Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

gentleman. From what little I heard, I mean.” “And did Mr. Carver indicate to the woman in these conversa- tions that he intended to keep the appointment?” “T really couldn’t say, I’m sure,” she informed me loftily. “After all, I wasn’t eavesdropping!” “Did Miss Everly receive any phone calls in the past two or three weeks?” “No,” Tillie admitted, “she did- n’t. But the man, Mr. Burns, did. Land, he must’ve run up sixty or seventy dollars in long distance tolls in the past week alone. Talk- - ing to California. It was about one of Miss Everly’s books. Mr. Burns . he’s her agent, I understand . an’ some fellow in California named Jefferson have been hag- gling over how much the book was worth. And land sakes, Tom, you've no idea how much that Jef- ferson fellow was willing to pay. No book in the world’s worth it to my notion, except maybe the Bible, but Mr. Burns kept laugh- ing and telling him, ‘No, no Bar- ney, you’ve got to do a lot better’n that,’ just like seventeen thousand dollars was cactus or something.” “I see. Now about today. How about giving me a rundown on the calls made from here ‘this morn- ing, Tillie?” “Well, about seven-fifteen or so, Charley called the coroner. Then, a little. while after that—around eight, I guess—Charley called Sim DEATH OF A TRAMP Baker. Then ... lessee .. . I think it must’ve been around eight-thirty, Sim called the coroner. Then, somewheres around nine, Sim called Milo Ennis at his photo shop here in town. That’s all the calls there was, Sheriff.” “You’re sure you haven't forgot- ten any, Tillie?” “Listen here, Tom Marking, I’ve been handling this switchboard since you was still running around in knee britches an’ a snotty nose and I'll have you know... .” I hung up; she was sure. The coroner came with Milo En- nis. Milo looked grumpy. “You picked the day I’m due at the high school for class pictures,” he told me accusingly as he lugged his equipment upstairs. Pete Hardy waddled across the room to me. The coroner is a short, heavy-set man in his sixties. A horseshoe of white hair tops his balding dome and accentuates the red of his face. Something was bothering him, “Has the deceased’s family been notified?” he asked me in a so | confidential voice. “She has no family that I ieiaee of, Pete.” He frowned. “Was she a woman of means, or will the county have to,ah ... defray the expenses?” “IT don’t know,” I said. “The bank could tell you if she had an account or not.” I checked my grin. “The phone’s in there.” I indicated 33 COMMICLOOCKS. CO