Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

When Ariana reentered my office, she handed me five one-hundred-dollar bills.

I pocketed the money. “I forgot to ask why you wanted to see your uncle again.”

“Why? Well... my father isn’t angry with him anymore.”

“But is Uncle Charles in a forgiving mood? After all, it takes two to make an argument. Suppose he still doesn’t want to see your father?”

“Never mind about that. Just find Uncle Charles.”

“And tell him all is forgiven?”

She hesitated. “No. I’d rather you didn’t speak to him at all. Just let me know where he’s staying.”

“Why isn’t your father here instead of you? After all, it was his argument.”

“He’s rather busy just now. We thought it would be best that I come here.”

“By the way, what did you say that your father’s name was?”

“Hector.”

“Hector what?”

“Hector...” She caught herself in time. “Hector Morgan, of course.”

I could have asked her more questions, but there were a few things I wanted to know first. I smiled. “I’ll see what I can do with what you’ve given me. I’ll see you tomorrow, of course?”

Morris phoned fifteen minutes after she left. “She has a suite at the Stanton Arms. Number three-two-four. It’s about the best the hotel can provide.”

When Morris hung up, I got the long-distance operator. “I’d like to speak to any one of the Colliers at one-one-five Riverland Road, St. Paul, Minnesota. I’m sorry, but I lost the number.”

After a while the connection was made and a man answered, “The Collier residence.”

Residence? And that would be Jeeves or Meadows? I thought I’d cross-check first. “Could I speak to Ariana, please?”

“I’m sorry, but she isn’t in.”

“Where could I reach her?”

“I believe she’s out of town at present. Would you care to leave a message?”

“No,” I said. “In that case, I’d like to speak to her father.”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. Mr. Collier died some six years ago.”

I thought I might as well go whole hog. “Is his brother Charles around there? I’m told I could reach him there.”

The voice was cold. “We have not seen or heard from him in over three years.”

“Oh,” I said and hung up.

I reached for the white-page volume of our local phone directory. I found Archery Club, 2385 Windom Ave. and dialed its phone number.

A woman answered with a simple “Hello?”

“Archery Club?” I asked a bit dubiously.

“That would be my husband. He’s president of the club, but he’s still at work now. He won’t be home until five-thirty.”

“I wonder if I could talk to him sometime this evening? It concerns the Archery Club.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “Drop in any time.”

After supper, I drove to 2385 Windom Avenue. It was quite an agreeable neighborhood and I placed the residents in the doctor-lawyer-engineer class.

I rang the bell at 2385 Windom.

The door was opened almost immediately by a suntanned man in his early forties. He smiled hospitably and shook hands. “My name is Simpson. Albert Simpson.”

I gave him a name I used on occasion. “James Rawlins. I’m a freelance writer. I’m doing an article on archery in this area and I thought the first thing I ought to do is see the president of our local Archery Club.”

Simpson was quite pleased. “I’ll be happy to do anything that will help.”

His wife appeared. She was perhaps five years younger than her husband. Two early-teen-age girls peeked into the livingroom from the far doorway.

Simpson noticed them with obvious pride. “Yes, sir, there’s nothing like archery to keep the family together.” He gave the statement a moment’s thought. “Though, in all fairness, I suppose the same could be said for skiing, camping, snow-mobiling, touch football—”

His wife interrupted. “Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Rawlins? I made some strawberry-pineapple punch.”

Simpson raised a hand. “Perhaps Mr. Rawlins would prefer something stronger? I believe we still have some apricot brandy.”

“Strawberry-pineapple punch will be just fine,” I said quickly.

Mrs. Simpson brought out the punch.

“Are you an archer?” Simpson asked me.

“Not really, though I have shot off an arrow now and then. But I’ve always been interested in the subject.”

Then I let him talk about archery for twenty minutes while I sipped punch. Finally I said, “You don’t by any chance have lists of the winners of our regional tournaments?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “That’s what the club’s for. We organize and promote contests and otherwise encourage people. Why don’t we all go down to my office in the basement? It’s headquarters for the club.”

His wife followed us. “Albert’s been reelected president of the club for seven consecutive terms. He’s really quite popular.”

Albert blushed slightly.

Downstairs, tire recreation room walls were liberally adorned with bows, arrows, quivers, and even targets. A long glass case against one wall was completely occupied with presentation cups, badges, ribbons and sashes.

“We hold our monthly meetings down here during the winter months,” Simpson said. He led us on to a smaller room which was fitted with office furniture, including filing cabinets and metal shelves.

“Is this a full-time job?” I asked.

“In a way it is. Takes almost all of my spare time. But I’m really in the construction business.” He went to one of the filing cabinets. “You wanted a list of the state title winners?”