Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

and went on a tour of his hall. If he expected me to follow along and explain, he was in for a sur- prise. I went across to the other side, looked in the mirror, and brushed a piece of lint off my green shirt. Then I looked up. to see what the etchings had to offer. The name in the lower right hand corner caught my eye: Wirth. I moved to the next, although there wasn’t much point in it. It was plain they’d all been done by the same person, and very well done. By Wirth. I went back to the desk and parked my fanny on the glass top. A talented man, Wirth. Etchings. Setting up a first-class gambling joint: Sharp operator. Just a rough diamond with a lot of facets. And choosy:about which phone he uses when he calls someone to talk about carpets. I smoked and waited. “We'll get you unloaded right away, Brady,” he said casually. He sat down in his desk chair, looked up at me, and then got right up and went into his small office in back. When he returned, he had a chair for me. Jake Wirth didn’t like people sitting high enough to look down on him, apparently. “[’ve got Joe out rounding up some workmen—ought to be here any minute. The quicker you clear Reno the better.” “News travels fast,” I said. “We manage, Anybody runs a roust on one of us, we pass the 120 word along. The thing that makes me: sore, Brady, is that I brought you into Bart’s place. In a way I was going good for you and—” — “Save the tears,” I cut in. “You don’t need a sponsor to get into a card game in Reno. Anybody with dough in his jeans can walk into the Silver King, put his cash on - the table and his keister on a cush- ion. They'll deal him a_ hand. What’s hurting you Wirth? You got a piece of the King?” His jaw dropped open, then closed. He eyed me_ shrewdly. “Hell, no. It’s just that—” “Then stop screaming.” He rubbed a fist into the palm of his other hand. Then the old per- sonality smile worked its way across his face. He was trying aw- fully hard to get along with Matt Brady. I had deliberately needled him. He wasn’t the kind to take anything from anyone, but he was taking it now. I tried to figure why. Joe turned out to be the same dark-haired gent I’d seen yester- day, but in a different set of tweeds. He had four assorted down-at-the- heel stumblebums in tow, ones he’d culled from the hanger-on list, I guessed. All we got from Joe was a lot of impractical suggestions, but the boys he’d found for the work were pretty anxious to collect their cash and get to a table, so we made out. When I swung the doors shut and locked my truck, I figured the bill and took it in to Week He raised an eyebrow. ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE CORMICLOOOKKS. CO