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

1.

I’d made this five-hundred mile haul to Reno and now this joker tells me I can’t unload. The thermometer outside was vaulting up around three figures and my rig stood against the curb, an assortment of roulette wheels and crap tables weighing her down. The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the over-sized hall being made ready for the usual business hereabouts; the air-conditioning unit hadn’t been installed yet. I touched a sleeve to my forehead and turned back to the hard-jawed man at the lone desk in the barren room.

“Mr. Wirth,” I said briskly, “time is cash in the trucking business and you’re tying up my rig. You ordered this furniture and the company down in Los Angeles shipped it. Let’s find a place to put it.”

Wirth looked me over carefully, like a loan shark appraising a potential victim. Beads of perspiration glistened under his thinning hair, but the fingers idly turning his gold pen were calm and steady. He waved an arm toward the empty space around him.

“We’re not ready for the tables yet. There’s carpet to lay and—”

“You were ready a few minutes ago,” I countered quickly. “When I came in here you gave your men orders to stack the stuff along one side. And suddenly you change. Why?”

“I’ll pay for your time,” he said easily. “Add it to the bill. But we can’t take the furnishings off your truck until we’re ready. Tomorrow, maybe.”

He leaned back and gave me the personality treatment — a professional smile right off your television screen. The sign lettered across the glass in front said JAKE WIRTH’S PLACE in letters a foot high and, by the looks of the joint he was setting up, Wirth had plenty gold. Solid mirrors made up the walls along both sides, and neatly spaced above the glass were some of the finest etchings you’re likely to run across. Even a trucker could see they’d been turned out by a practiced hand. Except for his desk and chair, the floors were bare. An extension cord led from the phone back through a leather-upholstered door to what would be the office when the painters finished. A short dark-haired man in loose tweeds leaned against the mirror next to the door, a preoccupied look on his face. I swung back to Wirth for another try.

“It isn’t that easy,” I said. “I can’t homestead in Reno until they finish your place. This job is an extra for me — up on Saturday and back to L.A. on Sunday, home in time to hit my regular contract runs Monday morning. So I gotta roll, Mr. Wirth.”

“The tables stay right where they are.” His jaw snapped shut and behind him the jerk leaning against the mirror straightened and slid away from the glass. Then, almost as if it were an effort, Wirth smiled and stood up. He was as smooth as a well-fed salesman could be. The stickpin in his tie had a horseshoe of diamonds set in ebony and the design was repeated in miniature in his ring. His hair was combed carefully to make maximum use of what remained, and it was neatly barbered around the edges. He was making a point of being likeable, but I still wasn’t sold. I don’t like guys who tie up my truck. I don’t care much for men who change their minds too often, either.

Wirth made a show of reading the name lettered across the door of my rig. “Matt Brady Trucking Company, eh? And is that a shamrock I see under your sign? Well, Matt, you just take it slow and easy for awhile. I ordered delivery, but I can’t take it off your truck. So I have to pay — that’s business.” He came around the desk and put a friendly hand oh my shoulder. “We’ll get you out tomorrow maybe.”

“The delay time on that outfit is pretty steep,” I said. I wasn’t smiling; I didn’t want him to think he could kiss me off with a couple of bucks an hour. “If it runs to hotel bills and meals—”

“Sure. Sure thing. It’s all deductible from the cut Uncle Sam takes. And speaking of meals, I’ll buy lunch just to show you there’s no hard feelings. I’ve a phone call to make — want to get those boys right over to lay the carpet — and then we’ll go. Fair enough?”

There wasn’t much I could do. Wirth went back to another office to make his call and I began to wonder what was the matter with the phone on his desk. I’m a big boy now. What could he tell a rug company that wouldn’t be right for my ears? I looked at the phone, then at the guy in the tweeds. Next I pulled up the sleeve of my shirt and made like a man looking for the time.

“What number do you dial for the time of day?” I asked him as I picked up the telephone receiver.

He pulled a flashy pocket watch, snapped the face cover open, and. gave me the cold eye. “Noon. On the dot.”

“Thanks,” I said, and dropped the receiver back on the cradle. But I’d heard the buzz — there wasn’t a thing wrong with the phone on the desk.

We ate at the Silver King, an extravaganza of chrome and colored glass which sported the usual assortment of crap tables in the center, ranks of one-arm bandits down one side, and some blackjack tables along the other. Jake Wirth and I sat at the counter and I’d eaten halfway through my sandwich before I noticed that a hunk of blonde fluff dealing blackjack was looking my way. I looked back. Wirth ordered pie for us and we went through that, but in between bites I kept sneaking a peek at the babe and wondering if maybe I shouldn’t try my luck at cards.

Wirth winked at me and nodded her way. “Cute, huh?”

I didn’t answer. Somewhere a voice whispered caution. Maybe I’m not overly ugly, but it’s for sure I never hung up any records as a lady-killer. A guy tries to keep a neat outfit. That’s business. Mine is a green shirt and pants that match and I keep them clean, but let’s face it — they’re strictly for work. The chauffeur’s license pinned to my cap said quite plainly that I wasn’t an executive. If a dame wanted to dig a little, the diamond stickpin next to me was a lot better picking than I could offer.

Then I glanced at Wirth’s thinning hair and excess poundage and told myself that maybe the blonde liked them Irish. I began to work on a way to excuse myself from the counter, because that babe making with the cards and the come-on was something special. Her blue eyes, along with a trace of freckles, gave her that trim, fresh look. The house uniform, a satin edition of what the dude-ranch cowgirl with a million bucks would wear, did a lot for her and, of course, she did plenty for the uniform. She knew what to do with a lipstick and, more important, what not to do with it. And she might trip, but she’d never fall flat on her face — if you know what I mean.

Someone handed Jake Wirth a note. He glanced at it, then signaled the waiter.