I feel the same way about traveling,” he said. “In fact I’m a writer, doing a series of articles for a travel magazine.” It sounded very feeble. But these were gullible old people. They would believe it. In fact they even were impressed, he could tell. It seemed incredible now that fear of them had caused him to leave the train in the way that he had.

“You’re a writer?” the old woman asked, her voice emerging for the first time.

“Yes,” Frank said, easing into the role, feeling his jacket turn to tweed. “I grind out articles for a living.”

“Interesting work,” the old man said.

“Well, do you think they have a hotel in this town?” Frank asked. He got up — carrying the valise with him, a pure reflex action — and went to the ticket window. A bored young man was sitting there with crossed arms. He glared up at Frank from under the green eyeshade strapped around his head.

“Pardon me,” Frank said. “Is there a hotel in this town?”

“There is,” the young man said.

“Can you tell us where it is?”

“I can.”

After an awkward pause, Frank asked, “Well, where?”

“On Main Street,” the youth said with irascible logic.

“Is it very far?”

“Main Street’s only four blocks,” the young man said, seriously, clearly not intending this to be taken as a joke.

“Thank you.” Frank turned back to the old couple. Seeing them sitting there, it suddenly struck him that they might actually become useful to him. Who would have more respectability and be less apt to arouse suspicion than a man traveling with two such mild-looking old people? He went back to them.

“Seems there’s a hotel a few blocks down,” he said, “I guess we ought to try it. Are you planning to stay long in this place?”

“A few days,” the old man said. “They say it is very scenic here. We were planning to go all the way to California, but we had our plans changed for us.”

“How was that?” Frank asked.

“Someone broke into our compartment sometime during the train ride from New York and stole part of our luggage and some of our money. So our trip will have to be shorter.”

“That’s a rough break,” Frank said.

The old man shrugged philosophically.

Then Frank forced a laugh. “You know,” he said, “I don’t even know the name of the town.”

“Jennerville,” the old man said. “We might not have stopped here, if it weren’t for our change in plans. But they have an old Indian museum here that my wife is particularly interested in seeing.”

The old woman nodded shyly and smiled.

They left the station, crossed the tracks and began walking down Main Street’s slope.

“This is certainly different from some of those big cities,” Frank said.

“My wife and I much prefer a small town to the city,” the old man said.

“Then why don’t you move to one?”

“We have our business and all our children in New York,” the old man said.

“What sort of business?”

“Dry goods.”

The epitome of respectability, Frank thought.

All the stores were closed. Main Street offered them an utterly dark facade except for a lone light that burned on the porch of a two-story building. They could see the Hotel sign on the porch roof. Entering, they found a small lobby replete with weary furniture and potted palms. A clerk in a red vest was standing up waiting for them.

“Pete called and said you’d be down,” the clerk said.

“Pete?” Frank said.

“The ticket man.”

“Oh, the ticket man. This is certainly an alert town,” Frank said.

“There is more awareness in a small town than in the heart of a big city,” the clerk said. “Jennerville is no exception.”

“I would hate to think it was,” Frank said. “Now, I would like a room for myself and one for my friends here.”

The clerk turned around the register and watched them sign in. Frank used the name Jack Stein. The old man signed Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Michael of Jamaica, New York. Then the clerk gave them their keys and they went upstairs. Their rooms were adjoining and they paused out in the hall.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Frank said.

“Yes, Mr. Stein,” the old man said. “Good night.”

Inside his room, Frank removed his phony eyeglasses and put his ear to the wall. He could hear Mr. and Mrs. Michael talking. Not all of their conversation was audible, but he was able to distinguish the words, “Nice young man.” “Very friendly.” It satisfied him. He smoked a cigarette and then took off his clothes and got into bed. He tucked the valise under the covers with him and switched off the table lamp. Everything seemed to be going well. He would trade on the old couple’s respectability for awhile. See the sights with them. Visit the old Indian museum. Play the affable friend. Until he decided to move on.

One thing did disturb him, however. It was what the clerk had said, about small town people having greater awareness than others. It was probably merely an expression of civic pride, but it was enough to put him on his guard. He wondered if his New York notoriety was sufficient to have reached the Midwest papers. But that was a chance he was going to have to take no matter where he went.

The following morning he breakfasted with the old couple in the hotel’s dining room before accompanying them to the Indian museum. Later, while strolling the streets with the old couple, he found out. something about small towns: they were the worst possible places for a man on the dodge to choose as a sanctuary. A stranger in town was a novelty, a subject for seldom-used curiosity, and all the locals paid them special attention. Frank felt as if every eye were fixed upon his face, scrutinizing him, wondering about him.

The Indian museum was just outside of town, a short walk. It was housed in an old stone building which stood off by itself among some cottonwoods.

“Will you come in and look around, Mr. Stein?” the old man asked.

“Sure,” Jack said, not relishing the idea of going into the place. “Why not? I might be able to pick up some interesting background material.”

Admission was twenty-five cents; they paid it to a dusty-looking attendant who was sitting on a bench outside and who looked as though he might himself have become one of the exhibits. Frank thought the man gave him a rather close and unflattering appraisal and it made him nervous.

Inside there was a single large room, filled with various grim and gloomy relics of another age. Spears and tomahawks hung from the walls. In one corner was a large stone with primitive pictures chiseled into it. In glass cases were sundry pieces of pottery and cooking implements and feathers and war bonnets and scalplocks.

Frank moved around with profound disinterest, while the old couple stared and gaped at everything, murmuring to each other in those soft undertones people always use when in a museum.

They remained about a half hour and then left.

“Very interesting, didn’t you think?” the old woman asked him, making one of her rare utterances.

“Fascinating,” Frank said abstractedly, thinking of a cool shower and then a relaxing smoke on his bed.

After walking back to town, they had a cup of coffee and then returned to the hotel. They went upstairs and parted before their adjoining doors in the hall. Frank went into his room, glad to be relieved of the old couple’s boring company. He went to the closet and took out the precious valise and laid it on the bed and opened it, partially from nervousness, partially from a selfish desire to see the money again. It was there as before, neatly packed and undisturbed.

He was about to go to the shower when, in passing the window, he glanced out and saw the museum’s crusty old caretaker across the street talking to a policeman. They both looked up at the hotel (Frank fell away from the window as they did) and then they walked on down the street. Leaning out the window and looking after them, Frank saw them turn the corner and go down the street where he had noted the town’s police station was situated.

A hot fear and excitement suddenly flooded his brain. He glared at the valise full of money resting on the bed and began pacing the room, his thoughts churning desperately. Suppose that hick had recognized him? Suppose they were now going for help? Frank felt a terrific anger mounting inside him, and panic. What could he possibly do? There was no way out of here. He had no car. The next train was not scheduled until late that evening.

But he was not going to be caught cold in his room. He took the valise and went to the door and opened it slightly and peered down the hall. Satisfied by its emptiness, he stepped out into it and went back down the stairs. Crossing the lobby, straining to appear as poised as possible, he heard himself hailed by the clerk.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Stein?” the clerk asked, rising, looking at the valise.

“No,” Frank said. “I’ll be back shortly. Are you afraid I’m jumping the ship?”

“No,” the clerk said thoughtfully. “I happen to know you have some more luggage upstairs.”

Frank laughed. “You’re a careful man,” he said. “Your employer ought to be proud of you.”

Then Frank continued on out going down the porch steps. He watched Main Street’s desultory activity. Nothing seemed out of the way — yet. But he felt it would be only a matter of time before trouble started.

He remembered now having seen a freight track just outside of town during their walk from the station to the hotel. He estimated that it was not more than a mile or two away. It had been a long time since he had ridden a freight, and he would probably be the first person ever to jump a freight with twenty thousand dollars in his hand. But...

So he struck out in the direction of the freight track, heading for the only out-transportation in Jennerville. He hiked along the road, the valise hitting against his leg. He didn’t know where the freight

he’d catch might go, but he didn’t care. He looked back. The road was empty. Now he cut across a field. After going a short distance, he came upon the tracks. They curved out and around the town, making a great loop. As he hurried along, he cursed his own face, that its likeness had been sent around the country, put before the eyes of millions of people. It was known even in such a place as Jennerville. He was certainly going to have to think of some better way of disguising himself.

He sat down amid some rocks and waited for a train. Time dragged. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until he crushed his empty pack and threw it away. The wind seemed to be blowing shadows through the tall grass when at last he began to hear the freight. He jumped up and stared down the tracks. It was coming slowly around the bend, from the direction of the town. He had evidently taken the long way around to it, but that was all right too. The train was picking up speed and Frank began to run toward it, lest it have mounted too great an amount of speed for him to be able to board it. He ran through the high grass below the embankment and then, as the engine came roaring overhead, he scrambled up the embankment and began running alongside of the immense rattling cars. He reached out his free hand and grabbed hold of a rung of the iron ladder on the nearest boxcar. His other hand was occupied with the valise and it was impossible for him to get it up to the ladder. He ran along with the train, desperately trying to keep up with it, one hand gripping the ladder, the valise swinging out behind his running figure.

He would have let go then — it seemed impossible to go on — but, looking down he was horrified to see they were crossing a trestle over a pouring river. The waters rushed and churned below. His fingers on the ladder suddenly froze, suddenly they were clutching life itself. The train’s increasing speed was pulling his legs out from under him. He couldn’t let go, and he couldn’t hang on with the one hand without being dragged to death. His head jerked around and his eyes glared as he realized that his other hand — acting almost independently of the rest of him — had released the valise and that it was plummeting toward the remorseless waters. He never saw it strike. With his now disencumbered hand, he twisted himself around and grabbed onto the ladder and was able to lift his legs up. Hand over hand he climbed up and reached the roof of the car and collapsed there, panting. As the train cleared the trestle he looked back at the foamy white water that had swallowed his money. He watched it until it had become a distant gray ribbon in the distance.

Hours earlier, at about the time Frank had sat down to wait for the freight, the old couple stood in the police station. The man from the museum was there, and several policemen, one a sergeant.

“Are you certain?” the sergeant asked the dusty caretaker.

The man nodded his head vigorously. “I’m one hundred per cent certain,” he said, staring fiercely at the old couple. “They was the only ones in today. Just by luck I happened to notice it, after they’d gone. It was either them or the fellow they was with.”

“Oh dear,” the old woman said. “I don’t want to get poor Mr. Stein in any trouble. Yes, it was I. I couldn’t help it. I’m very sorry. I just couldn’t help it.” And she opened her bag and took out a small piece of clay pottery that she had stolen from the museum.

“Oh, mother,” the old man said sadly, shaking his head, “you promised you wouldn’t do that anymore if we went on this trip.”