Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense by Linda Landrigan Read Free Book Online Page A

shoved into the pockets of his dirty tweed overcoat, his hat low over his eyes. He had white stubble on his face.
    â€œPlease,” he said, “Can I talk to you a minute?”
    Selvey looked him over and put a hand in his pocket for change.
    â€œNo,” the man said quickly. “I don’t want a handout. I just want to talk to you, Mr. Selvey.”
    â€œYou know who I am?”
    â€œYeah, sure, Mr. Selvey. I read all about you.”
    Selvey’s hard glance softened. “Well, I’m kind of rushed right now. Got an appointment.”
    â€œThis is important, Mr. Selvey. Honest to God. Can’t we go someplace? Have coffee maybe? Five minutes is all.”
    â€œWhy don’t you drop me a letter, or come down to the office? We’re on Chambers Street—”
    â€œIt’s about that man, Mr. Selvey. The one they’re executing tonight.”
    The attorney examined the man’s eyes. He saw how intent and penetrating they were.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “There’s a coffee shop down the street. But only five minutes, mind you.”
    It was almost two-thirty; the lunchtime rush at the coffee shop was over. They found a booth in the rear and sat silently while a waiter cleared the remnants of a hasty meal from the table.
    Finally, the old man leaned forward and said: “My name’s Arlington, Phil Arlington. I’ve been out of town, in Florida, else I wouldn’t have let things go this far. I didn’t see a paper, hear a radio, nothing like that.”
    â€œI don’t get you, Mr. Arlington. Are you talking about the Rodman trial?”
    â€œYeah, the Rodman business. When I came back and heard what happened, I didn’t know what to do. You can see that, can’t you? It hurt me, hurt me bad to read what was happening to that poor man. But I was afraid. You can understand that. I was afraid.”
    â€œAfraid of what?”
    The man talked to his coffee. “I had an awful time with myself, trying to decide what to do. But then I figured—hell, this Rodman is a young man. What is he, thirty-eight? I’m sixty-four, Mr. Selvey. Which is better?”
    â€œBetter for what?” Selvey was getting annoyed; he shot a look at his watch. “Talk sense, Mr. Arlington. I’m a busy man.”
    â€œI thought I’d ask your advice.” The gray-haired man licked his lips. “I was afraid to go to the police right off, I thought I should ask you. Should I tell them what I did, Mr. Selvey? Should I tell them I killed that woman? Tell me. Should I?”
    The world suddenly shifted on its axis. Warren Selvey’s hands grew cold around the coffee cup. He stared at the man across from him.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” he said. “Rodman killed his wife. We proved that.”
    â€œNo, no, that’s the point. I was hitchhiking east. I got a lift into Wilford. I was walking around town, trying to figure out where to get food, a job, anything. I knocked on this door. This nice lady answered. She didn’t have no job, but she gave me a sandwich. It was a ham sandwich.”
    â€œWhat house? How do you know it was Mrs. Rodman’s house?”
    â€œI know it was. I seen her picture, in the newspapers. She was a nice lady. If she hadn’t walked into that kitchen after, it would have been okay.”
    â€œWhat, what?” Selvey snapped.
    â€œI shouldn’t have done it. I mean, she was real nice to me, but I was so broke. I was looking around the jars in the cupboard. You know how women are; they’re always hiding dough in the jars, house money they call it. She caught me at it and got mad. She didn’t yell or anything, but I could see she meant trouble. That’s when I did it, Mr. Selvey. I went off my head.”
    â€œI don’t believe you,” Selvey said. “Nobody saw any—anybody in the neighborhood. Rodman and his wife quarreled all the time—”
    The