Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

The Time of His Life by Gene Pollock

The woods, we are told, were made for the hunters of dreams. However, other hunters also prowl the hills, and not all of these can be safely regarded as sportsmen.

Allen Tipton was afraid. True, he had always been frightened of airplanes, but now it was more than the altitude that froze him to his seat. Outwardly he projected an appearance of nonchalance; inwardly he was jelly.

He stole a glance across the cockpit at his employer. In the pilot’s seat of the little plane Robert W. Welling sat relaxed and confident, flying with a sure hand on the wheel. Welling must have felt Allen’s stare for he turned his head and smiled.

“Almost there,” he announced. “We should be in sight of the cabin in five or ten minutes. Allen felt thankful. At least he would have his feet on the ground when it came.

“Best hunting site on the North River,” Welling continued. “You’re going to have the time of your life.”

“I’m certainly looking forward to it,” Allen lied. If there was anything he definitely was not looking forward to, this was it. For five years, ever since he came to work for United Electronics, Robert W. Welling, president, had easily managed to ignore Allen Tipton. Then abruptly, without warning, without reason came a personal invitation to go hunting. Welling knew, or suspected! But Welling’s invitation had to be Allen’s command.

“There it is,” said Welling, pointing down.

Allen forced himself to look over the side. For as far as he could see the earth was pristine white, broken only occasionally by scrubby jack pines, and cruelly gashed by the frozen river. Directly below, half hidden by a clump of spruce, he could see the cabin.

“It’s large enough to accommodate five or six easily, but I didn’t feel up to a big party this trip,” explained Welling, “so I thought it best to cancel the others out.”

Allen thought he could guess why, and that wasn’t it.

“With a big party there’s too much card playing, drinking, staying up late... I just want to do a little unwinding. Things can get a little tough when you’re at the top. The pack’s always at your heels, trying to drag you down.”

“I can imagine,” answered Allen even though he couldn’t. He had never been faced with such a situation.

“Hold on to your hat,” Welling suggested with an apologetic laugh, “we’re going down.”

Allen struggled to hide his fear, but when Welling cut the throttle and the comforting roar of the engine died to a whining cough, he grabbed desperately for the sides of his seat. Fortunately Welling was busy with his landing and didn’t notice, or if he did, he gave no indication. Allen tried to close his eyes and shut out the rapidly approaching ground but man’s age-old fascination with death, particularly his own, forced his eyes open and kept his attention glued to the hoary blur passing beneath the wings. The plane’s skis touched, sending blinding spray to either side. Allen exhaled deeply, his grip relaxed, and he smiled.

Welling taxied up close to the cabin and cut the engine.

“I’ll tie her down while you unload,” he said as he threw open the door. He had to bend almost double to get out of the cockpit. Tall, large boned and heavy, he still moved with a power and grace that Allen was forced to admire.

Allen scrambled awkwardly into the snow. The bitter cold forced a shudder through his body. He beat his arms against his sides and mushed around to the baggage compartment.

He had been working hard for minutes when he felt watched. He looked up to see Welling standing by the wing staring at him. A gasp escaped his lips.

“Sorry I startled you,” Welling said.

“Took me by surprise,” Allen explained lamely.

“I’ll take the butane and get it connected,” said Welling. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t have a nice hot meal and a warm cabin tonight. You can get the bags inside.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Welling,” he replied.

“Cut out that Mr. Welling. While we’re hunting partners just call me Bob.”

“Yes, sir, Bob. I understand.”

“You can cut out the sir, too.”

“Okay, Bob,” Allen obeyed; he could go along.

That night, after a good hot meal, excellently prepared by Welling, they discussed United Electronics. Allen tried to be bright but he couldn’t seem to concentrate.

“But we didn’t come up here to talk business,” Welling said eventually. “Help yourself to the bourbon. I’m going to bed.” He stood, stretched, and crossed to the gun-rack. He took down his rifle.

“Might as well oil this baby; may get a chance to use it tomorrow,” he said as he crossed to his bedroom and closed the door.

Allen poured himself a shot of bourbon. Across the room Alice Welling smiled at him from an 8 by 10 photograph sitting on the huge granite mantel. Allen walked over and lifted his glass.

“Well, little Alice in Wonderland, here’s to what we had,” he said softly and downed the whisky. Alice continued to smile.

She could well afford to smile. Her husband, the president of United Electronics, was very devoted to his young and beautiful wife. He was also very generous. Only yesterday he had seen her off to Europe on an extended vacation. The same day he had suggested that Allen Tipton might like to spend the weekend at his hunting lodge.

Allen poured a second shot and splashed in a little water. His hands shook as he raised the glass, then a strange sound stopped him mid-drink. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder. It was almost a minute before he identified the sound; Welling was snoring loudly in the next room.

Allen put down his drink. He needed sleep, not alcohol. Welling intended to kill him and make it look like an accident. If he was going to live, he would need all his wits. The man in the next room was an excellent hunter, these were his stomping grounds, and Allen had to let him make the first move; after all, he might be mistaken.

Allen took his rifle out of the rack and loaded it. He went into his room. There was no key in the door but there was a heavy bolt. He slid it closed. The room was stuffy and he went to the window to open it a crack. He was annoyed to discover that the window was closed permanently, a double thickness of plate glass with an air-pocket for insulation. He turned down the gas heater, a poor substitute for fresh air but his only recourse.

He undressed rapidly and climbed between the sheets. He lay in the darkness thinking. He was not a coward but he was afraid. He didn’t want to die, not just yet anyway. Life was sweet, he was earning a good salary as head accountant for United, he had a nice apartment, a sport car... and women. Not many, but enough. He had let his foot slip only once, with Welling’s wife.

Allen felt as if he had just dozed off when Welling’s knock awakened him.

“Rise and shine,” Welling called. “I’ve got the bacon in the pan.”

Allen groaned, sat up, and tried to shake the sleep out of his eyes. The heavy odor of frying meat seeped into his nostrils. Mustering his courage against the cold, he swung his feet to the floor, hopped quickly to the heater and turned up the flame. He dressed hurriedly in the semi-darkness and moved to the door. He tried to slide the bolt open silently but his numb fingers betrayed him. It slammed open with a bang. When he stepped out of the room Welling was looking at him with lifted eyebrows.

“Here, drink this down; it’ll wake you up,” he ordered after a moment, pouring steaming coffee into a cup.

Allen sucked at the bitter liquid and his head began to clear. “It’s still dark out. What time is it?” he asked.

“You’ve got to get into the woods early, Allen,” Welling explained. “You want to get on your stand by daybreak for the best shooting.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Allen.

“Put these eggs under your belt and you’ll feel better,” suggested Welling.

After breakfast they started out, the host leading off through the darkness. Allen had to stay close to keep from getting lost. He looked at the broad back ahead of him. The temptation to shoot was strong, but murder had to be a last resort. Suppose he were wrong? What if Welling didn’t know about him and Alice?

Dawn was a faint grey streak in the east when Welling called a halt. “I’ll leave you here,” he said, “You continue along this path and when you find good cover, take it. If we haven’t any luck by say, ten o’clock, we’ll go back to the cabin, thaw out, and try again this afternoon.” Welling walked away into the gloom. Twenty yards away he was a dim shadow, at fifty yards he was lost in the darkness.

Allen trembled. The hunt was on. He remembered vaguely reading a story once about a man who hunted other men for pleasure. He hurried through the dawn. The trees, ghostly with snow, hovered over him. He could see his breath hanging in frosty puffs in front of his nose. He paused, turned abruptly right angle to the trail and started off at a run. He glanced hurriedly behind him and realized that he was leaving a trail an amateur could follow. Welling was obviously no beginner.

To his left and above him there was an outcropping of rock. He climbed up. When he reached the overhang he moved along carefully, staying on the bare spots where the wind had blown away the snow. Five minutes later he saw what he wanted, a fallen tree. He leaped from boulder to tree and made his way up the trunk into the branches. He hunkered down where the branches had grown the thickest and settled into wait. He had a commanding view of the surrounding terrain.

He kept a sharp lookout in all directions. Now that he had stopped moving, a numbing cold seeped through his clothing and attacked his body. The sun was full up when Allen saw his first buck. The big fellow came stalking into the open not a hundred yards away and before he realized what he was doing he had thrown his rifle to his shoulder and begun carefully to squeeze the trigger.

He lowered the gun slowly. What was he trying to do, be an accessory to his own murder? One shot would tell Welling exactly where he was.

The deer stalked majestically down the side of the ravine and across the valley floor. It was thirty minutes later when he heard Welling’s shot. Allen glanced at his watch. Seven. He settled back to wait, muscles tense, senses alert.

The morning passed slowly. Three more buck passed within range but Allen paid them scant attention. His feet ached from the cold and he blew on his hands to keep them warm. Every few minutes he glanced at his watch. It was nine forty-five when Welling spoke from behind him.

“That’s a nice stand you’re in,” he said, and Allen whirled in alarm. Welling was sitting on the tree trunk, his rifle pointing almost directly at Allen. “You must be a better hunter than I thought.”

“It just looked like a nice spot,” Allen said. How had Welling approached so close without being seen or heard?

“Did you see anything?” asked Welling.

“No, but I heard a shot,” answered Allen.

“Oh, that was me. I got a shot at a running buck but it was a clean miss. We might as well get back to the cabin and grab a bit of lunch.”

Allen scrambled from his hiding place and Welling rose to his feet. On the trip back Welling managed to stay just a step or two behind him. A sense of impending doom settled over Allen and he couldn’t shake it. The man was toying with him, cat and mouse. Welling wanted to see him break, suffer.

When the time came for the afternoon hunt Allen excused himself with a headache. He needed time to think. Welling accepted his excuse reluctantly, but gracefully, and went cheerfully off after his “buck”.

Allen watched from the front window as Welling disappeared into the spruce. As soon as the man was out of sight he made a hurried search of the cabin. He couldn’t go back into the woods, this morning proved that; he would have to kill Welling some time during the night. The question was, how? He returned to the livingroom, having discovered nothing that would help him with his problem.

Could he simply throw open the door and shoot the man as he lay in bed? The room would be dark, what if he missed? The man snored, he must be a sound sleeper. Could he sneak up on him in the darkness and stab him with a knife? His flesh crawled at the thought.

Allen took down his rifle, kicked a chair next to the fireplace and sat down to wait, his back to the granite mantel. He wouldn’t be taken by surprise this time. He waited all afternoon. It was after dark before Welling came through the kitchen door.

“Didn’t see a thing,” Welling announced. He stood in the door, his rifle in the crook of his arm. “How’s your headache?”

“It’s better,” replied Allen.

“Good, then I hope you won’t mind cooking tonight. I’m beat.”

“I can try,” said Allen, gingerly laying down his rifle.

He fried potatoes, broiled steaks, and opened a can of string beans. Welling ate ravenously. Allen picked at his beans, keeping up a steady stream of light, nervous chatter. Welling answered politely but talked little.

“That was a fine steak,” praised Welling afterwards. “Now I think I’ll dash off a letter to Alice and hit the hay. I’d like to get an early start tomorrow morning and fly back to the city later. I still have hopes of getting you your first buck.”

“Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow,” answered Allen.

“I hope so,” replied Welling as he rose from the table. He picked up his rifle and crossed to his bedroom. He paused at the door and gave. Allen a puzzled look. “Goodnight, Allen.” He entered his room and Allen heard the bolt slide closed.

He took down the bourbon bottle and poured himself a double. He sipped his drink slowly, all the time watching the little crack of light escaping from under Welling’s door. In a few minutes, about the time it takes to write a letter, the light went out. Twenty minutes later the sounds of regular breathing seeped through the door.

Allen tried to think. Every thought made its circuitous way through his brain, eventually to return to the bolted door. He could discover no way past it. Whatever he did it must look like an accident. If he fired the cabin Welling might escape. Besides, he might freeze to death himself before being rescued. He certainly couldn’t fly out in the plane. No, there must be a better way. He shivered, cold. He walked over to the heater and leaned down to turn up the flame.

He hesitated, fascinated he stared at the fire. Instead of turning up the gas he cut it off. He went into his room and cut off the heater there. He walked quietly to the kitchen door and let himself out into the night.

A new moon helped him find the butane tank on the ground beside the back door. He reached down and cut off the gas for two seconds, just long enough for the flame to go out in Welling’s heater. He turned the gas back on and returned to the house. He walked softly to Welling’s door. The snores were joined with another sound, gas escaping from open jets. Allen carried the bourbon bottle to bed with him. That would be his heat for the night.

He lay in bed and sipped on his bottle; he could hear faint snores and escaping gas through the wall. If the odor of the butane didn’t wake Welling, he had it made, the perfect crime. Tomorrow morning he would discover his employer dead in his bed, accidentally killed by a blockage in his gas heater. He would sit tight until rescued and that would be that.

He took another drink. He could still hear the regular snores from the next room. He tried to ignore the sounds but they seemed to grow louder. He put his pillow over his head; the sound penetrated into his brain. He sat up. What did he care about Welling anyway? Hadn’t he been out to kill him? Let him stew in his own juice! But in the end Allen could stand it no longer. He leaped from his bed and ran into the kitchen, grabbed up an axe, ran to Welling’s door and swung. On his fourth chop the door swung open and butane swirled around him.

He backed into the livingroom and allowed the gas to escape. He covered his face with his handkerchief before entering the room. Welling was lying on the bed. He looked as if he were sleeping peacefully, but there were no snores. Allen covered the dead man’s head with the sheet.

He was about to leave the room when he noticed the letter on Welling’s desk:

But the rest is not important.