Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

Mr. Carver is one of the. dudes.” “Where are the guests now?” He shrugged. “Around some- place,” he said vaguely. “Why don’t you round them up, Charley? Get them together in the living room downstairs. I'll have a look at them after I talk to Ed.” I found Ed Williamson behind the desk in his book-lined den. Ed is in his middle thirties, a year or two older than me. We’ve been friendly since our college days at A and M. He’s a wiry man with a high forehead and _ prominent cheekbones. His normally clear eyes were clouded, partly from the lack of sleep and partly, I sup- posed, from the after-effects of the tall drink he held in his hands, and those which had preceded it. Cattle-buying trips to Rapid City chronically develop into drinking bouts once the sale is over. Williamson runs an authentic ranch. After his father’s death many years ago, he’d interested himself in breeding. From the be- ginning he favored a stout-hearted, - white-face strain capable of shift- ing and foraging for themselves in a stern country, and now the Big W is by far the most famous brand in our locality. Because he is single, because his ranch house is a local show place, and because it happens to be good business, he takes in dudes. His weekly rates—$75 and up—are fan- tastic for this part of the country. DEATH OF A TRAMP The dudes, mostly easterners, get — privacy, atmosphere and relaxation in return. Most of them seem to think it’s worth it. Fd is rich enough to be stuffy, if anything like that exists in my country. It doesn’t and he isn’t. After he fixed my drink and handed it across to me he flopped down heavily in his chair and propped his mud-crusted boots up on the highly polished, solid ma- hogany desk in front of him. When I had settled myself in the chair he indicated my own boots went right up there across from his, partly because he expected it and mostly because it was comfortable. He waited until we got our cig- arettes going. “Tough about the girl,” he said then. “Tt is,” I agreed. “Know her?” “Sure. Liz Peterson.” “Any idea what she was doing out here?” “None, Tom. She’s never had any business out here, if that’s what you mean. To my knowledge, she’s never been here before.” I nodded. “Sim tells me you have three guests staying with you right now.” *Thatis'rizht.; “Who are they?” “Miss Everly, Mr. Burns and Mr. Carver.” “They’re here together?” “Yep. Miss Everly is the novelist, Marsha Everly. Maybe you've heard of her.” ’ I shook my head. 27 Ss COMICOOOKS Eo)