John Betancourt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

This year we are celebrating a successful (and terrific) fifty-year publishing run. Although the magazines first issue was published in December of 1956, we are taking the whole year of 2006 to showcase some of the finest mystery stories that came out of the magazine. This first issue reprints DeLoris Stantons Forbess 1957 story Just Watching. We think it is as ever biting today as it was when it was first published.

The Editors

It was the best of The New York Times. It was the worst of The New York Times. First Mel Gibbie read of the brutal murder of his associate Lamar Hooper. This he considered the best part, for performing Charles Dickenss A Christmas Carol over the holidays had become a very crowded field. The worst came in the newspapers Arts and Entertainment section. Hollywoods big animated movie this season was going to be SpongeBob Cratchits A SquarePants Christmas. Gibbie already knew Ice-Stravaganza productions planned touring companies of Cheapskates on Skates: the Ebenezer Scrooge Story. And last night, though it was still only November, the Late Show with David Letterman featured Fast Freddy Farmer with the big clock ticking in his two minute version of the Dickens classic, a lickety-split slurry of words punctuated with every Bah Humbug! and Tiny Tims God bless us every one jockeyed around to the end for the big finale.

Gibbie uttered a groan worthy of Jacob Marleys ghost. Soon, he feared, the world would tire of A Christmas Carol, meaning a world tired of Mel Gibbie. He threw the newspaper aside, rose, and stood in front of the gas logs burning in his modest fireplace. Lined up on the mantel were the hand puppets he used in his telling of the story. Since the death of his mother these puppets, the Cratchits in particular, had become his family. Hed told them many times that he only endured his hectic holiday schedule of one-night stands and matinees to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. Now he told them again.

Then Gibbie got an idea. He and Hooper belonged to the Carolers Club, as the Dickens-doers called themselves. Suppose the murderer was a Caroler too, someone trying to whittle down the competition? (Gibbie was surprised he hadnt thought of doing that himself. Not that he could ever commit murder. Why? The naked hand puppet of self-reproach knew why. Because youre a gutless wonder, Gibbie, it whispered in his ear.)

Well, gutless wonder or not, maybe Gibbie could do a little whittling too. If a Caroler killed Hooper and Gibbie figured out who, he could tip off the police. Thatd be one more competitor out of the way. He sat back down and opened the newspaper.

Hooper had been a Dickens imitator, one of the crowd who wore Victorian outfits and laid on a bit of an English accent for the job. His booking agent came by his shabby Woodside apartment in Queens after Hooper missed a scheduled reading in Stamford the night before. He found his clients door ajar and the man on the floor bludgeoned to death with the ivory-headed walking stick he used in his act. The cane had a battery-powered light in the head for flagging down taxis. Hooperd put in a green bulb, and when he did Marleys ghost or the various spirits of Christmas, hed hold the head of the cane under his chin and snap on the light to great effect.

Gibbie read the newspaper account of the murder. When he got to the part about the police finding a star made of folded paper at the crime scene he smiled. Not a star, he told himself, a snowflake. Now he had his man. Bolton Sharpe, a new kid on the Dickens-doers block, carried a colorful stack of origami paper to the podium. As he recited the story, he folded the paper into various props: Scrooges nightcap, Marleys chains and moneyboxes, and of course, Tiny Tims crutch. Sharpes encore was a dazzling display of high-speed origami folding. Reciting the thirty words the Inuit have for snow, he made a snowflake for each, no two alike, and threw them out into the audience. By seasons end his fingers were thick with adhesive bandages, for paper cuts were a hazard of his business.

As Gibbie reached for the phone to call the police there was a knock on his door. The man standing in the hall displayed a badge. Mr. Gibbie, he said, Im Lieutenant Mason. Ive some questions regarding the murder of Lamar Hooper. May I come in?

Gibbie stepped back in surprise and gestured the man inside.

I understand you knew the victim, said Mason.

So did Bolton Sharpe, blurted Gibbie.

The detective raised an eyebrow.

The puppeteer quickly explained, That paper star at the crime scene was an origami snowflake from Sharpes act.

We know, nodded Mason. It had his name written on it. So we looked him up. Now Forensics tells us Hooper was murdered yesterday evening between six and seven. At that time Mr. Sharpe was entertaining the kids at Childrens Hospital. A freebie. A real nice guy, Mr. Sharpe. Real generous with his time. He told us sometimes the audience brought up snowflakes afterwards for him to autograph. Said maybe somebody was out to frame him for Hoopers murder. And, oh, he mentioned seeing you at one of his performances last year.

Just checking out the competition.

Mason worked his eyebrow again. Mr. Gibbie, can you tell me where you were yesterday evening between six and seven?

Blushing, Gibbie jerked his head toward the puppets on the mantel and begged in a whisper, Can we keep it down? All right, so I was doing a bachelor party. A Christmas with Kinky Carol.

Obscene hand puppets? asked Mason in a disapproving whisper.

Look, pleaded Gibbie under his breath, last month when Billy Napier took a swan dive out his apartment window, Sammy, my booking agent, said if I bought Billys stuff from his old lady hed find me work. Work I need. So I did. I gave the act a try. But it wasnt up my alley. I didnt have Billys dirty little laugh. So I told Sammy to count me out. He wasnt happy about that. I only did yesterdays gig because Sammyd already booked it. Gibbie got his appointment calendar and showed it to Mason.

Okay, said the policeman, so while were at it, what were you doing on October 11 around eight P.M.? When Gibbie looked puzzled, Mason explained, Hoopers murder has us reconsidering some other cases. We suspect Napiers swan dive might have had an assist.

Gibbie thumbed back through the calendar until he found the date. Okay, here we are. I was trying out this Halloween act. Washington Irvings The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Im the Headless Horseman with a coat up over my head. I use this jack-o-lantern under my arm to narrate the thing. My Bob Cratchit does Ichabod Crane with putty to make his nose long and snipey, and Mrs. Cratchit is plumped out and rouged up to play Katrina Van Tassel.

Mason looked skeptical.

So Ive got some bugs to work out, admitted Gibbie.

Mason moved on. Ever meet Roy Reilly who disappeared last year?

The balloon guy? Sure. We Dickens-doers are a tight-knit group. The Carolers Club, thats what we call ourselves. Come January when the seasons over we rent a hall and throw ourselves a shindig. Eeffoc Moor, thats our battle cry.