Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

by William F. Nolan BBerore she could scream, his hand had closed over her mouth. Grinning, he drove a knee into her stomach and stepped quickly back, letting her spill writhing to the floor at his feet. He watched her gasp for breath. Like a fish out of water, he thought, like a damn fish out of water. He took off his blue service cap and wiped sweat from the leather band. Hot. Damned hot. He looked down at the girl. She was rolling, bumping the furniture, fighting to breathe. She wouldn’t be able to scream until she got her breath back, and by then .. . of Mr. Proyun He moved across the small liv- ing room to a chair and opened a black leather toolbag he had placed there. He hesitated, looked back at her. “For you,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “Just for you.” He slowly withdrew a_long- bladed hunting knife from the bag and held it up for her to see. THE STRANGE CASE OF MR, PRUYN She emitted small gasping sounds; her eyes bugged and her mouth opened and closed, chop- ping at air. You’re not beautiful anyway, he thought, moving toward her with the knife. Pretty, but not beautiful. Beautiful women shouldn’t die. Too rare. Sad to see beauty die. But, you... He stood above her, looking down. Face all red and puffy. No lipstick. Not even pretty now. No prize package when she’d opened the door. If she’d been beautiful he would have gone on, told her he’d | made a mistake, and gone on to the next apartment. But, she was nothing. Hair in pin curls. Apron. Nothing. He knelt, caught her arm and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “This will be quick.” He did not stop smiling. “A Mr. Pruyn out front, sir. Says he’s here about the Sloane case.” “Send him on in,” said Lieuten- ant Norman Bendix. He sighed and leaned back wearily in his swivel chair. Hell, he thought, another one. My four-year-old kid could come in here and give me better stories. Stabbed her to death with my fountain pen, Daddy. Nuts! Fifteen years with the force and he’d talked to dozens of Dopey Joes who “confessed” to unsolved murders they’d read about in the papers with Ben Franklin’s kisser 17 CORMICLOOKS.€©