Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 6, No. 12, December 1961

Isn’t It a Perfect Crime? by James Gilmore

Among the flora and fauna of these United States, I read somewhere recently, is a plant called “the mother-in-law plant”, whose distinguishing characteristic is that it is almost impossible to root out, once it has taken hold in the chosen spot it calls home.

The thirty-three years Ira had spent as a Certified Public Accountant had taught him the importance of details. Details and figures were his life, the only things he really trusted or understood. And now, as his train slowly pulled out of the Minneapolis Depot and snaked its way across the old stone bridge over the Mississippi, he sat back in the privacy and comfort of his compartment, put on his steel-rimmed bifocals and studied the details of his master plan for the last time.

As he did, a self-satisfied smile crept across his lips. He looked upon the plan as his work of art, his masterpiece. It was Ira Hovel’s blueprint of the perfect crime. Oh, he knew others had tried it before and failed; but, then, they didn’t have his training or passion for detail.

He took out a pencil, wet the lead with the tip of his tongue, and crossed out item number one. It had already been accomplished. Ira’s wife, Emily, and his mother-in-law, Bertha, had driven him to the depot and seen him board the 11 p.m. train to Chicago. During the past seven years it had become a regular Sunday night ritual. He smiled again as he thought how fortunate he was to have a client with a branch in Chicago. The weekly trip to check their books had been the inspiration for his plan. Without it, he would have given up hope long ago. And at fifty-seven a man needs hope.

Ira crossed out the second item on the list. It, too, was a simple detail. All he had to do was tell the porter he didn’t want to be disturbed — no matter what — until the train reached Chicago. To make sure the man followed his orders, he had tipped him five dollars. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.

The third item was hardly more difficult. Ira merely had to slip off the train when it reached St. Paul without being seen. To accomplish it, he’d just walk to the last car, where the porter didn’t know him, and get off. He knew from years of experience that porters and conductors are too busy with boarding passengers in St. Paul to pay any attention to one getting off, especially one as inconspicuous as himself.

In a way, item four had proved to be the most challenging. Ira needed a car for the forty-five minute drive from the St. Paul Union Station to his home in the Minneapolis suburb of Edina. At first he planned to rent one, but he finally gave up the idea as too dangerous. The rental agencies required positive identification; he would have had to sign for the car and shown his driver’s license. He just couldn’t afford to take chances like that. He finally solved the problem by buying an old, but perfectly serviceable, 1951 Ford. It cost him exactly two-hundred and fifty dollars, a lot of money for one night’s work, but with so much at stake it was worth every last penny. Ira had driven the car to the station parking lot the morning before. It was there now, waiting for him.

The fifth item was the most important of all, and by far the most difficult. It would be difficult because, basically, Ira was a very proper man; violence and crime repelled him. And since murder was the most violent of all crimes, it held a particularly repugnant position in Ira’s mind. But what was he to do? Even at the age of eighty-three, his mother-in-law, Bertha, was much too healthy, and much too stubborn, to die all by herself. And Bertha had to die, it was the only way Ira could live.

The method of the murder had also posed somewhat of a problem. Ira had absolutely no working knowledge of firearms, besides they were noisy and, he imagined, quite messy. He finally settled on strangulation — it was quick, clean and quiet. And, since Bertha, in spite of her monstrous personality, was not a large woman, he couldn’t imagine that it would be any trouble at all. Getting into her bedroom would not be difficult — her room was on the ground floor in the back of the house — he had even unhooked her screen window that very morning just before church. And he knew Emily wouldn’t hear a thing, even if Bertha managed to scream before she lost consciousness, because she always took a sleeping pill when he was out of town.

After it was over, he planned to take a few of the knick-knacks Bertha had scattered about her room, something that easily could be disposed of later, to make it look like a simple case of robbery and murder. And, of course, he would wear gloves so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints left behind.

Yes, Ira thought, item five would be easy enough, so long as he didn’t get squeamish at the last moment. And he didn’t see how that would be possible.

Everything would be downhill after that. Item six consisted of nothing more than driving the car to the airport. He allowed himself a full hour for that, even though he knew it would take only twenty minutes. He’d leave the car in the free parking lot, where passengers were allowed to park their cars for long periods of time without any charge. In about a week’s time, he’d pick it up and sell it to a junk yard. There would be nothing to tie the car to the crime.

At 2:10 A.M. he would proceed with item seven, boarding Flight 412 to Milwaukee. He had made the reservation under the name of William Hill three weeks before and had reconfirmed it that afternoon. He wasn’t worried about bumping into any of his friends on the flight. It was a nightcoach. Ira’s friends were either quite well off, or else they traveled on expense accounts. They’d never dream of taking a coach — especially one leaving at 2:10 A.M.

The flight to Milwaukee would take one hour. Even if the plane were delayed, a remote possibility because the weather was perfect and the flight originated in Minneapolis, he would have plenty of time to complete item eight: reboarding his train when it arrived in Milwaukee at six A.M. This would be simple, too. For the past year he had left the train every Monday morning when it reached Milwaukee to buy a paper. It was an eccentric habit, and one the porter was well aware of. He knew no one would question him when he got back on the train. Once he was on the train it would be over. He’d have a perfect alibi and his masterpiece would be complete.

“St. Paul!” the conductor yelled as he walked by Ira’s compartment. Ira looked out the window. They were backing into the St. Paul Depot. There was just time for one more little detail. He held up his master plan and lit a corner of the paper with his cigarette lighter. Just before the flames reached his fingertips, he put it in the ash tray. He waited patiently until it was completely consumed then carefully broke up the pieces of ash with his pencil. When the train stopped, he removed his bifocals, put them in their case, tucked it into his inside coat pocket. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was exactly 11:27. The train was right on schedule.

As Ira climbed the long flight of stairs to the St. Paul Union Station waiting room, he mentally crossed item three off his list. He had left the train exactly as planned and, just as he had expected, no one paid him the slightest attention.

He walked quickly through the waiting room and out the front entrance. The car was right where he left it. He slid in behind the steering wheel, turned the key in the ignition and pressed the starter button. The motor turned over, but refused to start. The choke, Ira said to himself, how could you forget a simple detail like that? The used car salesman had explained the car didn’t have an automatic choke. He reached over and pulled it out about half way. The car started at once.

Ira paid the parking lot attendant and started the forty-five minute drive home. He felt a strange sensation in his chest and his hands felt clammy on the steering wheel. Don’t panic now, he told himself, you’ve planned this too long. He stopped for a red light at Kellogg and Wabasha. While he was waiting for it to change, he looked about the car. It wasn’t what he was used to driving; the upholstery was faded and worn and it had a slightly musty smell. But the motor ran smoothly and the clutch, transmission and brakes were good. It would do very nicely.

As the light changed he noticed the radio on the dashboard. The salesman had said it worked, and Ira wondered if it actually did. He turned it on. The tuning dial lit up and the vibrator tube began to buzz. Within a block the car was filled with music.

Ira was glad the radio did work. The music would soothe him on the long drive. Ira had never been one to keep up with popular music, the classics were more to his liking, but he did recognize the tune that was playing: Thanks for the Memory. It had been quite popular that damp, miserable fall in 1938 when Bertha had come to live with Emily and him.

His mind couldn’t help drifting back to that black day. Bertha had just been widowed. Since Emily was her only child, it was natural that she should stay with them during her period of grief, a grief that even then Ira suspected didn’t exist. At first Bertha talked of moving out to the Coast to live with an unmarried younger sister. But the weeks dragged on to months and the months dragged on to years and now, twenty-two years later, she was still with them. Once in a while, usually at the end of January, when the Minnesota winter was at its worst, she talked of moving out to the Coast to live with her sister. But Ira was almost certain she never would. She enjoyed tormenting him too much; it was the only pleasure she had left in life.

Ira probably could have put up with Bertha if she had withdrawn and kept to herself, but she didn’t. Quite the contrary, she took over the household and ran it with an iron hand. And Emily, poor Emily, was completely incapable of standing up to her mother.

Somehow it seemed to be the little things that hurt the most. Ira had always wanted a dog to take the place of the children he and Emily had never been fortunate enough to have. But Bertha didn’t like dogs.

Ira had always wanted to see the world, but Bertha was too old to travel and they couldn’t leave her home alone. Consequently, the only traveling Ira ever did was his weekly trip to Chicago and the monthly flight of fancy he took when the National Geographic came.

But the crowning blow, the event that finally spurred Ira into putting his plan into action, had taken place just a little over three weeks ago. Bertha had just received a letter from her sister on the coast. The sister was lonely, she needed companionship during her last years, and she pleaded with Bertha to come and live with her. Bertha was still in the process of making up her mind when Ira came home to dinner that night. He believed she might have gone if it hadn’t been for Emily.

“Oh, Mother, you can’t go,” Emily said tearfully when Bertha read the letter to Ira.

Ira was dumbfounded. “But your Aunt Kate needs her,” he said.

“So do we,” Emily said. “I don’t know what I’d do without Mother.”

It was the first time Ira realized Emily no longer felt the same way about Bertha that he did. Bertha’s domination had become so complete during the past twenty-two years that Emily had given up her yearning for freedom. She was content to have Bertha run her forever.

“But Emily,” Ira said desperately, “think of your poor Aunt Kate”

But it was too late.

“Emily’s right,” Bertha said. “She needs me more than Kate does. Besides, California is so far away — and it’s such a strange place — I don’t think I’d ever feel secure out there. No, I’ll stay here in Minneapolis with you till the day I die.”

And Ira was sure she would. His plan was the only escape left now. As much as he hated to do it, he had to kill her. He owed it to himself and to Emily, whom, in spite of her mother, he dearly loved. After all, the twenty-two years of hell he had had to endure gave him the right to enjoy the few good years he had left.

Ira parked the car a block from home and walked down the alley to his garage. The house was completely dark, just as he expected. He took out his pocket watch and held it up so he could read the face by the feeble light that came from the street light in front of the house. It was 12:15 A.M. He still had plenty of time, and he wanted to make sure that Bertha and Emily were asleep, so he took out a cigarette. When he was finished, he stamped out the cigarette and pulled on his leather gloves. Then he made his way to the back of the house, being careful to keep in the shade of the lilac bushes.

Ira stood outside Bertha’s window and listened. He could hear her snoring peacefully in her bed. This is it, he said to himself. He carefully opened the screen and climbed in the window. The inside of the bedroom was black as India ink, but he had memorized the exact position of every piece of furniture in the room. He started for Bertha.

As he reached her bedside, his knees suddenly felt weak, and he could feel the fear and excitement welling up inside of him. He pulled the gloves on tighter and reached for her throat. As he did he heard a strange, panting noise and realized it was his own breathing. His arms felt leaden and he pulled them back, letting them hang at his sides. He flexed his almost paralyzed fingers to loosen them. He tried to reach for her throat again, but his arms refused to move. For some strange reason he just couldn’t do it. Drops of perspiration began to run down his face. The room started to spin. His whole careful plan seemed to explode in his mind. A long sob came involuntarily out of his choked throat. He reeled backward, stumbling over Bertha’s old maple rocker. At the sound of his fall, Bertha snorted and sat up in bed.

Ira picked himself up and lunged toward the window, upsetting a table and knocking a lamp to the floor in another series of crashes. Bertha screamed, a horrible, piercing scream. He half jumped, half fell out the window, tearing the screen off along the way. “Murder! Murder! Murder!” Bertha shouted. He rolled over and somehow managed to get to his feet. The light went on in Bertha’s room. He crashed through the lilac bushes and ran across his neighbor’s back yard. A yapping dog came out of nowhere and started snapping at his heels. He was sure he’d have a heart attack any second and the whole, terrible nightmare would be over.

When Ira reached the car, he tore the door open and jumped into the driver’s seat. His hands were shaking so he barely got the key into the ignition. Don’t forget the choke, he told himself. He pulled it out and pressed the starter button. The motor turned over about ten times but refused to start. He pulled the choke out further. It still wouldn’t start. Then he smelled gasoline fumes and realized he had flooded the motor by choking it when it was still warm.

Ira sat back and tried to remember all the things one is supposed to do to start a flooded motor. He pushed the choke in and held the gas pedal all the way down to the floor boards as long as he dared. Then he tried again. The motor groaned, sputtered and finally caught. He put the car in low and drove down the street with the lights off for two blocks.

As he turned east on Fiftieth Street he saw the flashing lights and heard the siren of an approaching police car. He pulled over to the curb and watched it go by, knowing only too well where it was going. Bertha or Emily hadn’t wasted any time in calling the police.

Ira tried his best to keep under the thirty mile an hour speed limit as he headed down Fiftieth Street toward the airport. At Upton Avenue he had to stop for a red light. As he sat there, wondering what could go wrong next, he heard a sudden screech of brakes behind him. He just had time to look up at his rear vision mirror. He was horrified by what he saw. The headlights reflected in the mirror weren’t going to stop.

The impact of the crash knocked Ira’s car half way across the intersection. His first impulse was to step on the gas and get out of there, but the jar had knocked his foot off the clutch and the motor had killed. By the time he got it started, the other driver was at his door.

“Say, what’sa matter with you, buddy? Don’t you know there’s a law against parking in the middle of the street?” the man said, opening Ira’s door.

“I wasn’t parking,” Ira said as he got out of his car. “I was waiting for the light to change.”

The other man pushed Ira. “Don’t get wise with me, buddy!” he said, slurring the words together. For the first time Ira realized the man had been drinking.

“But I assure you, I was just waiting for the light to change.”

“Oh, you were, were you,” the man said, following Ira as he walked to the back of the car to inspect the damage. “For your information, buddy, the light was green.”

“It was red,” Ira said as firmly as his courage would allow. He was somewhat relieved when he saw there were no visible signs of damage to his car, although the other car had a broken bumper guard.

“It was green,” the other driver said, pushing Ira again. Then he noticed a small crowd beginning to gather. “Somebody call a cop. I demand my rights!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call the police,” Ira said, trying to soothe the man. “Very little damage has been done.”

“You afraid of cops?” the man asked.

“No,” Ira lied, “but after all, man, you’ve been drinking.”

The man swung wildly at Ira, missing him by a good two feet. “All I had was one beer,” he said, “and you’re trying to hang a drunk charge on me.”

“I’m not trying to hang anything on you. I just want to settle this without any fuss,” Ira said.

“Well, it’s going to cost you plenty,” the man said, staggering back to inspect the front end of his car.

Ira took out his billfold. “Would fifty dollars do?” he asked.

The man looked up at Ira, trying to focus his eyes. “A hundred and fifty would be more like it,” he said loudly.

“But your car is hardly scratched,” Ira protested.

A young man about nineteen stepped forward and sided with Ira. “If you ask me, fifty dollars is plenty,” he volunteered.

“Who asked you?” the man said, swinging at the boy. The boy gave him a little push and he sat down on the pavement. “Well, I guess you’re right,” he said, making no effort to get up. “I’ll take the fifty,”

“I wouldn’t give him a cent,” the boy said, looking down at the drunk with disgust.

“Who asked you?” the man snapped again.

“Here,” Ira said, “take the fifty dollars and buy a cup of coffee.”

“Don’t want any coffee,” the man said as he took the money and got to his feet. “But I’ll buy you a drink.” He tried to put his arm around Ira.

“No, thank you,” Ira said, fending him off.

He made his way through the laughing crowd to his car. About six blocks later he noticed a clock in a drug store window. The hands pointed to 1:50. That can’t be right, Ira thought. He pulled out his pocket watch and found that it was the correct time. If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his plane. He stepped on the gas, but instead of accelerating, the engine coughed and died. He put in the clutch and coasted over to the curb.

Ira pushed the starter button again and again until the battery completely died. “What now?” he said out loud. Then he noticed the gas gauge. It was on empty. But that’s impossible, he thought, I filled the tank before I took the car to the parking lot yesterday. Then it dawned on him; the crash had apparently caused a small rip in the gas tank.

Now Ira really began to panic. His plane left in just fifteen minutes. How was he going to get to the airport without a car? He decided he’d have to hitchhike and got out of the car. Then, for the first time that night, Ira had a bit of luck. He saw a cab coming down Fiftieth Street toward him. He stood in the middle of the street and flagged it down.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“The airport,” Ira said, his voice quivering with emotion. “And please hurry. I’ve got to catch a 2:10 plane.”

“We’ll never make it,” the cabbie said as he pushed his flag down.

“Well, you can try,” Ira pleaded. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

Ira’s disheveled, frantic appearance must have convinced the cabbie that it was because he really tried. At times the cab’s speedometer hit 45 miles an hour and they ran through two stop signs on Thirty-fourth Avenue.

It was exactly 2:10 A.M. when the cab screeched to a stop in front of the terminal building at Wold-Chamberlain Field. “Here,” Ira said, throwing a ten dollar bill at the cabbie, “keep the change.” He ran into the terminal and across the drab waiting room to the ticket counter. “Am I too late for Flight 412?” he asked the ticket agent, who was posting arrival times on the flight schedule board.

“It’s just pulling away from the ramp now,” the agent said, turning around.

“Well, stop it,” Ira shouted.

“Can’t,” the agent said. “Once they leave the ramp we can’t call them back.”

Ira felt faint. “When’s the next flight to Milwaukee?”

“Seven A.M.,” the agent answered.

“But that’s too late,” Ira protested, “much too late.”

“Sorry, sir,” the agent said, a little irritated. “It’s the best I can do.”

Ira walked away from the ticket counter in a daze and collapsed in a heap on one of the hard, wooden waiting room seats. It was at least five minutes before his mind began to function again. Then he tried to work out the details of another plan. But the complete collapse of his masterpiece had so shattered his faith in details that he found it impossible to concentrate.

Strange as it may seem, Ira wasn’t afraid of going to jail. That would be a pleasure compared to living with Bertha for the rest of his life. The thing that bothered him most was that there was no hope of escaping her now, no hope at all.

But he still had to try to keep Bertha from finding out about the horrible thing he had tried to do to her. His failure, and the fact that he would resort to such a terrible thing, would be just one more thing for her to lord over Emily. No, if only for Emily’s sake, he had to try to cover up his tracks. But how? He couldn’t reboard the train in Milwaukee, the on-time-departure of Flight 412 had seen to that. What about Chicago? If there was a flight to Chicago maybe he could get back on the train there and somehow save his alibi.

Ira got up and went back to the ticket counter.

“When’s the next flight to Chicago?” he asked.

“Three-thirty A.M.,” said the agent.

“And what time does it arrive?” Ira asked.

“Four fifty-five,” the agent answered.

“I’d like to buy a ticket,” Ira said with renewed hope.

While Ira waited for the flight to leave, he called an all-night garage and asked them to pick up the car. He couldn’t afford to have the police spot it as an abandoned car. They might call Emily and ask her about it.

Ira had always been fearful of flying, but as he boarded the plane to Chicago he wasn’t the least bit afraid. If it crashed, everything would be solved.

But the flight to Chicago was uneventful. The steady drone of the engines, and Ira’s mental and physical exhaustion, combined to put him to sleep right after takeoff. And he didn’t wake up until the plane had taxied to a stop in front of the terminal at Midway Airport.

Ira was waiting at Track 18 when the Minneapolis train pulled into Union Station at 8 A.M. He told the man at the gate that his invalid mother was arriving and he was allowed to go down to the platform. He boarded the front car of the train and walked through the diner to his car. He took his overnight bag and briefcase out of his compartment and walked to the end of the car.

“You sure look like you had a bad night, Mistah Hovel,” the porter said as he helped him off.

“Terrible,” Ira said.

When Ira reached his client’s Chicago office, he went right to the Accounting Department. He knew there would be a message from Emily waiting for him there and he steeled himself against making any kind of a reaction that would give himself away. Mr. Ashley, the head accountant, met him at the door of the department, looking very grave.

“Good morning, Ashley,” Ira said in his usual brisk manner. “Let’s get right at the books, shall we?”

“Better call your wife first,” Ashley said. “She’s been trying to get you ever since we opened.”

“Oh? I wonder why,” Ira said. “I do hope nothing has gone wrong at home.”

“Use the phone in my office,” Ashley said. “It’ll be more private.”

“Why thank you, Ashley,” Ira said. He placed a collect call to Emily. It took about thirty seconds to complete.

“Ira?” Emily asked.

“Yes, dear,” Ira said. “Anything wrong?”

“Oh, Ira, something terrible happened last night—”

“Terrible?”

“A burglar broke into Mother’s room — scared her half to death. She’s leaving!”

“Leaving?”

“Going to Aunt Kate’s in California—”

“But I don’t understand,” Ira interrupted.

“She’s afraid of being murdered. Says she won’t stay in this house another night. She’s already made her reservations. Isn’t it awful?”

Ira sighed. “Well, I think we’ll be able to manage somehow.”

“I know, Ira,” Emily said. “But Mother was frightened half to death. It’s a perfect crime—”

“Yes,” Ira said, “a perfect crime.”