Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

Aftermath of Death by Talmage Powell

Condescension may offtimes prove to be the trigger for a deadly boomerang.

“The disease has a jawbreaking technical name,” Dr. Mallory Ames said. “But in layman’s language, Nicky Colgren died of breakdown and malfunction of the liver. Liver failure, you might say.”

Ames sighed heavily as he gave the news to Ronald Clary and Hadley Lawrence. Lawrence, an attorney, had summoned his two friends to his office. It was early evening and the large office building had an air of desertion and desolation.

Managing editor of the city’s leading newspaper, Clary stirred quietly as he lighted a cigar. A powerfully built, balding man, Clary’s eyes were normally diamond-hard windows on a personality not easily shocked or dismayed. “I suppose,” he mused, “I owe it to good old Nicky to write the obituary myself.”

“It’s difficult to think of him being gone,” Lawrence said.

“There was little I could do,” Dr. Ames said. “We can repair the heart, replace the kidney. But when the lowly liver quits, we might as well close up shop.”

“You were with him until the end?” Lawrence asked.

“Of course,” Ames nodded. “From the first symptom until the moment when I had to put my signature on the death certificate, I was in constant attendance. It was the least I could do for Nicky.”

Lawrence moved slowly behind his desk and sat down. He was a dark, thin man, with the look of temperament in the fine lines of his face. The desk was massive, hand-rubbed walnut in keeping with the rest of the large imposing office.

“Old Nicky,” he murmured, “no more bumbling for him, dubbing them off the tee or slicing his irons in the rough.”

“He hadn’t a bad life,” Clary said. “Over fifty years of it. Ineffectual and slightly ridiculous at times, true. But with all that inherited wealth, he had a good, solid shield.”

“He wasn’t the same Nicky at the end,” Ames said. “With the pudgy grin and little-boyishness gone, he was just a tired old man with a thin, graying mustache and pouches under his eyes.”

“Liquor and women,” Clary said, “and the parties he was always bustling around preparing for.”

“His most serious interests,” Lawrence agreed. “You know, when you get right down to it, he had nothing in common with us three. I wonder why he dung to us as friends?”

“We were his points of contact with a world that had more substance than his own,” Clary said. “And I suppose it bolstered our own egos to have him around.”

Ames nodded acceptance of the point Clary had made; then the doctor turned to the attorney. “Hadley, why’d you call us down here?”

“I have a letter from Nicky,” Lawrence opened a drawer in his desk. “It was written night before last and delivered to me by special messenger. Attached to it were instructions for the three of us to read it jointly in the event of Nicky’s death.”

Clary and Ames glanced at each other and drew involuntarily closer to the desk. Lawrence sat holding the white, sealed envelope for a moment. Then he picked up a thin, golden letter opener. The ripping of the envelope was inordinately loud and jarring in the silence that had come to the office.

Lawrence went pale as he skimmed over the letter.

“Come on, Hadley!” Clary snapped his fingers. “It was meant for all three of us.”

“I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

“I’m certain we do,” Ames said. A robust, rather florid, stuffy looking man, the doctor glared briefly at his friend.

“Sure,” Clary said. “Read it aloud, Hadley.”

With another moment’s hesitation, the attorney took a breath and began reading in a voice that faltered every now and then:

Hadley Lawrence dropped the letter to his desktop. An absolute silence held the three men as they stared at the letter.

Clary’s face grew redder with each passing second. His upper and lower teeth made contact through his cigar. Ames lost all appearance of being the medical harbinger of hope.

Lawrence began trembling. “I know one thing — it couldn’t have been Lucille he was talking about!”

Ames jerked his eyes up to glare at the lawyer. “Are you implying that Doris...”

“Or Maureen?” Clary demanded. He reached across the desk and grabbed Lawrence by the lapel. With an angry sound, Lawrence pulled away.

Lawrence stood at bay before the two men a moment. Nineteenth-hole jocularity might never have transpired between the three men. They stood with hackles up, memory of friendship growing dim.

“I’m not implying a thing,” Lawrence said finally, straightening his jacket. “He referred to someone other than Lucille, that’s all.”

“I won’t stand here and listen...” Clay began.

Ames reached and stopped Clary’s fresh movement toward Lawrence.

“I suggest we be as objective about this as we can,” Ames said.

“You’re a doctor,” Clary said. “You know how to be clinical. But I...”

“A man who runs an important newspaper should have the same sort of self control,” Ames said. “So should a prominent attorney. Now — let’s not play right into his hands.”

A faint relaxation came to Lawrence’s narrow shoulders. “Of course, you’re right, Mal. Nicky hoped we’d react in just this way.”

“Certainly. No doubt he visualized the scene and got some satisfaction from it.”

“A shoddy way to die, if you ask me,” Clary said.

Lawrence reseated himself. “Shoddy, yes. But I suppose you can’t go through an entire lifetime, carrying the things Nicholas Colgren had inside of him, without it affecting you.”

“The point is,” Ames said, “what are we going to do about it?”

“Destroy the letter,” Lawrence said.

“You can burn the paper,” Clary said, “but you’ll never destroy the content of the letter. It’ll be with us forever; we can’t escape that.”

Lawrence put his head in his hands and groaned. Clary lit a fresh cigar and went over and dropped into a chair. Ames stood disconsolate in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other of them.

He leaned across the desk, grasped Lawrence’s shoulder, and shook it.

“Hadley... get a grip on yourself, man! And you too, Ronald. Get on your feet. On your feet, I said!”

When he had their full attention, Ames said, “We must face and accept this thing squarely, you know. We have no other choice. And then... then we must never speak of it again. What has happened in this office tonight must never go beyond it.”

“You mean we let Nicky get away with it?” Clary demanded.

“What would you suggest doing to him?” Ames said.

“The rotten coward!” Lawrence’s voice shuddered. “Knowing he would be out of our reach, beyond harm...”

“Mal,” Clary said, “are you suggesting I look at my wife for the rest of my life without ever really knowing the truth?”

“It isn’t what Nicky anticipated,” Ames said. “It’s the only way we can cross him.”

Ames let his words sink in. Then he went on: “We all know the women in question, and we know that Nicky did have a certain boyish appeal, a unique charm. We can assume that he deliberately used every means at his disposal to cultivate the affair. And he had many years in which to do it. It made for a situation which in all probability will never recur. It’s more than possible that the woman in question will never step out of line again, with Nicky gone.”

“I’ve got to know!” Clary said. “I can’t stand...”

He broke off. He stared at the other two men. His face colored. “Don’t get me wrong! I know damn well my wife isn’t the woman!”

“Then you just hang onto that belief,” Ames said. “Nicky has given each of us the power to destroy himself. You remember it. It was what Nicky wanted.”

Clary and Lawrence breathed heavily in the silence.

“You’re right, of course,” Clary said grudgingly.

“But it’s going to be hard,” Lawrence said, “looking at her across the breakfast table, seeing her before her mirror combing her hair out...”

“Regard it,” Ames advised, “as the penance we must make for the faulty friendship we gave Nicky.”

His words seemed to bring a feeling of finality into the office. The three became stiff and awkward as they regarded one another.

Ames turned abruptly and started toward the door. He paused, looked over his shoulder. “Meet you at the. club usual time Sunday?”

Clary busied himself relighting his cigar. “As a matter of fact, I won’t be able to play golf this weekend. My wife... There’s an antique show she mentioned wanting to see.”

Lawrence’s hands moved about rapidly, doing nothing with the items on his desktop. “Been neglecting the roses,” he murmured. “Guess I’d better do some cutting and spraying Sunday, and water the lawn:”

Ames nodded, more to himself than to them. There was a brief glint of regret and loss in his eyes. Then he went quickly from the office.

His footsteps echoed as he left the deserted building.

As he got into his car, he thought that it was too bad Clary and Lawrence had been involved. It had all been between him and Nicky, really, from the evening he’d returned early from the medical convention and followed Doris secretly to a certain motel.