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.
</details>
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.
