Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

“Sober,” I said, “Liz probably wouldn’t have attempted black- mail. Had you been sober your- self, you might not have killed her. But you weren’t sober, and you did kill her.” “You'd better be able to prove that,” Bartel whispered vehemently. “Mrs. Donald’s arrival this morning, just as you were leaving, tore it. The only thing you could do then was try to bluff it out. Give people the impression that _ you had been notified of the death and that you were out here in the line of duty.” “Prove it,’ he repeated tightly. “You sent Mrs. Donald home not because she was distraught af- ter you let her find Liz but because you wanted her removed from the area. Mrs. Donald would tell us that there was only one car in the yard when she drove up, and that it wasn’t yours.” “Prove it!” he rasped. “Liz was pregnant. Don’t forget that. That’s a hell of a good motive for suicide.” I shook my head. “Liz wasn’t pregnant, Charley. She just told you she was.” Bartel stared. “Who the hell was the genius that figured that out?” I turned to Hardy, who verified my statement with a nod. Bartel turned back to me and laughed. He jabbed a thumb at the coroner. “You ain’t going by what that ambulance chaser tells you, are you? How the hell would he know? It takes a pathologist to conduct an autopsy, and he sure as hell ain’t no pathologist. He ain’t even a good undertaker.” “I’m good enough to know she wasn’t pregnant,” Hardy replied calmly. “Other doctors will back me up. Any bets?” I stood over Bartel. “She sand- bagged you, Charley,” I told him. “In doing so, she left you with 4 motive that couldn’t possibly fit anyone else.” “You can’t prove a word of it! I deny everything. You've got nothing!” “We've got everything,” I told him quietly. “We'll print her car, and we'll find plenty of your prints. We'll print her shoes, and we'll find your prints on them too. We'll print every bottle in this house and we'll find some with your prints. Unless ’m mistaken we'll find Liz Peterson’s prints on the same bottles. We'll . . .” At first, as I watched his narrow body shaking, I thought he was coughing. Then he buried his face in his hands and bobbed his head hopelessly. “Somebody shut that sonofabitch up,” he moaned. “Just. shut him up and leave me alone.” 38 : ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE eonnticlooks.co