Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 6, June, 1994

“So how about it?” he asked.

I could have chosen to shock men in that way for as long as I lived, but the knowledge that it wouldn’t be for long was enough to smother what little temptation I had. The truth is, beyond a compulsion for a daily shower and attractive clothes, my appearance had never ruled me.

But the apartment was beautiful, and I knew one day it would be rented. It had to happen. Apartment hunters can be desperate people. Even when presented with its history and despite their misgivings, they would take it. The reduced price was too strong an inducement. And like Gary they would admire the mirror, count themselves lucky to have it.

The knowledge burdened me with responsibility. No one but I would demand that the mirror be removed, no one but a tenant had the right to make the demand, ergo, I had to be the tenant. I didn’t know the level of consciousness the thing had, so I wasn’t about to say its days were numbered as I stood in front of it.

“I’ll take the apartment, Mr. Gillespie.”

He almost fainted. In the hall I added the rest.

“But I’m not signing anything until the mirror is gone.”

He was happy to agree. “You got it. The maintenance crew is on the second floor. We’ll have it out before lunch.”

By the time we reached the elevator, he was gazing at me oddly. I wasn’t surprised. As I was not yet the occupant, I had probably reverted to my bland appearance. But he shook my hand when we reached my floor. The bride of Frankenstein would look like Venus to Mr. Gillespie if she were leasing that apartment.

I felt pretty good, too. The mirror would be trashed, I’d make sure of it if I had to jump on every last piece myself. Not until I was slipping the key into my door did it occur to me that I was getting a princely sum to do it. In fact I jolted when I realized what the sixty-five percent actually amounted to. Midtown apartments are expensive; I wouldn’t reveal the cost to my own mother, but if the savings on a thousand is six hundred fifty and I was getting more than that — it was a lot of money.

I opened my closet and removed every pair of bargain basement shoes I owned. With the savings of just one month I could replace them all with designer shoes — on sale, of course. I sat down with a pad and pencil. I could buy three, maybe four new suits the second month, throw out the T-shirts I wore to bed and get myself some gorgeous lingerie in the third month. During the fourth I’d look into mutual funds if the interest on CD’s was still so anemic — and still be able to afford a cruise next winter. The doorbell rang.

Mr. Gillespie stood there. I couldn’t read his expression. Annoyed? Disbelieving? Both, I thought.

“Uuuumm...”

“What is it, Mr. Gillespie?”

“We can’t get it off.”

“What?”

“I said we can’t get it off.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. It should have.

“I was thinking we could cover it for you. You know, with paneling? Listen, I don’t understand it. Joe stripped the screws trying to get them out. They won’t budge. He’s mad as hell...”

I got my keys, locked my door, and went upstairs with him.

Joe, the head of maintenance, is six foot four. He is two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. We have a nodding acquaintance.

“I put it up myself,” he said. “No reason for this.” He was squatting, glaring at the mirror like a frustrated pugilist amazed by the abilities of his opponent.

“Let’s try this.” I took a hammer from his toolbox, and avoiding my reflection, I released some of the wrath I’d contained for months by swinging the hammer at the nearest square. The result was the tinkle of a fork tapping crystal. No breakage, not a nick.

Joe got to his feet. He took the hammer from me and hit the mirror himself. Then harder. Nothing happened. His face turned grim, and Mr. Gillespie and I retreated a step at each blow he swung, every one mightier than the one before until the last was struck like the Babe swinging for the avenue beyond the fence. The result was nothing but a succession of chimes, tiny bells in the wind. Sweating, he stepped back and cursed.

“I don’t believe this.”

Mr. Gillespie swallowed and waved his arms.

“Like I said, we’ll cover it. What’ll it take, Joe? Two, two and a half pieces? You’ve got some in the basement, remember? Left over from 3-B?” He avoided meeting my eyes. “It’s nice paneling. A little dark, maybe. Dark walnut. If you don’t like it we’ll get some with a lighter finish...”

“You said you installed the mirror?” I asked Joe.

“Yeah. Built the housing myself. Good deep wood, new screws. No reason it shouldn’t come off easy.”

“Do you remember if she said anything about it? — I mean the girl who brought it here, the one who killed herself?”

“I remember I dropped one of the pieces and it didn’t break. Surprised the hell outa me. Her, too. She said considering its age it was hard to believe it was so sturdy.”

My mouth grew as dry as sand in August sun.

“What else did she tell you?”

“That her father was in the import business, which was no surprise considering that the whole apartment was full of foreign stuff. She said this came from an old castle or temple, some fancy place that got destroyed somehow, earthquake or something, I don’t remember.” He stared at the mirror moodily, went up and ran his hands over it. “Funny, huh? A building is wrecked, but a mirror buried in it is in perfect condition. ’Course I understand it, now. It’s bulletproof glass or something.” He checked the corners of several pieces. “Don’t explain why it won’t come off, though.”