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

Maggie asked about him coming in with us. He explained that when I gunned out to run for it, he had split with Joe. They’d covered the two main ways into town, him in the cab and Joe in the big car. We didn’t talk any more, just Maggie reading a sign now and then, probably because of the habit she’d started. We ended up in Hollywood: Kenmore, just off Franklin. The big black car was parked at the curb as we pulled up.

“Just sit tight, Brady,” Varney said quickly. “We’ll wait until Joe comes around to your side before you climb down.” I didn’t argue with the .45; it makes an awful hole. When Joe called up to me, I got out.

A large apartment-house door opened and spilled a shaft of yellow light on the lawn. An older couple started leisurely down the walk toward us.

“I’ll get the grips,” Joe said.

That left Varney with a hand in his coat pocket. He’d do the honors and escort me up the walk.

We met the older couple halfway. Just two citizens obviously in the chips. He could have been a business man — furniture maybe, or real estate. Or he might have been a minor movie executive. His face was pink and pudgy, and he wore a loud sports shirt decorated in tropical island designs. He was probably pushing sixty.

His wife, if she was that, linked an arm through Maggie’s, but a pair of cash-register eyes fastened on the suitcase in Joe’s hand. She wasn’t the talkative kind. She said then the only words she was to speak all evening long. Her voice was strident and carried at least two houses in each direction.

“Have a nice trip, dear?”

Maggie nodded. “Very.”

We were guests. Guests, in case any of the neighbors happened to be listening in or watching us. Oh, yes, we were company — until they got us inside that luxurious living room and closed the door.

“What the hell goes on here,” Pudgy barked. “Who’s this fellow? Who told you to bring him—”

“Keep your shirt on, Cain,” Varney answered. “It wasn’t our idea. Brady here drove the truck. He wised up somehow. We had to include him.”

I tried for humor. “If I’m in the way, I’ll leave.”

Cain glared at me, then gave his attention to the suitcase on the thick maroon carpet. Maggie slid the zipper on her bag and tossed the key. I shot a quickie at Varney, but his eyes were not on the money, they were on me. With the full light of the room on the packaged goods, Cain’s face softened. He scratched absently at his pink jaw, then lifted a packet of twenties for close examination.

“A clever bit of work,” he admitted softly. “Wirth does a first-class job.” His wife leaned over and ran loving fingers across the phony wealth before us. When Cain replaced the money, he closed the lid, and turned to me. For several endless seconds his eyes went over me, his face expressionless.

“We’ll hold a business conference, Mr.—”

“Brady.”

“Yes. Mr. Brady. We’ll have to decide what we can pay, Mr. Brady, to insure your silence.”

He nodded to his wife and went through a door on the far side of the room. She motioned Maggie and Joe toward the door, then followed them. We waited in silence until they filed back in.

“We’ve decided we can part with two thousand dollars, Mr. Brady,” Cain said. “Along with the money you received at the Silver King, that brings you in for almost twenty-five hundred.”

“That,” I said with conviction, “will buy a lot of quiet, Mr. Cain. So let’s put the guns away and—”

“Not so fast. You aren’t in until you take the cash, and we can’t take any chances until you’re definitely in as deep as we are. Once you get the money, any talking you do will be against yourself. You see how it is?” I nodded. “Varney and Joe will get into the truck with you. We’re paying in real money, of course, and you can drive them out to the ranch where they’ll get it for you. Then you can go on your way.”

There wasn’t any more to say. They weren’t buying my silence with money. Somewhere out along the road they’d cut me into their caper, but not in cash. Half a clip of lead — that would be my payoff. A strict guarantee that Matt Brady wouldn’t upset their little applecart. I glanced across the room at Maggie Blake, the blonde fluff — the decoy who led me into this. How was she liking it? I caught her eye, and something didn’t fit, because she wasn’t liking it at all. Panic was there. Panic, but behind it something else, something I couldn’t be quite sure of. She opened her little bag; her head snapped up.

“Wait. The note with your address — he’s got it.” That stopped the house. She reached into her purse again, then started toward me, her steps slow and deliberate, her attention on the purse. “We wouldn’t want him to have that paper in his pocket,” she said. “It could lead to trouble. I showed it to him after Varney gave it to me, and—”