Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

the den. Most county officials dou- ble in brass and Pete is no excep- tion. In addition to being the coroner, he also owns the Hardy Funeral Home. Devensville boasts two mortuaries, and Pete isn’t above using his official capacity to fudge a little on his competitor. Pete was making his call when Bartel came out of the kitchen, wiping his mouth. “The states at- torney just called, Marking. While you were upstairs. Said to tell you he was coming out. I’m to tell you he’s coming with Sim.” “Okay,” I nodded. “And Char- ley, where’s Mrs. Donald? I have- n’t seen her all morning.” Bartel laughed. “Too much ex- citement for the old girl, I guess. She was running around here like a chicken with its head cut off. She wasn’t doing no good here. I told her to go home. Told her I'd square things if Ed asked about her.” I nodded. “I can talk to her later, if necessary.” He looked at me _ narrowly. “What the hell do you suppose Gib Dolan wants out here?” “I invited him,”-I said and went out in the yard. The registration card on the steering post of the dirty, beat-up Chevy listed Liz _ Peterson’s age as twenty-four. I looked around a bit, walked down the short driveway to the road, then went back to the house. Upstairs I stood quietly and watched Pete Hardy make a per- functory examination of the de- ceased. | Milo finished his pictures and left. Ed Williamson was in the kitch- en, fixing a lunch for Bartel and the coroner. The guests were in their rooms. Gib Dolan, Sim and I held our conference in the den. Sim filled us in on what he had learned in town. It wasn’t much, but one point was interesting: No one close to the dead girl seemed to know that she had been pregnant. I gave them the information I had accumulated, trying to present the facts in an impartial manner. I spelled out my conclusions. The states attorney is a young man, competent and articulate. He’s also ambitious. He listened intently. When I had finished, the room grew still. In the silence the elderly clock on the wall hammered out its endless’ story, punctuated at ir- regular intervals by the rasp of Dolan’s heavy breathing and_ by the roar of Sim’s cigarette hack. At last Dolan looked at me. “It stretches the imagination.” “It does,” I agreed. “Can we get a confession?” _ I shrugged. “That depends.” He waved his arm wearily. “It doesn’t matter. Be a little cleaner, maybe, but... what the hell. First, show us, Marking.” I led the way up to the death- room. Liz was gone. So was. the rope. But I told them. “When I ex- amined the body this morning, I 34 : ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE Gomichbooks: col