Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 112: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

hand. Except for his desk - and chair, the floors were bare. An ex- tension 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 be- hind 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 horse- shoe of diamonds set in ebony and the design was repeated in minia- ture in his ring. His hair was combed carefully to make maxi- mum 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 110 the name lettered across the door of my rig. “Matt Brady Trucking Company, eh? And is that a sham- rock 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 on my shoulder. “We'll get you out tomorrow may- be.” “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 deduc- tible from the cut Uncle Sam takes. And speaking of meals, [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. ALFRED HITCHCOCK ’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE Gomichbooksrteco