Another good collection from the Alfred Hitchcock magazine back in the day. Once again we run the gamut from disturbing stories (in the Accidental Widow a man seeks the prize of a rich woman and kills off her husbands, only to find that once he’s won her, he likes the killing more than he likes her) to the incompetent oaf (The Skim is about a married low level gangster falling in love with another woman and getting caught by his wife and his brother-in-law, the head mobster) to an almost-happy ending (The Heir has a street hoodlum killing a drug addict and taking his place in his mother’s affections, and will).
Now, there was one story that I wasn’t sure what the ending meant. It was called Holiday by Hal Ellson. I’m going to include it here under the details tag, peruse it if you’d like and give me your interpretation. I’ll say more about it in the next paragraph:
Blue light trembled above the hotel; guests were already sitting in the open dining room beyond the pool when a girl appeared on the upper terrace. Down the stone stairway she came, sandals clacking, white bathing suit startling in the dusky light.
She was another lone female tourist, but different from the others. At the pool-edge she adjusted her cap and plunged in. Twice she swam the length of the pool, then floated on her back, sensuously. Roger watched her casually; no point in getting excited when she’d never more than nodded to him.
Footsteps made him turn. The hotel manager smiled. “Not dining again, Mr. Peters?”
“No appetite in this heat.”
The girl in the water swam to the pool-edge, and the manager turned to her. “Enjoying a dip, Miss Boyd?”
“Yes, the heat in the city was dreadful. Isn’t it ever cool there?”
“Never. By the way, may I join you at your table this evening?”
“You could, but I’m not dining.”
“I’m disappointed. Reconsider?”
Miss Boyd climbed from the pool, asked for a cigarette. The manager felt his pockets, shrugged, and Roger offered his pack and a light. The manager introduced them. A moment later he was called to the desk. Annoyed, he started away, stopped. “A dance at the Royal Palm tonight. I hope to have the pleasure. . .”
“Sorry, I’m not going.”
“I’m more than sorry.” The manager shrugged and walked away. Miss Boyd removed her rubber cap, shook her hair. “He really is sorry,” she said to Roger.
“What does that mean?”
“All the men are in this place. They’ve only one thing in mind.”
“Perhaps because there’s nothing else to do.”
Miss Boyd laughed. “I suppose one can’t blame them. Do you think it’s the climate?”
“They’re probably trying to prove they’re men and lovers.”
“Well, making love is one way of proving it.”
“Not necessarily. And certainly not when one is married, like Mr. LaFarge.”
“He doesn’t miss a trick, but you sound married, or perhaps you’re a prude.”
“Neither one nor the other.”
“But you object to Mr. LaFarge’s activities?”
“I don’t give a damn about him and his activities.” Miss Boyd smiled. “You’re from New York?”
“Who here isn’t?”
“True. I came down to get away from the place, and everybody I’ve run into is from the big town.”
“Disappointed?”
“In that respect, but the island’s beautiful.”
“Too hot and too lush. I prefer a cooler climate, but doctor’s orders. I needed a rest. I can’t say I haven’t rested.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Really? I didn’t think you knew I existed.”
“The only male who hasn’t made some kind of pass. I thought you might be queer.”
“No such problem,” Roger smiled. “As for you, I had my own thoughts.”
“You thought I was?”
“Oh, no, just a bit of a snob, but at least you’re not like the other loners, all hunting for a man.”
“Anything wrong in that?”
“No, but most of them will go home disappointed.”
“And yourself?”
“Me? I came for a rest, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Then I don’t suppose you’re permitted to drink?”
“A glass or two wouldn’t bother me,” he admitted encouragingly.
“Could we have one out here?”
“Of course.” A drink would be just the thing. A white-jacketed boy brought them, bowed and walked away. Water splashed into the pool from the mouths of three green nymphs, a murmuring came from the dining room; otherwise, there was no sound.
“No music this evening,” Roger observed. “Some thing big going on elsewhere?”
“Nothing unusual. Gambling at the Casino, a dance at the Royal Palm. Do you gamble, Mr. Peters?”
“Not even for fun, and I don’t particularly care for nightclubs.”
“You’ll be lonely this evening.”
He caught the suggestion and looked directly at her. “You’re going dancing—without an escort?”
“Would you care to take me?” Miss Boyd smiled, and he realized he’d walked into a trap, but what difference?
“Glad to take you,” he said.
The night blackened and grew cooler, the pool lay quiet. Roger emptied his glass, glanced toward the dining room. Empty and dark; a single small light burning at the bar and no one there. The guests had fled, the hotel was deserted. He arose on unsteady legs, went to the railing, looked down. The hill below dropped swiftly away, thin trees raised dark hands toward him; the jungle below. Chilled, he turned away, for down there was the real island with its hidden terrors and violence which the tourists never saw. Now he wondered about himself. Why had he accepted Miss Boyd’s proposal? Would she be like the others? He resented the thought, for it cheapened her and, by the same token, made her available.
Three potent rum cocktails in him and he felt a little reckless. But where was she? A half-hour gone since she went to dress. He entered the hotel and asked at the desk for her room number. The clerk obliged and sent him a sly smile. They must smell it, Roger thought.
A series of dim passages brought him to Miss Boyd’s room—but was it hers? He struck a match. Number seven on the door. He knocked, heels clicked on tile, the door opened and she stood before him.
“I’m almost ready. Coming in?”
The invitation unexpected, he hesitated, stepped in.
“Sorry I took so long, Roger, but those drinks we had. . .I had to lie down.” She smiled, a different person from the one at the pool, eyes softer, body relaxed. “It’s so quiet. I don’t hear anyone.”
“I doubt if any guests are about,” he said, and eyed the room. “Big,” he commented.
“And so isolated.”
“A hard time finding it.”
“But you did.”
“Had to,” he said, and she stepped close, her arms encircled his neck, her mouth found his. Stunned, he couldn’t move at first and, when he did, it was too late. She escaped and ran to the bathroom. Out again, she donned a white shawl, walked toward him, pressed her room key into his hand, saying, “We’ll need this later.”
A single taxi waited under the carport. The driver assisted them in. A rumbling over cobblestones, wide turn on a descending curve and the car leaped for ward into the dark. Roger felt he was moving through a void. Anything can happen, he thought, feeling the key in his hand and recalling the start of the evening, Miss Boyd descending the steps to the pool, the casual introduction by Mr. LaFarge.
Simple and ordinary. . .but was it? He slipped the key into his pocket. Later, after the necessary rituals of the dancing and drinking, he’d have use for it. Nothing else remained between the formalities and the cool sheets of Miss Boyd’s bed. Is she like the others? He wondered, and she spoke.
“You’re not saying anything. What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“I don’t like this road in the dark.”
“The drivers know it with their eyes shut.” She took his hand. A sharp curve and she was thrown against him. There was an odor of rum on her.
“Those drinks were stronger than I thought,” he remarked. “Smell the rum?”
“A bottle in my bathroom—I had a quick drink before we left.”
Strange. Earlier, she’d complained about the cock tails. But what matter? The car rushed on.
Twenty minutes later it stopped in front of the Royal Palm. The nightclub was dimly lit, crowded, the native band playing a Meringue. A waiter found them a table. The band paused, took up with another Meringue and Miss Boyd arose. “Shall we?”
“Why not?” He escorted her to the floor. Dance? She pressed too close, used her body a bit too much. Back at their table she emptied her drink in a swallow, and he looked around. An excess of men, some tables occupied solely by them, natives, each with the look of a hungry predator. They drank and watched the women who sat out the dances. Some times they got up and approached them. None came to Roger’s table, but they watched, one in particular. Roger noticed him, Miss Boyd didn’t; the drinks reaching her? He saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she clung to him and used her body while they danced. She was beginning to draw attention. At the announcement of the floor show, he felt relieved. At least he didn’t have to dance the Meringue for a while. He mentioned that.
“It’s the craze here,” Miss Boyd countered.
“Yes, like dope. Let yourself go with it and you can’t stop.”
She lifted her glass. “Isn’t that why we came, to let ourselves go?”
How far? he wanted to say, and a loud drumming intervened. Out went the lights, silence; a white beam knifed across the dance floor, focused on an all but naked female. A slow rhythmic beat of bongos and she began to writhe. Conversation died. The dancer held all eyes till she finished. Applause followed, a group took the floor, waiters moved among the tables. Ice clinked in glasses. Roger had already lost count of the drinks he’d had. The waiter brought new glasses. Warn Miss Boyd to be careful? A bit late; her eyes were already glazed.
The near naked female dancer again in solo, the rhythm of the bongos wilder, dancer’s movements more suggestive. A burst of applause greeted her as she finished. The lights went on, the band began another Meringue.
Miss Boyd jumped up, ready to dance. Roger hesitated. As the tall man at the other table stared, he led Miss Boyd to the floor. She held him tightly, head bobbing loosely, hips everywhere; her dress slipped from her shoulders and she refused to adjust it.
Three successive dances, back to the table and the tall man appeared, bowed, smiled at Roger. “Do you mind?” Quickly he turned to Miss Boyd and asked for a dance. Smiling, she rose unsteadily and was taken by the arm.
Roger watched them on the floor, finally lost them in the crowd. They returned when the music stopped. The tall man bowed, left, and Miss Boyd flopped into her chair. “He’s a marvelous dancer,” she said. “Did you at all notice?”
“I did, but take care, he’s had his eye on you all evening.”
“Anything wrong in that?”
“Not if he just looks.”
“Jealous, or just being stuffy?”
“Neither, but I brought you here, I feel responsible.”
“Oh, come on. What can happen on a dance floor?”
“Nothing, I suppose, but just be careful. He’ll be back for more.”
“You don’t want me to dance with him?”
“I can’t stop you,” he said.
Later, the tall one appeared at their table again. A bow, a smile, and off he swept Miss Boyd to the far side of the floor. His strategy? Roger lifted his glass. The drink was as mild as water. Was the wait er cheating, thinking he was drunk? Still, his lips were completely numb, a looseness had invaded his body and he felt ready to do something reckless.
A bottle crashed and he turned, saw a stout middle-aged woman being helped from the floor by a man half her age. Maudlin drunk, she tried to kiss him. He held her off, gave her a familiar pat, filled her glass.
Roger turned away. A sudden change was taking place, the music louder, wilder, dancers less restrained. The almost stilted, formalized steps of the Meringue no longer held the women. Their hips were freer now as they abandoned themselves to the music.
Some minutes later the tall man returned to his table and tossed off a drink. Where was Miss Boyd? Gone to the powder room? Roger waited, finally got up and went to the other table. The tall one arose, bowed stiffly from the hips. “Miss Boyd? Another gentleman asked her to dance.”
Roger turned away, searched for her, and went back to the table where the tall man sat with his friends. He looked up and smiled. “Ah, back again. You didn’t find your partner? Too bad.”
“What happened to her?”
“Who knows? Perhaps she went off with the other gentleman.”
There was no point in continuing. The tall one lit up, his friends grinned. Appeal to them? Roger turned away, again searched the huge room and found the waiter who’d served him. He knew nothing. Perhaps the manager could help. That one shrugged. “The lady must have decided to leave.”
“She didn’t leave on her own. Something happened to her.”
“Here? Impossible. Perhaps—”
“There’s no sense discussing it with you people. Where do I find the police?”
“It’ll do you no good to go to them. The Captain won’t be at headquarters, I can assure you.”
“He’s the whole force?”
“No, but his subordinates would only refer the matter to him in the morning—if he appears.”
“If he appears?”
“Yes. You see, he’s not always there.”
“Then where can I reach him?”
A shrug and Roger went out the door. The taxi driver who’d brought them stepped up. “Ready to go back to the hotel, sir?”
“No. Something happened to the young lady I brought here. Take me to police headquarters.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, sir.”
“I’m not asking for advice.”
“As you wish, but the Captain—”
“Won’t be there till morning? Okay, the hotel.” The driver started the car. It was late now. No light shone, nothing stirred. Roger sat back. “What happens when a crime is committed on the island?” he asked.
“Sir?”
“Suppose someone is murdered, kidnapped, raped? Must you wait till morning for something to be done about it?”
The driver glanced back and grinned. “There are no kidnappings here. Rape?” He shook his head. “One doesn’t have to use force where love comes so easy. Ah, but in your country it’s different, I understand. As for murder, occasionally a man may kill another over a woman.”
“And the Captain comes around in the morning to clear up the matter?”
The driver ignored the remark. “As a matter of fact, we have very little crime, no gangsters, nothing like you have back in the States.”
End of theme; silence reigned till they reached the hotel. “If you’re going into the city in the morning, sir. . .”
No answer for him. Roger went up the steps, entered the hotel. A sleepy-eyed clerk lounged behind the desk. Ask him if Miss Boyd had returned? No. He went to her room, opened the door, flicked the light. A hollow room.
Light slipped through the blinds, laughter sounded below the balcony, the black night of the island gone. Roger went to Miss Boyd’s room and knocked, then used the key. An empty room. He went off, found the manager and explained the events of the previous evening.
“You think something happened to Miss Boyd?” The manager looked at his nail. “Most likely she went off with someone for the evening and slept over. After all, that’s been known to happen here.”
“No doubt, but that’s not the answer.”
“You might wait and see if she turns up. It’s early yet,” he placated.
“I’ve waited long enough.”
“In that case, you’ll want to see the police, but please sit down. Unfortunately, the Captain sleeps late. He may not be up before noon.”
“No one else can do anything?”
“I’m afraid not. Coffee, Mr. Peters?”
An hour later Roger drove away from the hotel. The sun blazed, the road stayed empty all the way into town. The taxi stopped in front of police head quarters. He went inside. The Captain? Not in yet. When would he arrive? Later.
The sum of later, noon—and the Captain? One and the same as the tall man of the previous evening. “Yes, what can I do for you?” he grinned.
“It’s about—”
“The young lady you were looking for last evening. You didn’t find her?”
“You know damned well—”
The grin faded, the Captain’s hand came up. “Enough of that. You were drinking last night, and I made allowances. Now you’re sober, and I have a headache.”
Heed the warning? The hell with him. “Where’s Miss Boyd? You don’t frighten me.”
“Perhaps not. So you want the young lady? Too bad. She left the island.”
“There was no plane out of here last night, as you very well know.”
“She left this morning. A little trouble with a gentleman she danced with last night. Too much to drink, so she was detained.”
“Where?”
“In our jail, of course.”
“For what reason? You haven’t made that clear enough.”
“I’ve made it as clear as I intend to, and now if you will please leave. . .When you have the facts? Ah, perhaps you’d like to try our jail? I can hold you on several charges, and it would be most difficult for you to do anything about it. A month or so in a dirty cell. . .”
A bluff? No. He left, climbed into the taxi and it moved off.
“The young lady’s safe?” the driver asked.
“She’s supposed to have left on the morning plane.”
“That’s right. I drove her to the airport this morning.”
“How could you? She wasn’t at the hotel, she was in jail.”
“Jail? Oh, no. She spent the night at the Captain’s house. You see, it’s always the same. Someone takes his fancy, she’s arrested, held overnight and—”
“Put on the plane in the morning,” Roger said. Reaching into his pocket then, he found Miss Boyd’s key and flung it out the window.
I don’t know what to make of that. Did the police chief murder her and use his position to sweep it under the rug? Was she a whore who was hired to play a role involving the main character to boost the police chief’s ego? Or was it just as it said, the woman was used and then shipped off? That interpretation just doesn’t fit with the the main character getting angry and throwing the woman’s keycard away. I don’t know what to make of it. And that is the first time that has happened to me in one of these Hitchcock collections. I could be overthinking everything though, that’s been known to happen on occasion too.
Another thing that bugged me, as in that I didn’t understand, is the title itself. I know “bloody” is a British curse akin to the American f-word but it should be used as an adjective as in “I am Bloody Curious”, so why does it come at the end, in parenthesis? At first I thought I had some bad meta-data for the ebook, but looking at the cover itself, you can see that nope, it is correct. I realize I’ve probably asked more questions than anything in this review, but these are the thoughts I thought as I read this.
I was pretty happy with this read because even the questions I had didn’t detract from my enjoyment, they just didn’t allow me to enjoy things as much as I could have.
