Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 130: what you’re looking at

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

got out and went back to the rear wheels and squatted down on the sidewalk to peek under the truck. I waited for Maggie to come. “Something wrong, Matt?” I didn’t look up. I put my hand under and felt the hose coming down to the brake cylinder. _ “What is it, Matt?” “Air line. Plugged, I think. Can’t use the brakes.” Then I felt along the cylinder. “Maybe that'll do it,” I said, and we climbed into the cab. I waited until she’d made herself comfortable and stowed her handbag. Then I reached un- der the dash and fiddled with nothing. “No. air.” I looked at her as I said it and saw the first signs of worry creeping across her face. She put a hand to her long yellow hair and I thought she tried to check the mirror on what was hap- pening behind us. © “Maggie, you know that length of hose coming down back there? The one I just had my hand on?” She nodded. “Now look,” I went on slowly, “you watch the thing for me. You'll see it jump when the air blasts through. It'll jerk a little, like a garden hose when the water first comes on. Catch?” “Yes, Matt, but—” “Nothing to it,” I cut in. “Tl work it free in a second and you'll see the hose move. Then we can oO.” | . She climbed down and went back. | 128 “Watching it?” I called. “Yes, Matt.” “Move yet?” I asked, my hand grabbing her purse. She answered a slow “No” while I made.a quick pass through her bag. No keys. I brought out a gun instead. “She moving now?” I called, and she answered, “Not yet, Matt.” “Keep watching,” I said. I checked the gun, a little .25 automatic, a vest-pocket edition, but plenty dangerous up to a few yards. The truck cab is only a few feet—I couldn’t allow this. I slid the clip free, then checked to make sure the chamber was empty. I dropped the bullets into my pock- et and the gun back in her purse. Then I found the keys. Moving fast, I hunched back to- ward the bags. She’d moved the little radio over by the open back window. I swung it down, slipped a key into the top suitcase, and raised the lid. Green. Bales of green bills hound in packets with paper bands, They were twenties and I dared not think how much cash the suitcase represented. Involuntarily, my hand went to the smooth green paper. No use to open the other one. I was looking at more than enough dough to warrant knock- ing off a truck-driver when the time came. Brady was sure mon- keying with a blowtorch this time! Snapping the lid shut, I hoisted the leather radio back up, but the ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE COMMICLOOCKSsE©