Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956

Mame saw him through the open door of the bath. With a wild yell, she grabbed up a scrubbing brush and hurled it at him. Mitch ducked it. Mame lunged up out of the tub, oblivious to its soapy treacherousness. And feet skidding, letting out another wild yell, she went under with a tremendous splash.

She came up again, spewing soapsuds, her peroxided hair a mop-like mess. Mitch handed her a towel, gravely remarking that she seemed upset. “You act like you’re sore at me, Mame. What’s, it all about?”

“What’s it about!” Miss Dorset shrieked. “You dirty son of a— You plant a cop on me, and then you got the nerve to ask me what it’s all about!”

“Cop? I planted a cop on you!” Mitch appeared horror-struck. “Surely that lovely young creature I brought here wasn’t a cop!”

“You’re damned right she was, and don’t tell me you didn’t know it!”

“Now, Mame. Why in the world would I—”

“You think I don’t know? To rob me, that’s why! You were going to come in after the raid, and strip the joint. And the only reason you didn’t was because Duke English was gunning for you!”

“Why, Mame, dear!” Mitch shook his head sadly. “You can’t believe I’d do a thing like that! Why, what kind of a man would I be to—”

“The kind you are!” Mame shrieked. “Sure, you’d do it! There ain’t a damned, lousy rotten thing in the world that you wouldn’t do! I’m going to kill you, Mitch! I’ll kill you, by God, if it’s my last act on earth! I trusted you, and you, you stinking, lowdown, slimy, double-crossing...”

Her eyes rolled in her head. There was froth at the corners of her mouth, and her voice rose, grew wilder and wilder. Then, right at the peak of her curses and threats, when they had reached a blood-curdling crescendo, she gasped, choked, and burst into tears.

Mitch had been waiting for that. As with many another woman, Mame’s tantrums invariably ended this way. Swiftly he went into action, beginning his attack while she was still drained dry emotionally.

Weakly, too breathless to protest, she allowed him to help her out of the tub. He stretched her out on the bed, patted and rubbed her with the towel; talked to her in his smooth, soothing voice.

“You have a beautiful figure, Mame. Lovely. I’d never believe you were a day over thirty-five.”

“Oh, y-yeah. Sure. You... you really mean it, Mitch?”

“That girl deceived me, Mame. You know how deceitful these young girls are.”

“Well...”

“She got me to feeling sorry for her. She wanted to get into the business, she said, so I told her I’d start her off right at the top. I said, ‘Look, sister, this Mame Dorset is class with a capital C. She’s a lady herself, and she’ll make one out of you. She’ll—’ ”

“And I would have, too, Mitch! I’d have done it if I had to kick the stuffing out of her. Why, I’ve taken girls in here, really tough bimbos, and inside of three months...”

Mitch nodded sympathetically, choking back a laugh. Mame was undoubtedly the toughest, tightest-fisted battle-axe in the trade. Once a bim got in Mame’s clutches, she was up the well-known creek. She never got out of debt. She worked for her board and room, and, of course, the exercise. And if she didn’t like it, just let her say so. Mame would give her something that she liked even less.

Mitch glanced at the clock; it was two straight up. He swung into the beginning of his patter.

Mame went for the first part, the groundwork. Smooth operator that he was, it was easy to believe that Mitch had made a connection with a movie studio. Why not, anyway? Why shouldn’t he have talked himself into a spot where he could tap the till? He’d suckered everyone else, so why not the movies?

“And that’s where you come in Mame. That’s how I’m going to put you on the gravy-train special. You see, they’re doing this story about a parlor house, an old-fashioned one, you know, and...”

He gave her the rest of it. Mame stared at him. She didn’t look like she was going to sock him, or even like she wanted to. She just seemed kind of weary, and a little sad.

“Aaah, Mitch, why do you do it? Why did you have to do it?”

“Do what?”

“You just get through hitting me with one swiftie. Then, just when I’m pulling out of it, startin’ to like you again, you bang me with another one. Dammit to hell, I don’t know why I—”

“Look,” said Mitch. “Fifteen hundred is a good price for that junk. I’m giving you twenty-five. You call that pouring you a quick one? Now tell me.”

“You’re damned right!” Mame nodded emphatically. “Whenever you start writing checks, I start running!”

“Call up the bank,” Mitch said. “Get the manager on the phone.”

“Nuts!”

“Go on,” Mitch said. “I’ll talk to him and let you listen.”

Mame wavered. She snatched up the phone. “You think I won’t, huh? Well, I’ll just call your bluff, buddy!”

The manager came on the wire. Mitch took it and spoke to him, holding the receiver slightly away from his ear so that Mame could listen.

“Yes,” the man said. “Yes, I remember our conversation this morning. The twenty-five hundred is earmarked for Miss Mamie Dorset. It is to be paid to no one else.”