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:
He was still wondering what to do with Duke as he turned into the shabby dirt street across from the railroad tracks. Cutting the lights and motor, he glided to a stop in front of the girl’s house.
The shades were drawn, but light gleamed around their edges. Mitch turned his head, looked musingly at the railroad right-of-way. Should he dump Duke there in the weeds? Strip his clothes off and dump him? Not good enough. It lacked finesse, and he would be discovered too soon. What, then?
There was a throaty whistle in the distance; a muted grinding and chugging. Then, the beam of a headlight sliding across the windshield, as a train steamed slowly out of the San Diego freight yards. Mitch scrambled out of the car. Scooping Duke up in his arms, he trotted toward the right-of-way.
He dumped him down in the weeds, ripped the clothes from his body. As the locomotive steamed past, he picked him up again and moved up to track-side. He waited there a moment, eyes straining in the darkness. Suddenly, he raised up on his toes, pitched upward and outward. And Duke’s body went sailing through the door of an empty boxcar.
It would be morning before he awakened, Mitch surmised, probably in Arizona. If he wanted to get off the train, all he had to do was roll himself out the door.
Mitch went back to the house, mounted the steps silently, and opened the screen. He held it with his foot, and knocked.
“Dukie?” A gay trill came from the girl. “Com-ing!”
There was a scurry of slippered feet. Then a delicious, “Duke, honee!” as she flung the door open wide, and looked out.
Mitch belted her in the stomach, said, “Hon-ee to you, honey,” and went in.
The chalice was on the table in an opened overnight case. Mitch examined it fondly, put it back in the case and snapped the catches on it.
The redhead was staggering around the room, gasping, bent over like a clothespin. As she came near him, Mitch gave her a light tap on the temple, then strolled into the bedroom as she crumpled to the floor.
He frisked that room and all the others. The results were very satisfying. Like Bette, the girl seemed to be a frugal type, for she had wads of bills stashed all over the joint. Mitch returned to the living room some three thousand dollars richer than he had been.
He took a roll of tape from his pocket, and squatted over the girl. She was dressed for her date with Duke — or pretty well undressed. Mitch thought this was a very happy coincidence. He had a job in mind for her, and what she was wearing — or wasn’t wearing — would do nicely as a uniform.
She waked up as he completed his binding and gagging. She couldn’t talk, naturally, but her eyes asked a frightened question.
Mitch gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, babe. You’re going for a nice little ride, and then I’m going to drop you off at a friend’s house. A very sweet old lady that runs kind of a social club.”
For some reason, the girl didn’t seem at all reassured. She squirmed wildly, her face reddening as she tried to curse Mitch through her gag.
Mitch shook his head reprovingly. “Why, how ungrateful of you! Just for that you have to go to bed early.”
He gave her a tap on the chin. The girl went promptly to sleep. Mitch slung her over his shoulder, and stood up.
It was a little before dawn when he dumped her on Mame Dorset’s front porch in Los Angeles. He rang the doorbell, trotted back to the Cad and drove away.
He rode around for an hour or so, then ate a leisurely breakfast at a drive-in restaurant. Afterwards he headed for the business section, turning in finally at a used-car dealer’s.
He had the registration papers on the car. He also had Duke’s driver’s license and certain other identification. The dealer offered him three grand for the Cad, then went up to thirty-three hundred. Mitch accepted this last bid, and took a cab to that “right” dealer in art objects.
He was a gnomish little old guy, with twinkling black eyes and a head of thick gray hair. His hands moved over the cup lovingly, patting and caressing it as though it were alive.
“Beautiful, oh, but beautiful! And exactly as Cellini describes it in the Autobiography. He made it for — was it the Doge, or the King of France? Well, no matter.” He gave it a final pat, and looked up at Mitch. “Doc Krug, eh? I had heard some rumors — unfounded, I thought — that it was in his possession.”
“Doc Krug,” Mitch nodded.
“And how is the good doctor?”
“He’s got a few lumps,” Mitch said. “He’s staying in a cesspool for awhile.”
“Very shrewd of him,” the dealer said gravely. “The cool atmosphere will reduce the swelling. Now as to your price, Mr. Allison — I think ten thousand is a little exorbitant.”
“I don’t.”
“What would you say to the suggestion that you make me a present of it, out of gratitude for my failure to call the police?”
“I’d tell you to go to hell,” Mitch said.
“We-ll...” the dealer shrugged. “One must always try, you know. Do you mind taking a check?”
“Why should I?” Mitch said. “You’ll go right along to the bank with me to get it cashed.”
There were a number of people waiting to board the Chicago-bound Super Chief. One of the finest trains in the world, the Super Chief is invariably well-patronized, despite the somewhat awesome prices on its deluxe accommodations.
Mitch stood a little to the rear of the well-dressed crowd; tired from much rushing around, but still very happy. There was a thousand-dollar watch on his wrist. He was wearing five hundred dollars in clothes, and there was another five hundred bucks’ worth in his two new suitcases. He looked more prosperous, better turned out, than anybody here. And still, despite his expenditures, he had almost twenty thousand dollars in cash.
He was set, loaded. He could burn it up for the next year, without turning a lick. He could — but he wouldn’t. Already his eyes were roving the crowd, searching, seeking; hunting. He did it unconsciously. Because he was a hustler, and a hustler must always hustle.
His gaze roved. It ceased to rove. His eyes narrowed, held on the target. Then, they shifted casually and he looked in another direction.
Those were his marks — an elderly couple in good but ill-fitting clothes. Probably retired farmers, Mitch guessed. People who’d knocked themselves out all their lives, and had saved every penny they’d made. They’d have money all right. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be riding the Super Chief.
Mitch looked their way again. His eyes caught theirs, and he smiled. They smiled back at him timidly, then put their heads together and began to whisper.
Mitch grinned to himself. They’d be talking about him, now. Wondering if they’d be able to get acquainted with him. As a matter of fact, the old couple was doing exactly that:
“A chump, Papa?”
“The best kind, Mama. A hustler with a load.”
“I figure, too. The more they got the hungrier they look. The retired farmer routine?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t trust banks. Never had time to learn none of these hyar-now card games.”
“Papa!” The woman snickered softly. “How do we tie into him?”
“We don’t. He’ll tie into us. Watch!”
A warm smile on his face, Mitch Allison was coming toward them.
Wetback
by Murray Wolf
I should prefer not to preface this story in any manner whatever. I think you will understand why when you have finished reading it.