US paperback (1975)
Alfred Hitchcock's Murderers' Row
- Get set for the hits and terrors in the most lethal line-up ever!
- Hitchcock's in a league by himself when the game is horror.
- Introduction by Alfred Hitchcock (ghost written)
- Nice Guy by Richard Deming
- The Bridge in Briganza by Frank Sisk
- Thicker Than Water by Henry Slesar
- The Artificial Liar by William Brittain
- For Money Received novelette by Fletcher Flora
- The Compleat Secretary by Theodore Mathieson
- The Hypothetical Arsonist by Rog Phillips
- Who Will Miss Arthur? by Ed Lacy
- Arbiter of Uncertainties by Edward Hoch
- Slow Motion Murder novelette by Richard Hardwick
- Never Marry a Witch by C.B. Gilford
- The Second Thief by David A. Heller
- The Nice Young Man by Richard O. Lewis
- A Message for Aunt Lucy by Arthur Porges
Inner Page (1975)
THE HIGH COST OF KILLING
Alfred Hitchcock, like all the rest of us, is troubled by inflation. His last trip to the store left him worried for days. The cost of iodine, hemp, piano wire, knives, axes, even plain old bullets, and other essentials has shot right out of sight.
Above all, Mr. Hitchcock is afraid of one thing. His favorite fiends may start cutting corners when they prepare their perfect crimes — and to them the lovable master of menace has one thing to say:
"Remember, if a murder Is worth committing at all, it's worth doing right!"
As for himself, Alfred Hitchcock has spared no expense in bringing you as choice a collection of tales as ever made the death register ring—
Inner Page (1980)
THE LATEST FROM HITCHCOCK'S SCOUTING REPORT
—Squeeze plays can be dangerous. Or so a playboy discovers when he tries to frame a derelict for murder in Richard O. Lewis's "The Nice Young Man."
—Emma Dunbar is sidelined, permanently, in Theodore Mathieson's "The Compleat Secretary."
—Nick Farrel gets to first base, but not much farther, the night he meets Anna in David A. Heller's "The Second Thief."
—Arthur Harper strikes out in a big way in Ed Lacy's "Who Will Miss Arthur?"
And, of course, there's more. It all adds up to a grand-slam evening of terror as Hitchcock scores again and again ... in
US paperback (1980)
Organ transplants have undoubtedly proved their worth. I wonder, though, if the medical people are aware of all of the possible side effects. A while back, I learned of one that I doubt the doctors expected to occur.
The discovery came when I visited a friend, Osmond-Smythe, who, as a result of a long and dedicated fondness for alcohol, had had a kidney removed and a replacement put in. When I entered his hospital room, I noticed a small, elderly gentleman seated in a corner, saying nothing, simply staring at Osmond-Smythe in a sentimental sort of way. The old man had large, sad eyes, his clothes were out-dated and he wore high-top button shoes. My initial assumption was that he was a poor relation of my friend's.
During the conversation with Osmond-Smythe — which focused primarily on his determination never to touch alcohol again — I noticed that he kept glancing over at the elderly gentleman in the corner. Curiosity overcame me. I asked about the fellow.
"That's Harry's father," Osmond-Smythe told me, speaking sotto voce. "Harry died in an accident and I got his kidney."
"I see. And the situation brought you two together."
My friend shook his head. "I don't even know the old geezer. He isn't here to see me. He's visiting Harry's kidney."
Well, why not, I thought. If the old man wanted to say a final farewell to what remained of his son, certainly that small privilege should not be denied him.
The next time I saw Osmond-Smythe — months later — he was coming in from the golf course. And who should his caddy be but the sad-eyed old gentleman in the high-top button shoes I had seen at the hospital. My curiosity, naturally, was aroused once more.
"It's a rather funny story," Osmond-Smythe told me. I noticed, however, that he did not laugh. "He follows me around. Everywhere I go. At the office, he sits in the anteroom. At home — well, we've given him the spare room. It's Harry's kidney, you know. He's looking after it, making sure I take good care of it."
"Now," I said, "I understand why he's caddying for you. It's a convenience."
"Matter of fact, he's the reason why I'm playing golf," Osmond-Smythe told me. "He wants me to get the exercise. It's good for Harry's kidney."
Many more months passed before the uncommon relationship came to my attention again. Word came to me through a friend of my friend.
"You wouldn't recognize him," our mutual friend told me, referring to Osmond-Smythe. "Having a permanent shadow is making a nervous wreck out of him. And the worse he gets, the more the little old man frets and the closer he stays to him. He has Osmond-Smythe on massive doses of vitamin E. And he no longer sleeps in the spare room — he doesn't want to be that far away. He sleeps on a mat at the foot of Osmond-Smythe's bed."
"The old gentleman seems to be defeating his own purpose," I commented.
The mutual friend agreed. "The tragedy is, I'm afraid he's driving Osmond-Smythe back to drink."
The fear was prophetic. Some weeks later when I entered a restaurant, intending to dine, I suddenly heard psssting. It appeared to be coming from a large potted palm. Investigating, I found Osmond-Smythe there. He was a mere memory of himself. His hair was snow white. His eyes were sunken.
"Save me!" he whispered frantically. "I've got to have a drink!"
I suggested that he try the bar.
"Order for me!" he begged. "When the bartender puts the drink on the bar, signal to me. I'll run in."
His fear, I assumed, was that his elderly nemesis was lurking somewhere nearby. So, out of pity, I followed his instructions. I entered the bar and ordered the drink he had requested. When it was delivered, I raised a hand, signaling to Osmond-Smythe that his salvation was awaiting him.
Osmond-Smythe burst from behind the potted palm. He galloped to the bar. But as he reached for the drink, the little old gentleman abruptly rose up from behind the bar like an avenging devil. Wielding a stout walking stick, he smashed the glass that contained my friend's drink.
Osmond-Smythe shrieked in terror and raced for the exit. The little old man tottered after him — or, rather, the truth to be told, after Harry's kidney.
Almost unbelievably, the story is soon due for a happy ending. Osmond-Smythe is back in the hospital. The little old man is with him. They are waiting. When conditions are right, my friend will have another transplant. Harry's kidney will be removed and allotted to someone else. What they are waiting for is a donor who will supply Osmond-Smythe with a kidney to replace Harry's. The delay is the result of my friend's insistence that the next donor be an orphan.
I cannot promise that the endings to the stories you will find here will all be that happy. Neither will your kidneys be affected. The spine, however, is a different matter. Expect some chilling.
Back Cover (1975)
STREAKING FOR THE CEMETERY
One thing about Alfred Hitchcock — he's no prude. He's been into streaking for a long time now. His celebrated style of violence has always been naked and fast-moving, he likes to see victims stripped down to their bare bones, and nothing gives him more pleasure than the sight of goose-bumps rising on the flesh of readers as they race from page to page. So take warning. If you're the least faint-hearted, his latest personal pick of terror tales will have you streaking, too...
Back Cover (1980)
HITCHCOCK'S IDEA OF A NATIONAL PASTIME IS MURDER!
Ever the sportsman, Hitchcock gives you fair warning — these stories are not for the faint of heart or the squeamish.The deeds assembled herein represent play far more foul than fair, and as such are frowned on by authority. Unless, of course, the authority happens to be Hitchcock. As the master himself has been known to observe, rules, like bones, were made to be broken.
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