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:
Kuh-lunk!
A baseball bat seemed to crash into Mitch’s forehead. His racing feet shot from under him, and his body literally soared into the air. He came down flat on his back, all the wind knocked out of him, paralyzed with shock.
He was conscious but he couldn’t move. In the dim moonlight, he looked dazedly upward... The thick branch of a tree. That was what had hit him, or rather what he had hit. At the rate he’d been moving, it was a wonder that it hadn’t knocked his head off. Drearily, he almost wished that it had. Anything was better than to be like this. To lie here helplessly, waiting for a guy to kill you.
What was holding Duke up, anyway? Why the hell didn’t he get it over with?
The minutes dragged by. Mitch’s head began to clear, and a little breath came back into his body. He rolled his eyes, squinted through the foliage toward the house. He stopped breathing for a moment, straining his ears to listen.
There was nothing to hear. No sound. A guy couldn’t move in this timber without at least a little racket, but there wasn’t so much as a cracking twig. Obviously, Duke hadn’t followed him, wasn’t looking for him. It didn’t make sense...
Didn’t it, though!
He’d been conned. Not Duke. Duke had taken him, and blown him off. Given him the hard scare to keep him running. It was the old double-switch, the reverse play. You let the sucker talk you into a deal you’d set up yourself. When it blew up, you made more than him, and he made for the hills.
Mitch choked back a moan. In the darkness, a shamed flush spread over his face. A chump, no less! He, Mitch Allison, the hustler’s hustler, the fastest of the fast boys, had been played for a chump! He pushed himself up, rose to a sitting position. Bitterly, his blood seething to a slow boil, he put questions to his mind, angrily prodding it to answer.
How did Duke know when to close in?... Simple, you sap! With his connections, he could tab anyone all over L.A.... But how did he know what I was holding?... He didn’t have to, dammit! The cup’s price is put out of your reach. You shell out your dough first, and Duke makes up the difference.
Mitch asked himself one more question, one of several parts. As the answer spewed back at him, he started crawling toward the driveway... Stop being a jerk, you jerk! This is a going concern, not a one-shot. The hustlers go to Doc — a right guy to see. Doc steers them to the girl. From then on it’s the old merry-go-round until Duke blows the chumps off.
Mitch came out of the trees, and onto the driveway. He moved silently toward Duke’s car, guessing that the chumps would never talk even if they did wise up. They’d be ashamed to. A deal like this could get them laughed out of their underwear. As for going to the police, that just wasn’t done in these circles. You had too much to hide yourself. The law says something about appealing with clean hands, and you — guys like you and Doc and Duke — had to keep your hands in your pockets.
Mitch tested the trunk-lid of Duke’s car. It was unlocked. He took out a heavy wrench, lowered the lid again and quietly opened a rear door. He eased it shut, crouched down on the floor, waiting. It would be okay — he’d still have the big difference — even if Duke spotted him there. He had this wrench, and all Duke had was a gun loaded with blanks.
It was some thirty minutes before the door of the house opened. Doc and Duke lingered on the porch for a moment, their laughter, faint snatches of their conversation, drifting out to Mitch.
“... still running, doubtless... A man of long legs, and little brain...”
“... small bonus for Butch, dear? When he returns from his vacation, that is...”
“... agree. And you will give the seven-fifty to Peg...”
“Plus my love, darling. Oodles and loads of my love. Sweet Peggy and I have a date...”
The door closed. Duke came through the trees to the car. He slid into the front seat and Mitch slugged him over the head.
There was plenty of muscle in the blow. It chilled Duke like a well-digger’s feet. Mitch slugged him again to keep him that way — and because he felt like it — and dragged him over the seat. He threw Duke’s gun into the trees, pocketed the roll he was carrying and dropped his body to the floor. He was going to do something really big for Duke, he decided. Something he’d never forget. But he didn’t know what it would be at the moment, and there were other matters more pressing.
Mitch got out of the car. He brought his hand down on the horn; then, with the blast echoing through the trees, he raced toward the house.
The door opened. Doc called through the screen. He hesitated, waiting for a reply, and then came out on the porch. “Duke? Is there some trouble with the—?”
Mitch gave him a medium-heavy tap on the noggin. When Doc came to, he was on the floor in the living room, and Mitch was bent over him with upraised wrench.
“P-please” — Doc’s eyes rolled in terror. “I have money, Mitch! T-take—”
“I took it,” Mitch said grimly. “Yours and mine. Where’s the chalice?”
“I... I have already sold it! I—”
“Huh-uh. It was in the bar tonight, the genuine Cellini, the only one there is. The one you’ve shuffled from place to place to suck me in.”
“It is in my store! Locked up in the safe.”
“We’ll see,” Mitch said. “You’ll go along with me, and if it isn’t there I’ll show you what’ll happen, Doc. I’ll give you a sample.”
He started the wrench downward viciously. Doc let out a squeal.
“The girl, Mitch! The redhead! She picked it up at the bar, after—”
Mitch gave him a scalp-splitting blow. He’d found out all that he’d needed to, and he’d been itching to lay a good one on Doc.
He stood up and looked around thoughtfully, wondering how best to dispose of the fat man. After a moment’s pondering, he strolled through the house and out the back door. It was an old place; a considerable distance from its nearest neighbor. It should have a cesspool. It did.
Mitch pried up its iron cover; a nauseating stench rolled up into his face. He struck a match and dropped it into the pit, getting a glimpse of brownish bubbling slime. He found a long pole — once used apparently as a clothesline prop — measured the over-all depth of the pit, as well as the depth of its contents. Satisfied with his findings, he re-entered the house and took Doc by the heels.
Unconscious, and weighing what he did, Doc was a cumbrous load to drag. But Mitch had his heart in the job. He hauled him down the steps and on out to the cesspool. Mitch swung him around, so that his legs dangled into the pit. Then, he got behind him, hoisted mightily and let go.
Doc sank downward slowly, his body scraping against the cement walls. He went down into the slime, sinking until the stuff was almost up to his neck and his feet touched bottom. The cold filth revived him, and eyes rolling with terror he looked up at Mitch.
“N-no, Mitch! N-n-noo! You are not a murderer.”
“I’m not,” Mitch agreed. “You’ll get out, Doc. You can reach the top, almost. All you have to do is—”
“Pl-please! I will die here! I—”
“You can reach the top. Almost,” Mitch repeated. “You can jump for it as soon as you thin down your gut. Shouldn’t take you more than a day at the outside.”
Doc began to curse him. Sliding the iron lid partly over the hole, Mitch walked away laughing. Doc would get out all right, eventually. Guys like him and Duke were too damned ornery to die.
Reaching the car, Mitch found Duke-showing signs of reviving. He slugged him again, bound him up with his belt and necktie and drove away.
The bar-owner — the supposed bar-owner — now? Mitch hesitated, and shook his head. No telling where the guy was. Anyway, he was strictly small-time, not worth bothering with. To take care of Doc, Duke and the girl would be enough, Mitch.