Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 133: what you’re looking at

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

during the war. He held it on his knees, the business end right where you'd know it.would be. He cov- ered it with a handkerchief. “The light’s. green, Brady. Just move along with the traffic. You get any more wise ideas and the world will be one truck-driver short.” Then he turned to the blonde. “You been talking too much?” “T haven’t said a thing. Not—” “Then don’t. We'll follow Riv- erside Drive, Brady. Then up Los Feliz. [ll call the turns. Make your stops carefully.” Maggie asked about him coming in with us. He explained that when I gunned out to run for it, he had split with Joe. They’d covered the two main ways into town, him in the cab and Joe in the big car. We didn’t talk any more, just Maggie reading a sign now and then, prob- ably because of the habit she’d started. We ended up in Holly- wood: Kenmore, just off Franklin. The big black car was parked at the curb as we pulled up. “Just sit tight, Brady,” Varney said quickly. “We'll wait until Joe comes around to your side before you climb down.” I didn’t argue with the 45; it makes an awful hole. When Joe called up to me, I got out. A large spardinentchoune door opened and spilled a shaft of yel- low light on the lawn. An older couple started leisurely down the walk toward us. | RETURN. TRIP “Tl get the grips,” Joe said. That left Varney with a hand i in his coat pocket. He’d do the hon- ors and escort me up the walk. We met the older couple halfway. Just two citizens obviously in the chips. He could have been a busi- ness man—furniture maybe, or real estate. Or he might have been a minor movie executive. His face was pink and pudgy, and he wore a loud sports shirt decorated in tropical island designs. He was probably. pushing sixty. His wife, if she was that, linked an arm through Maggie’s, but a pair of cash-register eyes fastened on the suitcase in Joe’s hand. She wasn’t the talkative kind. She said then the only words she was to speak all evening long. Her voice was strident and carried at least two houses in each direction. “Have a nice trip, dear?” Maggie nodded. “Very.” We were guests. Guests, in case any of the neighbors happened to be listening in or watching us. Oh, yes, we were company—until they got us inside that luxurious living room and closed the door. “What the hell goes on here,” Pudgy barked. “Who’s this fellow? Who told you to bring him—” “Keep your shirt on, Cain,” Var- ney answered. “It wasn’t our idea. Brady here drove the truck. He wised up somehow. We had to in- clude him.” I tried for humor. “If I’m in the way, I'll leave.” 131] COPMICLOOKSs;6€©