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

A Slight Miscalculation by Arthur Porges

Calculation is an exact and exacting process, essential to everyday transactions. By how slight a miscalculation a well-laid plan may become a blunder, is clearly shown here.

In Africa it may be possible to hate an enemy to death; in Los Angeles, although the city is more unreal at times than any village of the Dark Continent, it just won’t work. Wilbur Dunn had been trying for some days now, sitting in his room with anger and resentment flowing through every fibre of his body.

Wilbur was a young thirty. He was healthy, athletic, handsome, and bone-lazy. Such a man finds life intolerable without money — lots of it. Not for him the drudgery of store or office. He wanted to be one of the fortunate few, the golden youth of California, who spend their carefree days by the pastel swimming pools with spectacular blondes, and their evenings on the town with more of the same.

Of course, Wilbur might have had quite a decent career as a professional man, since his Aunt Grace did send him to college. But all he’d managed to learn were a few social graces, and a sound tennis technique. Otherwise, he’d flunked in turn, mathematics, history, botany, chemistry, and even — this is almost incredible — an education course. But then he’d taken this last only to be near a certain girl. Quite a waste; she married a medical student.

The infuriating aspect of all this present frustration was that until last week Wilbur’s passport to such a dream world of boating, surfing, and night-clubbing had been virtually a certainty. As the only living relative of his Aunt Grace, he had been in line to inherit roughly one third of a million dollars, all in blue chip stocks — not stamps, mind you — stocks. This wasn’t because the old lady thought too highly of her nephew. He was charming, attentive, and good to look at, but a wastrel. Still, blood was thicker than water, charity begins at home — Aunt Grace was strong on such proverbs. And she wasn’t the type to endow cats instead, or hospitals, or missionaries.

Of course, it meant a few more years of cautious sponging on Wilbur’s part; he’d be stuck in this old house with its eighteen drafty rooms, instead of an apartment in Westwood. Aunt Grace was seventy, quite frail in build, but tenacious of life, with an appetite like an anaconda after a hard winter. Still, it oughtn’t to be more than five years, Wilbur thought. With luck, maybe much less — even tomorrow. Not many anacondas could survive all those gooey pastries the old gal lived on. For a third of a million, Wilbur could wait patiently, pinning his hopes on one particularly indigestible type of cream tart she favored.

And then, with his future assured in value, although the timetable was uncertain, Wilbur Dunn suddenly found his dream world dissolving into a bleak vista of endless scrounging. For into the life of Aunt Grace had come Colonel Derek Valentine. He was himself another Wilbur with thirty years added. He was tall, veddy British in manner, smooth as an oiled snake, and the hell of it was — from the nephew’s point of view — genuine enough to stand investigation. When he saw his Aunt succumbing, Wilbur had tried hard enough to find Valentine’s Achilles heel, only to discover that the old boy had really been an army officer. Only a captain, but a valid one, with service in India. And he did have a distant connection with an English family of respectable lineage. To be sure, he was not exactly the pride of his relations, but the man’s raffish past only made him more devastating to the old lady. It was, Wilbur reflected sourly, the inevitable result of too many bad romantic novels. What a pity TV had come so late in Aunt Grace’s life.

In any case, the unhappy nephew saw the handwriting on the wall in very large and depressing letters. Aunt Grace would surely marry the fortune hunter; the colonel would be her new heir. Maybe Wilbur would get a small legacy — the horrible old house, with its crushing tax bills — but definitely not enough to finance a career in the neon dream world he had sought so long. Blondes, fifths of good liquor, and swimming pools all come high, even in Southern California where they outnumber the oranges.

And so Wilbur sat in his room, full of hate and frustration. He saw through the window the sunny streets below, the jammed freeway some blocks down, the tanned, sturdy children playing; and the world was.sour on his tongue. If only Aunt Grace hadn’t met the colonel at church; or if only she had been considerate enough to die before that smooth character had taken her in; if only — at that moment one of the tall palms just outside the glass, whipping in a stiff breeze, shed a big frond. The feathery shaft, some four feet long, with a thick, woody base, just missed a boy on the walk. Undisconcerted, he seized it with delight, and waving the thing like a club, pursued his shrieking companions. They vanished around the corner.

Wilbur watched them out of sight, bemused. A falling frond. You had to look out for those palms in windy weather. Every now and then somebody got conked. Usually it meant just a bruise; possibly a slight concussion if the tree were tall enough, the frond extra large. An old person like Aunt Grace, with a thin skull — why, she might even be killed. Those trees on the street were at least forty feet tall — one or two, higher. That one in the middle of the block, for example. A frond from it could give you quite a sock. What did one weigh? Surely a pound, at the very least. Wilbur’s deceptively candid brown eyes narrowed. It was a cinch. All he’d have to do would be to get her out there on some dark night — a windy one — and slug Aunt Grace with the woody butt. A good tennis swing. Then he’d let out a yell, carry her in, and phone the doctor. What a pity; they’d been walking along, and down came the damned frond — a million to one shot, but the sort of thing that actually happened at least once a year in Los Angeles. Why couldn’t it have hit him instead? The thing couldn’t seriously injure a husky young man. Why a poor old lady? Even if they suspected something, nobody in the world could prove it didn’t happen just as he said. The money would still be his, and the colonel could hunt another pigeon.

Wilbur’s mental activity was now at a peak. It wouldn’t do to fool with a frond out there now, in daylight, but after dark... Yes; then he’d heft one, and see if the scheme really made sense.

So about nine in the evening, when Aunt Grace was hypnotized by a nauseating audience participation program, Wilbur slipped out for an informal botanical investigation. The fronds were disappointingly light; so much so, in fact, that he was in despair. The woody base was almost like balsa. Nevertheless he swung one of the bigger branches in a whistling vertical arc, and decided that even seven or eight ounces can deliver quite a whack. But the way to be sure was to strike first with something more effective, and then see to it that the frond was properly stained with blood.

It took some careful thought, but Wilbur finally realized that he needed something similar in shape and texture to the frond, and hard enough not to leave any tell-tale splinters in the wound. He found it in the hardwood leg of an old sofa that had been stored in the garage for many years. The piece of mahogany was about ten inches long, and quite massive at one end. It was hard and slick enough not to splinter. Besides, he would be careful to use no more force than was necessary. It would never do to have a wound that couldn’t have been caused by a falling frond.

Wilbur fixed a special pocket inside his topcoat to hold the little bludgeon. All that he needed now was a windy evening. In March that wasn’t too much to expect; and, sure enough, one came along, just right, on a Friday.

“Auntie,” Wilbur said at dinner, smiling at her warmly, “did you notice that the ‘Parisian’ is showing a fine love story tonight — the kind you go for.”

She took a large bite from a rich cake the size of a deck of cards.

“Who’s in it?”

“One of your favorites — Efrem Zimbalist.” He could see that she was interested. Efrem was right out of E. Phillips Oppenheim.

“Well,” she said slowly, reaching for a cream tart, “What’s My Awful Secret’ isn’t on tonight — some silly talk about the atom instead, so you do have an idea there. But I wouldn’t dare go out alone,” she added sharply. “It’s four blocks down dark streets.”

“Of course not, dear,” he reassured her. Odd, how the old skinny ones who wouldn’t be molested on a desert island populated entirely by sex maniacs were the most afraid of assaults on their virtue. “I meant to treat you.”

“Hmph!” she snorted; and he read her mind easily enough. The treat would come from her own money, naturally — his ‘allowance’. Nevertheless, her face softened, and she agreed, not averse to being seen with a personable young man.

“I’m a poor substitute for the colonel,” Wilbur added slyly, “but I’ll do my best.”

She reddened. “Don’t talk nonsense, Wilbur. Colonel Valentine is only a friend.”

There was a banshee-like scream as a gust of wind shook the old house.

“My, it’s really blowing tonight,” she said.

“Remember,” he said lightly, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” He gave her a fond glance. At least the old girl would have a pleasant evening before going to the shades. And now and then he and the blondes would drink a memorial toast to the giver of the feast.

The movie was definitely a success. Aunt Grace chattered about it in a shrill, unending stream as they walked the four blocks back to the house, When they reached the last side street where Wilbur had noted the king size palm, he was keyed to concert pitch. Right in the middle of the block, with the towering tree swaying above, was a particularly shadowy stretch where a street light had burned out. Walking a short distance behind the old lady, Wilbur slipped the weighty mahogany stick from its holster, and struck a single shrewd blow over his aunt’s ear. Without a sound she crumpled in the middle and fell. Hastily he stooped and felt for her pulse. Nothing. He put one ear to her heart. Nothing there, either. Jumping up, he looked for a suitable frond. There were plenty around, the wind having been busy, but the first two were on the light side. The third had a heavier base. It would do. He pressed one rough edge against the wound. Mustn’t rub. A falling frond strikes just once, AM that was needed was a little blood on the base. He checked the old woman again. She was dead all right. And he was rich.

Wilbur took a deep breath, then tittered an inarticulate cry. He picked up his aunt’s body and stumbled towards the house. Inside he laid her on a couch and called first the family doctor, then the police. The latter came more quickly, and found Wilbur red-eyed, thanks to vigorous rubbing with his knuckles, and seemingly on the verge of tears. He explained the unfortunate accident; and the officer, obviously a conscientious type, went out with a flashlight and retrieved the very frond, still wet with blood, responsible for the death of Aunt Grace. As for the bludgeon, long before any suspicion was aroused, that would be hidden where nobody could find it even with a dowsing rod and a pack of bloodhounds. There would be questions, naturally, but he would be ready. The key point to remember, he kept telling himself, was that no matter how unlikely the accident might seem, nobody could prove it to be impossible. Yes, a perfect plan, executed without a flaw. All you blondes look out! Here comes Wilbur, a-bulgin’ and a-bilin’.

But the next day came a man from the District Attorney. He questioned Wilbur at some length about the accident, was shown the exact spot under a fifty foot palm, and expressed his sympathy. He seemed to know that Wilbur was now richer by one third of a million dollars; this disturbed the murderer, but only briefly. More annoying was the way the fellow hefted a frond.

“You’d never think this is heavy enough to hurt anybody,” he remarked, giving Wilbur a cryptic glance.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied calmly. “Don’t forget it fell about fifty feet.”

“That’s true,” the other agreed. “Nature is funny at times.”

“You said it.” Wilbur’s voice was full of relief.

So sure was he of his position, that when they arrested him a few days later, he repeated the story with great coolness to a police stenographer, and signed it with a steady hand, even smiling a little to show his conscience was clear, and that he couldn’t be panicked.

Then they brought in Sergeant Slater. He was carrying the fatal frond.

“This is the thing that killed your aunt, I believe,” the sergeant said gently. He was a big man with mild eyes. “It seems too light to cause a serious injury.”

But Wilbur was ready for him. It is true that he’d flunked physics in college, after flunking it in high school. So it was hopeless for him to try making sense out of the chapter on falling bodies in his aunt’s encyclopedia. But there was Danny Harris, who used to make all the night spots with him, and was now an engineer. Good old Danny had briefed him thoroughly on the subject. Yes, Wilbur was ready to take on Slater any time.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, with simple candor. “I felt the same way, so I checked up. A frond weighs about six to ten ounces. The tree was roughly fifty feet tall. An eight ounce object, falling fifty feet, has the same striking force as a twenty pound weight dropping a foot. When you put it that way, there’s nothing to wonder about.”

“That’s very good reasoning,” Slater said with approval. “Of course, you forget air resistance. That slows down a feathery frond quite a bit.”

Wilbur tensed a little. Damn that Danny; he’d goofed there. What a lousy engineer! Then he remembered another point.

“The wind might have had some downward force, too.”

“I guess it could have happened,” Slater said mildly. “At least, nobody could prove in court that it’s impossible. And so you maintain,” he added almost mournfully, “that this frond killed your aunt.”

“If it has blood, that’s the one. Otherwise, naturally, I couldn’t be sure. They all look just alike to me.”

“That was your mistake,” Slater said, his eyes not so mild now.

Wilbur paled.

“What do you mean?” he demanded hoarsely.

“I mean that we can’t beat you on physics — too much a borderline deal there. But you did show us exactly where your aunt was struck, presumably by this particular frond, since it does have her blood on it. Quite a windy night, they tell me.”

“You bet it was,” Wilbur snapped. He was tiring of this bull-dogging. “And that’s the way it happened, too.” They’d never shake his story. All he had to do was hang on. The sergeant had admitted a falling frond could kill somebody; at least, the theory couldn’t be disproved for a jury.

“Some wind that must have been,” the sergeant said. “It blew this frond about a block.”

“What do you mean?”

“You picked the wrong frond, fella. This one came from an entirely different kind of palm tree — and the nearest one is a block away from where you claimed this fell. Believe me, I know — plants are my hobby. As I said, your physics can’t be proved wrong, but your botany is lousy.”

“But how—?” Wilbur gulped. Then he closed his mouth and felt sick. Those damned kids, of course. Playing with the fallen fronds; carrying them from one street to another. How the hell could he tell the difference, and in the dark? One branch from a palm looked just like the next. Yet, obviously they weren’t really the same. And he had to draw a cookie cop with a thing for botany — what a lousy break.

The sergeant must have read some of these reflections on Wilbur’s face, for he said with a cold smile: “Not a big difference, but quite definite to the trained eye. Botanically, that is. Otherwise, the difference is greater — about one third of a million, I understand.”

He didn’t say anything about a bigger difference still — the one between life and death — but Wilbur was thinking it over.