Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

“Considering the cash you ‘sucked out of. the Silver King, you got a lot of crust nicking me for delay,” he said sourly. “Like you. said yesterday—you ordered it-and couldn’t take it off my truck. You pay—that’s business. And you'll deduct. it from the cut Uncle Sam takes,” “Sure, but—” “Would you have paid my losses if I'd gone to the cleaners, Wirth?” His jaw muscles tightened. Then he relaxed and reached for his check book. I watched him write, his fingers holding the pen lightly, the words coming out smooth and round, and as - beautiful as any you’ve ever seen in the movies, when you get a close-up of some- one writing a note. I glanced at the etchings on the wall, then back to the check. Jake Wirth had one hell of a pair of hands. He got up and followed me out to my truck, his bird-dog Joe right - behind him. I climbed up “Matt, damn if I don’t Os the speed you made picking up the blonde and getting her to throw wae dough your way,” he told 1e, “It must have been a smooth eis But don’t try a repeat on that. I’m telling you like a friend, Matt. Bart’s not a bit amused dacet | this. And if some other house was to. run into it, the association here would consider you a major men- ace to the business, You—you get my point, Brady?” “Tf that’s meant in kindness, I'm RETURN TRIP - obliged, Jake,” I said. “Don’t wor-. . ry. | won’t do what I did again.” - Wirth waved. The smile on his. face was something I didn’t like. Joe wore one that could have been. a carbon copy and I didn’t like it any better. The last time some men looked at me like that I wound up with assorted cuts and bruises and a brief nap on cold steel. . . My mind rolled back to my hitch during the war. Our commu- nications outfit was aboard a Na- vy LST bound west for Saipan. We were bored, I guess. I got into a hassle with one of the white hats in the crew—those little argu- ments that get bigger and bigger. When it got down to the “let’s settle this” stage and we started for the ring they had roped off down on the tank deck, the gobs in the ship’s company began giving me _ that _ sheep-to-the-slaughter look. But I’d mixed it up a time or two and figured I could get by as well as the next guy. We laced on the mitts and someone rang a bell. A short three rounds later the sailor put me away and it was a kind- ness, because what was happening to ‘Matt Brady shouldn’t happen to anyone—even to pros getting maybe twenty thousand bucks for their licking. It turned out this gob was runner-up to the light-heavy. champ of the Pacific Fleet. After the bloodshed, the boys were down- right complimentary. about my staying into the third, but I still remember the sad looks they gave — 121 Gomichbooks7co