Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 117: what you’re looking at

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

I said, “I think there has to be one, Maggie. Take the first hun- dred truckers you see on any high- way. Keep the seven that look a little Irish and let the rest go. Now line up the seven and take the one in the middle. That’s Matt Brady— strictly average in money, marbles, and all the rest. I’m not going to add a lot of drivel to the stuff you must hear every day. Let’s just say I couldn’t wear this license on my hat unless I could see well enough to drive, so I know where you stand in the line. You’re not in front of the guy in the middle.” She laughed. “And the angle we were talking about?” “Matt, you won that money! Any other way would be—would be pretty bad for me. I mean if Bart Akers found out.” “Okay. I won it. But just be- tween the pair of us—why?” She ground out her cigarette and this time she didn’t look at me. “Maybe I like one of the seven. Maybe I like the one in the mid- dle.” That stopped it. I couldn’t push it any farther without fishing for a bucket of compliments. She made a quick but expert repair job on her lips, snapped shut her bag, and we stood up. I dropped a bill to cover the tab and started for the door. But we didn’t make it. We didn’t make it because about half-way there Maggie’s slender fingers clamped tightly around RETURN TRIP. my arm and she stopped short. “Matt!” I glanced at her frightened face, then followed the line of her vision to a sedan along the curb. The husky looking our way. wasn’t cat... “Matt! He’s from the Silver King. He’s one of Bart Akers’ men.’ “Maybe he’s hungry,” I uid and tried a small laugh. “Don’t joke, Matt. We—we might have stepped into some- thing.” I turned her around casually and we started toward the rear exit. Her fingers hadn’t loosened any and I could hear the tight breath- ing in her throat. We slipped through a door marked EM- PLOYEES, hesitated long enough to spot the door ahead of us and picked up speed again. Through a screen door, past a line of tall ref- use cans and we were in the alley —and facing a tough gent who blocked our way. He stood with his feet apart and a sardonic grin on his ugly mug, heavy arms fold- ed across his chest. “Going somewhere, Macvier? She gasped. I didn’t say any- thing; he wasn’t here to talk.: My left hand came over and gently worked. Mean . pect off my arm. “Bart wants to see you, kid. You. and this smart lug here.” I led with a short hard right to 115 EOMICLOOKS.(EO making any effort to get out of his