"I'm going to kill you, you dirty little creep! Get ready to die!"
Arthur Winston narrowed his eyes and pulled his hand out from under the bed covers. Slowly and deliberately he squeezed the trigger. Pow! A single shot ripped into his enemy's head. The man slumped to the floor in a graceful, fluid motion, and then lay still. Arthur turned him over with a nudge of his foot and spat on the dead man's face. If the television audience could see him now, they would give him an award for ridding the world of that piece of filth.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted his fantasy. Arthur sat up and listened. By straining, he could make out his wife's voice over the New York traffic outside the window. Miriam was talking on the intercom system in the foyer. She had arrived home a few minutes earlier and looked in on him, but he wanted to go over his plan again, and so had pretended to the asleep. In a minute or two he heard the low rumble of a man's voice at the front door of the apartment.
Now what? he wondered.
He got out of bed, put on a brocade robe and slid his feet into leather slippers. He paused in front of a full-length mirror and struck a pose of haughty elegance. Then he opened the door and walked down the hall to the living room.
"I'm sorry, my husband is asleep," Miriam was saying to the stranger. "I just got home myself, so I don't know anything about it."
"What's going on, darling?" Arthur asked from the doorway.
Miriam hurried over to him and he put his arm around her. She stiffened ever so slightly and moved away and inch or so. "This is my husband," she said. "Detective Brandt, Art. I thought you were asleep."
Detective Brandt? Arthur was puzzled. "The doorbell woke me," he said, and turned his attention to the visitor. The man was about thirty-five, Arthur judged. He was stocky, had a round face and his black eyes darted everywhere, missing nothing. He was wearing one of those gray summer suits that aren't supposed to wrinkle, but do; it gave him a shopworn look.
"I've enjoyed your TV show for years," the detective said. "My wife watches you every day."
Smiling modestly, Arthur walked over and shook his hand. "Thank you. Forgive my appearance, I was in bed. Please sit down." He motioned to the sofa.
Detective Brandt sat, gingerly, as if he were afraid to soil the handsome velvet of the sofa. "I'm checking out your phone call," he said, and glanced at his notebook. "You called at eight-thirty-five and said you had heard gunshots."
"Two officers were already here," Arthur said. "I told them everything."
"There was a burglary in the apartment building next door at about the same time," the detective explained. "I thought there might be a connection between your gunshots and the burglary. That's why I came on over here. Now, if you wouldn't mind telling me what happened --"
"It's very simple. I was in the kitchen, and I heard three shots."
"How far away, would you say?"
"Not very far away -- I suppose they might even have been next door. They were fairly loud. It's pretty quiet around here at night, and one can't hear the traffic noises in the back. Come, I'll show you." Arthur led the way.
"You're sure it wasn't just a TV program?" the detective asked.
"It was not," Arthur said with asperity. "I know the difference. And it wasn't a car backfiring either."
How far apart were the shots?"
"Bang-bang --and then bang."
"All right, Mr. Winston. Thank you. If you can think of anything else, I'd appreciate a call."
Arthur nodded. "Now, if you don't mind I'll have to take a sleeping pill to get back to sleep."
"Sorry about that," detective Brandt said.
At the front door Arthur gave him a courteous nod. "Happy hunting." He shut the door after him and turned to Miriam. "Where were you tonight--at the club again?"
"Yes, till about nine. Sorry I wasn't here, though. I missed all the excitement. I went out to dinner with Hazel afterward." Miriam had taken to spending several evenings a week working out at a health club.
"You probably worked up such a good appetite that you put on more pounds then you can take off in a week."
"Don't be silly. I had a steak and a salad. Hardly any calories at all."
"And how many martinis?" The note of irritation was creeping into his voice, but he couldn't help it.
Miriam shrugged. "A martini helps me relax, so I can sleep."
Arthur moved toward the kitchen. "Why don't you take a warm bath? I'll make some hot chocolate for you. That might help you sleep."
"That's a good idea." She disappeared into the bedroom and Arthur took out a saucepan and the milk and the cocoa.
Too bad this was necessary, he told himself. If Miriam hadn't started deceiving him, they could have gone on just as before. Arthur prided himself on having a good, solid, modern marriage. No real problems. Oh, of course, he was much less interested in sex now than when he was younger, but Miriam didn't seem to mind. True, she indulged in a little light flirtation now and then, but she had certainly in never had an affair before, Arthur were sure of that.
He lit the gas burner and poured some milk into the saucepan. From his robe pocket he took a capsule, separated the halves and emptied the powder into the pan of milk, then added some cocoa and sugar. When he heard the water draining out of the bathtub he poured the chocolate into a mug. After tossing the gelatin-capsule halves down the disposal, he carried the mug into the bedroom, where Miriam was getting into bed.
Here you are, my darling."
She tasted it and wrinkled her nose. "It's bitter. Didn't you put any sugar in?"
"Just a little. I thought you were off sugar." Arthur slid into bed beside Miriam. "Come on, drink it down. I just took a sleeping pill and it's about to hit me."
Miriam drained to the mug obediently. "Good night."
"Sleep tight." He leaned over to kiss her, but she turned away from him and flipped off the switch. In the darkness he smiled.
Before long Miriam's breathing told Arthur that she was sound asleep. He waited a few minutes before getting out of bed. He had already laid out his clothes: now he picked them up, took a small suitcase from the closet, and tiptoed into the bathroom, where he dressed quickly. From the suitcase he took a bushy gray mustache and gray wig, rather long and full at the neck, with heavy sideburns. These he fixed in place width spirit gum. There! Now he looked like a middle-aged hippie.
Next he removed a battered black wide-brimmed hat and a dirty tan rain coat from the suitcase. After putting them on and adjusting the hat at a rakish angle, he set the suitcase back inside the closet and stealthily left the apartment. Once on the street, he walked briskly to the Lexington Avenue subway
Detective Gordon Brandt turned the key in the lock and pushed his front door open. He could hear the television set playing in the bedroom. Ellen, his wife, was watching Johnny Carson. She was an invalid, had been in a wheelchair since her accident about fifteen years earlier. Gordon greeted her with a kiss and went to the kitchen to get a can of beer. Another hot night, the air barely stirred in the apartment. Ellen probably wouldn't be able to sleep.
Gordon took his beer and sat down in the dark living room. Something about Arthur Winston disturbed him. Something wasn't quite right. Gordon tried to analyze it, but it was like dissecting the wind. The man certainly seemed reputable enough, he'd been in the public eye for so many years that his name was virtually a household word. The Arthur Winston Show was the trickiest game show on TV. His contestants almost never solved the puzzles he put to them. That was what made the program so popular: Winston came across like such an arrogant character that millions tuned in every day to see if anyone could get the better of him, but this seldom happened.
Gordon lit his cigar and leaned back in his recliner. Maybe he was joining the crowd, he told himself. Out to get him. Okay, let's look at its objectively. Why couldn't he except the possibility that a celebrity like Winston might hear gun shots and phone the police?
On the other hand, why had nobody else mentioned hearing any shooting? The patrolmen on the beat had heard nothing. Winston's wife hadn't been at home, but what about the neighbors? Gordon knew the shots weren't connected with the burglary in the next building--the thief had been caught a few blocks away; he was well known to the police, and he'd never carried a gun. Besides, Gordon had checked the apartments in Winston's brownstone and the buildings on either side. No one had heard anything. Of course, it was possible that the tenants were all watching TV programs or soundly asleep.
"What are you do in here in the dark?" Ellen wheeled her chair into the livingroom.
"Just wanted to think a bit, honey."
"Big case?"
"No, just a puzzling one. Probably not important at all. By the way, I met one of your idols today. Arthur Winston."
"Really? What's he like?"
"0h, about the same as she is on TV, except that he looks older. Must be fifty, at least. Pretty egotistical, self-centered, knows it all."
Ellen smiled. You really liked him, then."
"His wife was there, too," Gordon continued, paying no attention to the interruption. "She's a gorgeous dish. A lot younger men he is."
"She's a model, you know," Ellen said. "Used to be on TV; on his show, in fact. She introduced the contestants and presented the prizes--things like that."
"That's why she looked familiar. I'd forgotten."
"Can you tell me about the case? Or would you rather not talk about it?"
"There's nothing much to it. Winston heard somebody shooting a gun outside his kitchen window, and called the precinct. Nobody else heard the shots, though that's not unusual, in New York." He paused to relight his cigar and then sat chewing it and frowning.
"Okay what's bothering you then?" Ellen asked at last.
Gordon grinned. "You know me too well. There's something fishy here. I can smell it. You know what it is?" He got up and started to pace, waving his cigar to punctuate his thoughts. "It's Winston and his wife. They're not right together. Something between them; I could feel it. There like---a happily married couple that aren't as happy as they want you to think they are. You know, putting up a big front today, but tomorrow they'll file for divorce." He's grinned again. "Wonder if I should hire out as a clairvoyant?"
Ellen said, "I'll read the vital statistics tomorrow and let you know."
Gordon looked at his watch. "Hey, it's after one o'clock. Let's go to bed. I can't solve any more mysteries tonight."
"I didn't know you'd solved any," Ellen said, and he gave her chair a playful shove.
During the subway ride downtown Arthur reviewed his plan one last time. He was supposed to be at Barry Lewis' Greenwich Village apartment at midnight. Using a phony name, Arthur had told Barry on the phone that he'd like to hire him as musical director of a nightclub, and that he'd bring a contract for Barry to sign. He had disguised his telephone voice in a high nasal twang he'd perfected during his days as an actor on the strawhat circuit, long before radio and television had made him a famous personality.
Arthur smiled in anticipation of Barry's recognition. The poor slob has no idea I'm onto him, he said to himself, chuckling. He thinks he's made a fool of me. Well, he'll find out who the fool it is, once he reads that contract.
The train pulled into the Astor Place station, and Arthur got off and cut over to Waverly. Barry lived in a renovated brownstone with dimly-lit halls that smelled of cabbage. Arthur sniffed scornfully and pressed the bell. The door opened at once, as if Barry had been standing with his hand on the doorknob.
"Barry-baby! How are ya?" Arthur clapped the younger man on the shoulder.
Barry Lewis was a small, wiry man with a thin face and anxious eyes which focused on Arthur for a second, then moved jerkily down his frame in apparent disbelief. A frown was fixed on his forehead. "Mr. Walters? Come in, won't you?" Barry's voice was surprisingly resonant for a man so slight.
Arthur Winston stepped inside the livingroom and shut the door. The utter squalor of the place depressed him, but the sight of Barry, dressed in a frightful fuchsia shirt and a pair of blue slacks, offended his eye even more.
"Drink?" Barry gestured toward a makeshift bar on top of a bookcase. A bottle of bourbon and several glasses stood there.
"No, thanks. Let's get on with the business." Arthur sat down on the sofa and took the papers out of his breast pocket. "Here's the contract. You'd better read it. I don't want you signing anything blind."
Barry glanced at the contract. "Seems to be--hey, wait a minute. What's this? What you trying to pull? Who are you, anyway? And what's all this about Miriam Winston?"
Arthur leaned back and looked at Barry without speaking. He just smiled. Then Barry got the point. "Clever," he said sarcastically. "What am I supposed to do, laugh?"
Arthur stood up and drew on the pair of gloves. "T'ain't funny, McGee," he said in his own voice. "You're supposed to say you'll be a good little boy and give my wife up." He slipped his hand into the raincoat pocket. It closed around a gun.
Barry snickered. "It wouldn't do you any good if I did, pal. You're all washed up with Miriam anyway, don't you know that?"
Arthur brought the .25 caliber automatic out of his pocket and pulled back the slide. "I'm sorry you said that," he said softly as he reached for the volume control of the portable radio on the table and turned it up.
Barry's eyes were fixed on the gun. "Wait a minute--what do think you're doing?" he cried. "Put that thing down!"
Arthur calmly aimed the weapon at Barry's head.
"No--don't--please!" the small man whimpered. He ran into the bedroom, dodged around the bed and headed for the closet. Arthur followed him and wrenched the closet door open. Barry was cowering on the floor. At the sight of him Arthur almost laughed. Then Barry leaped out at him, grabbing Arthur's gun hand. The first shot went wild. Arthur managed to get free of Barry's grasp and brought the automatic down level again. Barry ducked and scurried into the bathroom, but before he could slam the door Arthur got off another shot. This time the bullet caught Barry in the shoulder. He staggered backward against the bathtub, crying out painfully in protest.
"Shut up, damn you!" Arthur hissed. "Die like a man!" Taking deliberate aim from the doorway, he fired at the fuchsia chest. Barry went down on his knees. There was a look of bewilderment on his face. Then he slowly fell forward into the bedroom and his dulled eyes closed. Arthur put the gun back into his coat pocket and made a cursory search of the apartment. The roll-top desk, the bureau, the kitchen drawers yielded nothing about Miriam. In the closet Arthur saw a dozen a large boxes on the shelf above Barry's meager wardrobe. He took them down one by one and rifled their contents. In the fourth box, among a mass of papers and snapshots of women, he found a packet of letters addressed to Barry in Marion's handwriting.
Arthur pocketed the letters and emptied some of the boxes on the floor. Good. Now to get out of the filthy place. He gave Barry's body a nudge with his foot. The musician didn't move. His eyes were half-open now and glassy. Arthur felt for a pulse. There was none. Careful not to get any blood on his gloves or coat, he searched Barry's pockets and found his wallet. There was a small photograph of Miriam in it. He removed this, and as an afterthought took the currency--twenty dollars--from it and dropped the wallet onto the floor. Then he picked up the contract from the livingroom floor where it had fallen when Barry took flight., and tiptoed out of the apartment and down this smelly hall to the outside door.
The street was deserted. Arthur put his hands in his pockets and started for the subway. Damn! He'd forgotten about the gun. In the shadow of the doorway he paused long enough to take out the bullet clip. The gun itself he dropped into the sewer: he knew it could never be traced to him, because he had bought it through a magazine ad years ago and had never applied for a permit. At the subway station he walked to the rear of the platform and tossed the gun clip inside the tunnel opening when no one was looking.
The train came in a few minutes. Arthur took a seat at the front of the car scowled out the window at the black tunnel. He was annoyed that he'd had to use three shots to kill Barry. One was all he'd planned to fire--and then the stupid jerk had to go running around the apartment and make things difficult. It would be just his luck if that detective noticed the coincidence. Then unaccountably, he found that his hands were trembling. I've got to get hold of myself, he thought. I can forget that whole scene. It's over.
In a few minutes he was back at 86^th Street. Hunching his shoulders and pulling his hat down to hide his face as much as possible, he walked quickly along quiet streets. About a block from his brownstone he made sure no one was approaching then took off the rain coat and hastily shoved it into a trash basket. Almost without missing a step he hurried on to his apartment.
Miriam was still asleep. He undressed quickly and stuffed the wig, mustache, hat and gloves into the suitcase in the closet before climbing into bed. It was a quarter to one. The entire operation, starting with the phone call to the police, had taken just over four hours.
The bedside phone rang. Gordon Brandt jumped for it before it could wake Ellen. She got little enough sleep as it was.
"Hullo." he growled into the mouthpiece.
"Gordy? Mike Silver here." Mike was a homicide detective on the graveyard shift at the 23^rd Precinct. "They're giving 'em to us in three now."
"Huh?"
Just saw your report on the guy that heard three gun shots last night. This morning they found another guy with two bullets in him--and a third bullet in the wall."
Gordon picked up to phone and carried it into the hall. "Where?"
"Waverly Place. In the sixth."
Gordon laughed shortly. "I doubt there's any connection. My guy heard shots on 87^th Street."
"Yeah, I know. Funny coincidence, that's all."
"Is that what you woke me up for? Thanks a lot."
"Just thought you'd get a charge out of it," Silver said after affably.
"Sure. If you get any other flashes of inspiration be sure and call me."
Gordon hung up the phone and padded back to bed. Seven-thirty. He could sleep for another hour.
Across town the Winston's clock-radio came on with the blast of rock-and-roll music. Miriam groaned and reached for it without opening her eyes, her fingers fumbling for the volume knob and finally turning it down. Arthur watched her stretch her legs and back and arms and caught the expression of hostility when she opened her eyes.
"Ugh," she said. "I feel like I took sleeping pill, not you."
"Didn't you sleep well?"
"Oh, sure. Like a top. My head's still spinning."
"I have a bit of a sedative hangover. You're probably just having sympathetic pains."
"Is that what you call them?" Miriam sat up and lit a cigarette. "I thought you had to have sympathetic feelings to have sympathetic pains."
Arthur grunted sourly. "Very funny. Mind if I use that on the air?"
Better than some of the quips you come up with!"
Arthur got up. "I'll take my shower first. I've got to get to the studio by nine or so today." He was about to add, "Some fan mail to answer," then thought better of it. Miriam was obviously in one of her sarcastic moods. She'd be sure to have something caustic to say about his fan mail.
When he came out of the bathroom after showering and shaving, Miriam was doing calisthenics. The eight o'clock news was just coming on.
There was no mention of Barry Lewis; death until late in the program. Arthur was tying a half-Windsor when he heard: Band-leader Barry Lewis was found dead in his Greenwich Village apartment by a neighbor early this morning. He was shot twice, in the shoulder and the chest. The apartment had been ransacked, leading police to believe he might have surprised a burglar in the act. No gun was found.
Miriam had stopped to listen at the mention of Barry's name. Arthur watched her in the mirror as her eyes widened with shock and the color drained from her face. He heard her give a little gasp, and a feeling of tremendous satisfaction washed over him. He could hardly keep from smiling.
The newscaster moved on to a commercial, but Miriam sat still. Her eyes were brilliant with tears. She'd never looked more lovely, Arthur noted. She'd really miss that creep. Tough.
He put on his jacket and buttoned it. "Aren't you going to make any coffee this morning?" he asked.
"It's already made. While you were in the shower." Miriam rose and crossed to the bathroom.
"Are you going to the club tonight?" he called.
"No--I don't think so."
"Good. I'll see you when I get home then."
She closed the bathroom door, and he whisked the suitcase out of the closet and quickly carried it to the front door and left it just outside where he could pick it up before Miriam had a chance to see it and wonder what he was doing with it. He'd have to get rid of the hat and wig, maybe put them down the incinerator of one of the nearby apartment buildings. The letters he still had in his breast pocket. He wanted to read them before destroying them.
Arthur went back then, went to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it standing up. Everything was going very well indeed.

The late morning traffic was so dense, Gordon Brandt had to park two blocks away from the Winston's apartment. He might just as well have left the car at the precinct, except he's come from downtown. For the past two hours, he had been examining Barry Lewis' apartment. Even though he worked out of a different precinct, he had been pulled off his regular duties and assigned to investigate the burglary aspects of the Lewis case; and Gordon had discovered something very interesting. Maybe a coincidence, but it warranted further questions.
He rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang again. After about two minutes Miriam Winston came down the stairs. She hesitated for a second when she saw him, then opened the door for him. He noticed that her eyes were red.
"Oh. Detective Brandt. Hello. I'm afraid my husband isn't in right now."
"Actually, it's you I wanted to see."
She hesitated. "Well. I was just going out, but it can wait. You'd better come in."
"Thank you." He followed her up the stairs and into the livingroom.
"Have you found out anything about the gunshots my husband heard?" she asked.
"No. Nothing. But something else has come up that's very interesting."
"Oh?" She didn't look particularly interested.
"A man was shot last night down in the Village. Perhaps you've heard about it. It's been on all the newscasts. A musician named Barry Lewis." He watched her carefully.
"Oh, yes, I heard it on the radio." She looked a little perplexed. "But how does that connect to those shots? You certainly don't think--"
"No, ma'am, we don't know of any connection. But you knew Barry Lewis, didn't you?"
"Well, I--well, yes, I met him a couple of times--at nightclubs where he was playing, you know."
"Yes, of course. That probably explains it."
"Explains what?"
"How the happened to have your name in his address book. Actually, it was your initials, M.W. But I recognized the phone number. The only funny thing is--" he stopped, frowning with concentration.
"Yes?"
"The other women in his address book were all girlfriends--ex-girlfriends, I mean. He had a lot of pictures of them in a box. Newspaper clippings, snapshots, letters, and the like." He noticed the worried look in her eyes. "No pictures of you, though. I guess you never gave him one."
"Um--that's right," she said hesitantly. "Why should I?"
"Well, you know, he must have been a likable guy, to have so many girlfriends, wouldn't use say?"
"Yes. Yes. Very charming." Her lower lip trembled.
"Upsetting, isn't it," Gordon said sympathetically, "to-hear about a good friend's death like that--on the radio. Must've been a terrible shock to you."
Miriam nodded. Her large eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," Gordon went on. "I shouldn't be bothering you at a time like this. Thoughtless of me."
Miriam tried to smile. "That's all right."
"Mind if I use your phone?" He looked around for it.
"Of course. It's over there." She indicated a table behind the sofa.
Gordon picked up the phone, turning his back to her, and dialed WE 6-1212. While the operator was giving the weather forecast, he quickly unscrewed the mouthpiece, spotted the little microphone and replaced the mouthpiece again. "Thank you," he said into the phone and hung up. "By the way," he said to Miriam, sitting down again, "your husband was in radio for quite a long time before TV, wasn't he?"
She made an obvious effort to hold herself together and speak calmly. "Oh, yes, years."
"What was he--an announcer?"
"Among other things. He also acted in a lot of radio plays. And before that he was an engineer. That's really how he got his start in radio."
"I see. That's interesting." It was more than interesting, he realized. It might explain how Winston knew enough to bug the phone.
"You were in TV yourself, weren't you? On your husband's show?"
She looked surprised. "Yes, I was, as a matter of fact. For a while."
Gordon smiled at Miriam and stood up. "I've taken up enough of your time. I'll catch Mr. Winston some other time."
"He's taping a show today, if you want to see him at his studio." She gave him the address and saw him out.

Arthur smiled contemptuously as the last of Miriam's letters burned itself out in his ash tray. Now those feeble attempts to put her passion on paper were lost to literary history. The press would doubtless have a field day with the rest of Barry's amours, but at least the Winston name would not be dragged into this scandal.
He emptied the ash tray into the waste basket. So much for "love."
The telephone rang. It was the guard at the information booth downstairs. "Mr. Winston, I have a man here who wants to see you. Mr. Brandt. Okay to send him up?"
Arthur scowled. Might as well see Brandt here as at home. "Oh, all right."
In a few minutes Gordon Brandt appeared at the door. He sniffed. "Burning the evidence?" he inquired cheerfully.
Arthur gave him a sharp look. He hadn't realized that the odor of the burned letters still hung in the air. "Some--ah--papers were too close to the ash tray and got burned. But you didn't come here to talk about burning papers, did you?"
"Well, I don't know," Gordon said with a half-smile. " Were they important?"
Arthur waved his hand airily. "Oh, just some mash notes. I get them all the time, you know." He sat down at his desk and motioned Gordon into a chair.
Gordon nodded. "The price of fame," he said sympathetically.
Arthur regarded him coldly. "Well, what can I do for you today?"
"I've questioned your neighbors, but nobody else heard any shooting last night."
"Really."
"We've established that there was no connection with the burglary next door. I wondered whether you've thought of any other details that might help us?"
Arthur shook his head incredulously. "Don't you fellows have anything more important to do with your time? No muggings, no million-dollar burglaries, no murders?"
Gordon smiled sheepishly. "Plenty of muggings and burglaries, but no murders today--at least, not in my precinct."
"Well, then…" Arthur said pointedly.
"Speaking of murder," the detective continued, "did you know Barry Lewis?"
"That two-bit horn-player? Never actually met him. Now if that's all…"
"Thank you. That's all I wanted to know."
Arthur stood up. "I'm afraid I haven't been much help to you."
"You'd be surprised." Gordon said.
I What an insufferable man! Arthur thought as he shut the door behind the detective. As long as people of that ilk were running the Police Department, a man could get away with murder.

The street lights had just come on when Gordon Brandt rang the Winston bell again. It was the second time that day, and his partner, Ed Nielsen, was with him.
Arthur greeted him coldly at his front door. "I hope this will be brief," he said. "We have dinner reservations.". Miriam was getting her coat from closet.
"I'm afraid we'll have to hold up your plans for bit," Gordon told him. "There are several important points that need to be cleared up." They all went into the living room and sat down. "I think you said, Mr. Winston, that you had never met Barry Lewis," Gordon continued. "Am I correct?"
"That is what I said. But I'd hardly call that important."
"Well, you see, there's a funny thing. My wife's an invalid. She's got nothing to do all day but look at TV. She's watched your show for years. You're very good at constructing puzzles, aren't you? Takes real talent, a clever mind. It occurred to me that a man as clever as you probably would use that ability in everything you do. I dare say your whole life reflects that same brand of cleverness."
He got a and ambled over toward the windows. "Sorry, but I can't sit still for very long. Think better on my feet.
"Well, now. Here we have two unrelated facts. You hear three gunshots. Several hours later, Barry Lewis is shot to death. Shot three times, actually--though one shot misses him, still three shots. Now, that could be coincidence. Looks like it. Especially since you say you didn't know him. However, my wife tells me Barry Lewis was on your show. You know, as a substitute for your regular band leader. So I checked with the network. The program department has a record of it. Now do you remember it?"
"If he was, I don't remember anything about it," Arthur said belligerently. "That's an asinine assumption--"
"It was while Mrs. Winston was a hostess, or whatever you call it, on your show. About a year ago. That must have been when you met Barry Lewis, wasn't it, Mrs. Winston?"
She nodded. Borden turned to Arthur. The television star was giving his wife a look of open hostility.
"What's this all about?" Arthur demanded.
"I was--involved--with Barry, Art," she said in a low voice. "I'm sorry. I should have told to a long time ago."
"That--toad?" Arthur's words were dipped in venom. "Really, Miriam, I would have thought you'd have better taste."
"News to you, is it, Mr. Winston?" Gordon asked.
Arthur shot him a withering glance. "Of course it's news! You don't think I'd stand for my wife having an affair with that crumb if I knew about it, do you?"
Gordon strolled over to the telephone and picked it up and casually unscrewed the mouthpiece.
The microphone was gone.
He raised his eyebrows and looked up to find Arthur's gaze fixed on him. A slight smile tinged the corners of the famous Winston mouth.
"Something wrong, Mr. Detective?"
Gordon replaced the mouthpiece. "You have a tape recorder?"
"Of course. Your free to examine it after you get a search warrant."
The detective drew a document from his pocket. "Here you are." He handed it to Arthur. "Now I'd like to see your tape collection."
Arthur opened the record cabinet and indicated a large stack of tape boxes . "Have fun. I have hundreds more, when you're finished with these."
Ed Nielsen knelt in front of the cabinet and began spot checking the tapes on the player.
Miriam looked from one detective to the other in bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said, "what are you looking for?"
"Evidence," Arthur said. "They are stupidly trying to implicate me in the murder of your--lover." He pronounced the word with distaste. "As if I'd even stoop to touch that filth!"
"You think Art is guilty? But he can't be. He was here, in bed, asleep. He took a sleeping pill, remember? He told you that last night."
Gordon shook his head. "No, he said he was going to take one. But that was just part of his alibi, to prove he was here when Barry Lewis was murdered."
"But what about the gunshots?" she countered. "It was just a coincidence that somebody was shooting a gun off last night, and that Arthur heard. You wouldn't even had been here later on, if that hadn't happened first."
"Believe me, Mrs. Winston, nobody was doing any shooting last night--at least, not around here. Mr. Winston made all that up so that he could get the police here to witness the fact that he was home in bed with his sleeping pill. It was a brilliant ruse, because it gave him a chance to slip out of the apartment later, when everyone would think he was asleep."
"But if Art had gone out during the night, I'd have heard him. I'm a very light sleeper. And I didn't take a sleeping pill."
"Sure of that?" Gordon persisted.
"Of course! I can't stand the way they make me feel--the next--day." She said the last words very slowly as a look of suspicion flashed across her face. "Art!" she cried. "You gave me the sedative!"
"Don't be so stupid!" Arthur Winston retorted. "You'll believe anything these flat-footed idiots say, won't you? If you had an ounce of gray matter, you'd know they're simply trying to trap you! They're using you to try and break me down!"
"You don't have to insult me!" She turned back to the detective. "If I thought he really did kill Barry, I'd help you convict him!"
Arthur clucked his tongue. "Temper, temper, my dear. Unfortunately, Mr. Detective, your conjecture means nothing. You can't place me at the scene of the crime, can you? Your case is pure supposition. Now, if you're finished with us, my wife and I would like to have dinner. Sorry you can't join us." He strode toward the front hall. "Come, Miriam."
She hesitated, and in her brief moment of indecision, Gordon saw his chance. "If you were never at Barry Lewis' apartment, Mr. Winston, where did you get the letters your wife wrote him?"
"My letters?" Miriam said in a choked voice. Where are they?"
"Mr. Winston burned them in his office. We found them in his wastebasket. Now they're in the police lab, being reconstructed."
"Art!" she gasped. "That means you really did kill him!"
Arthur laughed, a short ugly snort. "That cockroach thought he could take you away from me--and not pay for it! What could you possibly see in him?"
"You wouldn't know!" she blazed. "Barry made me feel like I was the most beautiful and most desirable girl in the world. He really knew how to treat a woman. That's something you'll never know!"
"You're not a woman, you're a time-store mannequin. You have as much feeling as a zombie. You and that little shrimp deserved each other!"
Miriam flung herself at him. Before Gordon could stop her, her fingernails dug deep grooves in Arthur Winston's famous face.
Arthur grabbed her wrists and flung her away from him. "Slut!" he muttered.
The two detectives separated them. "The game's over," Gordon said. "Arthur Winston I am charging you with the murder of Barry Lewis. You have the right to remain silent, and--"
"No way," said Ed Nielson.

###

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine