Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956
- Автор: Дил Борден, Томпсон Джим
- Год: 1956
- Язык: английский
- Год: H.S.D. Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956». Краткое содержание книги:
“Look, baby,” he said, “there’s something you got to know.”
“What is it?” she said.
“Well,” he said, “it’s pretty damn important to both of us.”
She looked at him with her eyes sort of clouded up and solemn, waiting for him to tell her what it was that was so important, and he got to remembering all the things that had happened, feeling her knee at the football games and taking her to the dance in the cheezy voil and having her the first time out there by the river, and he couldn’t come out with it, it was simply impossible, and pretty soon she said, “Are you in trouble again, honey? If you’re in trouble, I want to be in it with you,” and that tore it for sure. She was a genuine lady, that’s what she was, and you couldn’t just throw a genuine lady out on her can like any tramp. It was sure to make her feel degraded and washed up and not wanted any more, and it wasn’t right to do it.
“Forget it, baby,” he said. “It’s no trouble, and I guess it’s not so important after all.”
He stayed around a while longer and then left and went down to a club of the Duke’s, a dark little place on a crummy street, not the fancy spot where Moira was taking it off to Stravinsky. He went there because he wanted to see a fellow called Slivers who patronized the place. This Slivers was a fellow who did odd jobs for the Duke, and when he came in Freddie beckoned him over and bought a drink.
“I’m wondering if you’d like to do a little work,” he said.
“For the Duke?” Slivers said.
“No. For me personally.”
“Well, I got nothing on hand right now. I might be interested if the fee’s right.”
“Five hundred.”
“The Duke pays me a thousand.”
“This is simple work. Fast and easy. No risk. It’s like finding the money in the street.”
“If it’s so easy, why don’t you handle it yourself?”
“Reasons. Personal ones. You interested or not?”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s this girl. She lives in apartment 503 out at Castle Arms. I pay the rent. I just came from there, and she’s alone. She’ll be alone, because I’m the only one who goes there, and I’m not going back.”
“What are the risks?”
“I already told you. None. She’s alone. The place is even soundproof. You walk up and do it and walk away, that’s all.”
“When do I get the five hundred?”
“I’ll wait here for you.”
“Okay.”
Slivers stood up, started away.
“Do it neat,” Freddie said.
“I always do it neat,” Slivers said.
After he was gone, Freddie carried his glass over to the bar and got it filled up again.
“Remember that I’m here,” he said to the bartender. “I’ll be here all evening.”
He went back to his table with his full glass and sat down. It was funny, he thought, how it was when you had a soft spot for someone. You’d go to all kinds of trouble to keep from humiliating them or making them feel bad or anything like that.
The Cellini Chalice
by Jim Thompson
I take a morbid pleasure in introducing to you a hustler’s hustler, one of the fastest of the fast boys. Meet Mitch Allison, a rollicking, and dangerous, rogue — a man who can drop his best friend into a cesspool and walk away laughing.
1.
It was late afternoon when Mitch Allison reached the last shabby house in a shabby block of houses, and he was cursing himself for eighteen kinds of a sap. He hadn’t made a nickle all day. He hadn’t made bean money all week. Well, if this was the best Doc Krug could do for a hustling man, he, Doc Krug, could shove it. Doc was supposed to be a sharpie. Supposedly, he could always put a fast boy next to a good thing. But all he’d put Mitch next to was being broke.
Mitch knocked on the door of the house. He waited a second, then pounded, adding an angry kick for good measure. The door opened suddenly, and a redhead glared out at him. She was young, built like a brick henhouse in windy country. Judging by the nightgown beneath her half-opened robe, she had been asleep.
“Beat it!” she snapped. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”
Mitch smiled apologetically, flashing one of Doc Krug’s business cards. The card identified him as an associate with Krug & Co., San Diego’s largest buyer of precious metals and old jewelry.
“I’m not selling a thing, lady. I’m here to—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The girl cut him off impatiently. “I’ve heard the spiel-before. What would I have that was worth any dough?”
Mitch’s smile vanished. He was about to say that she had plenty that was worth dough, and that she was doubtless selling it regularly. But then he saw the thing — the cup or the bowl or whatever the hell it was. And the insulting words died in his throat.
“I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, madam,” he said earnestly. “I did hope you might have some old trinkets I could purchase, but since you haven’t...” He gave her a courtly bow. The girl’s face and her voice softened.
“I really don’t have a thing, mister. And I’m sorry if I was rude. You see, I work all night in a restaurant and—” She broke off with a gasp. “What’s the matter? For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”
Mitch didn’t answer. He simply moaned, clutching at his heart, his handsome face contorted with pain. The girl’s reaction was exactly what he hoped it to be. She was one of those tough babies. All the toughies had a soft streak; they were easier to handle, really, than the so-called softies.
So, less than a minute after he had gone into his act, he was seated in the living room, sipping at the glass of water which she held to his mouth.
Bent over him as she was, she gave him plenty to look at. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be bothered, at the moment. His seemingly closed eyes were fixed on a shelf near the window, attempting to appraise the cup-shaped object which stood there betwixt a withering potted plant and a battered alarm clock.
Doc Krug had tried to drum some knowledge of antiques into him. It was necessary, Doc pointed out, if Mitch was to work with him in fencing hot items. Moreover, Mitch had the hustler’s instinct for something good — for a tangible or intangible that could be turned for a big dollar. Still, he had no real idea of what the thing on the shelf was worth.
All he knew was that (1) it must be worth a wad, and (2) he’d get it away from the babe if he had to slug her.
“Better now?” Her anxious voice interrupted his thoughts. “Answer me, please!”
Mitch allowed his eyes to flutter open. He gave her a brave, weak smile.
“I’m all right, now, thanks to you. You saved my life, Miss— Miss—”
“Turner. Peggy Turner. What was it, your heart?”
Mitch nodded. “It’s my own fault, I suppose, for leaving the hospital this morning. But I’d been there so long. Two years of lying on my back, accepting charity...”
“Charity?” She frowned at him suspiciously.
Mitch continued, lying with the smoothness of long practice. “My good friend Doctor Krug lent me some clothes. He gave me this job, and a little money to work with. I wish I could justify his faith in me. But” — he sighed heavily — “I haven’t made a purchase all day, and it doesn’t look like I will. So the only honorable thing for me to do is to quit.”